Villainess Marked For Her Alpha-Chapter 141: Hellen’s Backstory (Part 1)

Hellen was a gentle kid once—a soft-hearted alpha pup with wide curious eyes and a honey-citrus scent that bloomed calm and sweet, even when school alphas cornered her rough.

They’d shove her into lockers with sneering laughs, bruising her arms purple or yanking her ponytail till tears pricked, taunting her "weak alpha" blood.

But she never swung back. She’d dust off her uniform, flash a faint forgiving smile, and walk away head high—too kind, too pure to bruise others with the strength coiled quiet in her young frame.

Classmates whispered she was soft, spineless; teachers praised her patience. Deep down, she believed goodness won wars without fists.

Her parents adored her fierce, wrapping her childhood in a golden bubble of warmth and laughter. They were the ideal couple—father tall and steady with callused banker hands, mother vibrant with sharp wit and flowing scarves.

Their modest home always smelled of mother’s experimental curries and father’s fresh coffee, walls lined with family photos and her clumsy sketches.

Dinners stretched long over stories—father’s bank tales of honest ledgers, mother’s fashion rants on trends exploiting omegas.

They raised her modern, progressive—omegas equal to alphas in every way, no discrimination, treat them gentle as treasures, protect without possessing like old-world brutes.

One evening, young Hellen perched on a wobbly kitchen stool, watching her dad chop onions with practiced swings, the sizzle of garlic filling air. Her small hands fidgeted her skirt hem, voice small.

"Father, do you really think I could ever hurt someone? I let those alphas at school shove me into lockers daily—take my lunch, call me pup. It doesn’t feel right fighting back."

He chuckled deep, shaking his head before flicking her forehead light and playful, onion sting making his eyes water. "You should beat their sorry asses next time, kiddo—show them that alpha fire I know burns in you. Can’t let punks walk over my girl forever; strength ain’t just muscle, it’s standing tall."

Her mother glanced up from her article draft at the table, glasses perched low on her nose, pen paused mid-sentence. "What if your future wife’s an omega who bullies you one day, hmm? Gonna take her kicks too, let her pull your hair or bite your ear off?"

Hellen grinned wide, innocent dimples flashing. "I’d let her do anything—pull hair, bite, scratch, whatever she wants. She’d be mine to protect, safe always. Isn’t that what love means?"

Her parents traded long, knowing looks across the steam—sighs mingling soft with fond exasperation.

"Oh, Hellen... you’re too pure, too soft for this jagged world," her mother murmured, reaching over to ruffle her dark hair tender, fingers lingering. "Promise us you’ll learn to shield that heart without breaking."

Her father worked solid mid-level at the city bank—a good post with steady paycheck, spreadsheets of loans and audits keeping food on table, always home by six for dinner rituals.

He’d quiz her math over rice, beaming at her perfect scores.

Mother shone brighter as fashion expert, her witty columns sparkling Sunday papers—rants on ethical trends, spotlights for overlooked omega designers shunned by alpha houses, calls for inclusive runways where scents mingled free.

One lazy afternoon, Hellen sprawled on the living room rug sketching dresses—flowy gowns for omegas to dance fierce—charcoal smudging her fingers.

"Father, did Mother bully you growing up? You don’t strike me as the fighting type—always so calm, letting her pick the TV shows."

He shot her a mock glare over his coffee mug from the armchair, steam curling. "Course not—your mother’s a total lamb, sweetest soul alive, never raises a claw."

"What’d you say, honey?" Her mother called teasing from the laundry room, eyebrow arched dangerous as she peeked around the doorframe, basket on hip.

"Well... seems she does run you ragged sometimes—choosing vacations, hogging blankets," Hellen giggled, rolling dodging his playful swat, pencil flying.

Father sighed fond, pulling her onto his lap strong. "You won’t get it fully yet, sprout—too young for the fire. But when you find that someone you love fierce, body and soul?"

"Me?"

"You will let them have the reins full—take your hits, your bites, whatever storms they bring. Your duty’s shielding them absolute, no questions. Hellen, I raised you a winner always, top to bottom."

"I win every race at school, every quiz—I’m class topper three years straight!" she beamed proud, puffing chest.

He laughed rumbling, tapping her temple gentle. "Not medals or scores, fool—your mind, sharp as any blade. Lose a thousand games, blow competitions sky-high, trip every fall—but win the battles that count, the ones carving your path. Heart of steel under that soft, that’s my girl."

"I get it, Father—cross my heart, promise," she nodded solemn, hugging his neck tight, inhaling his safe coffee scent.

"You didn’t understand anything."

That very night shattered their world like glass under boot. Father didn’t come home—phone rang cold at midnight—"accident" on dark industrial road, car mangled.

But morgue autopsy whispered truth—body tortured deliberate—cigarette burns laddering ribs, fingers crushed systematic, deep cuts spelling warning, not random crash wreckage.

Her mother dragged teen Hellen to the station frantic at dawn, begging FIR, voice hoarse. "My husband—murdered! Look at the marks—please, file it!"

Desk cop shrugged blank, coffee stale on breath. "No evidence, ma’am. Wreckage says skid-off-road. Move along—next."

"Why the hell aren’t they filing our complaint?! He was murdered, not crashed!"

Teen Hellen yelled wild-eyed in the echoing lobby, fists slamming scarred counter splintery as her mother clutching her arm white-knuckled, eyes hollow.

Mother looked broken, dead inside already—shoulders slumped defeat. "No one will touch it, Hellen. Cops fear him—pockets too deep, reach too long."

"Who?! Name the bastard killing good men!" Hellen snarled low, voice cracking first hot rage, fists trembling.

"Viktor Jackson. Powerful businessman, ruthless empire of fashion, tech and shadows—cares for nothing but his throne. Your father caught him defrauding the bank blind—billions siphoned dirty through shell accounts, loans faked."

"Father wanted him to be arrested."

"Yes, he wanted him arrested clean, whistle blown... but Viktor silenced him permanent first." She cupped Hellen’s tear-streaked face trembling, thumbs brushing salt. "I’m sorry, my baby. Father can’t leave us more than that restaurant—he fought clean, always, lost ugly brutal."

Hellen’s ice-blue eyes screamed silent murder, head shaking helpless frantic as tears burned hot tracks—nothing to say sharp, no moves to make bold, powerlessness choking throat like invisible ropes, fists clenching air empty.

That night, rain lashed windows relentless as mother stared into storm, voice breaking fragile whisper. "Hellen, your father was good—honest to bone, brave quiet, helped everyone from tellers to strangers."

"He was a good man..."

"That’s why they killed him cold. World chews good people bloody slow, spits them broken out. Stay sharp always, my winner—don’t let it grind you to dust too. Fight the shadows he couldn’t."

Hellen nodded numb from her childhood bed, fists balled under quilt—gentle pup cracking first fracture, honey-citrus souring faint vow.