Closed-Door Meeting.

Joss cornered Gawin into a last-minute project presentation.

Just the two of them in a private meeting room.
Soft lighting spilled across the glass table, reflecting two figures locked in tension—not only in words, but in silence.

Gawin remained calm, as always.

But when Joss suddenly leaned in, closing the space between them until it was measured in breath, his gaze sharpened like never before.

Uncontrolled pheromones slipped out—
leather, thick and warm.
Whiskey, sharp and burning.

The air thickened.

A normal Beta would have backed away.
But Gawin didn't.

A slight frown appeared.

And then—
lavender.

So faint it could've been imagined.
Laced beneath the green tea.
Like a whisper from a forgotten summer.

Joss's fingers clenched the table.

His chest ached—
a sharp, irrational tug.
Like something lost was quietly circling back.

Joss Wayar was dangerous.

Gawin had known that the moment he decided to return to Thailand.

His danger wasn't in his wealth, his power, or the polished charm that business magazines adored.
It was that he could turn everything—
everyone—
into a game.

A chessboard with no escape,
where he always played to win.

And Gawin?

He had stepped onto the board
by choice.

Not as a pawn.

But as a player.

A challenger to the king.

The Gala.

That night, Wongthep Group hosted a gala for its strategic investors.

Gawin arrived in a dark tailored suit, grey tie, every line precise.
His expression cool.
Wary.

He wasn't there to pour drinks or take notes.

He stood like he belonged in the painting—
sharp, elegant, impossible to ignore.

His presence was no accident.

Joss wanted him here.
In the spotlight.
In the whispers.
In the unspoken scrutiny.

But the real reason?

Joss wanted to see how long he could last.

"Kittiwattanakul."

Gawin had just raised a glass when the voice came from behind.

He didn't need to turn to know who it was.

Joss stood close,
eyes like smoke-veiled flame—
possessive, sharp, dangerous.

Gawin tilted his head, calm.

"Sir."

Joss smiled lazily.
But tonight, there was something else beneath it.

"I don't recall giving you permission to call me that outside the office."

Gawin brought the glass to his lips.
Didn't look away.

"I was hired as your assistant.
Not your etiquette student."

Joss leaned closer.
His breath grazed Gawin's ear.

"You do know... everyone here is watching you."

Unfazed.

"Are they?"

Joss glanced toward a cluster of businessmen nearby.

"They're probably wondering... how someone like you has lasted this long beside me."

Gawin raised a brow.

"And what will you do? Prove I'm just another trophy in your collection?"

Joss's eyes glinted.

"I don't need to prove that."

He reached out,
fingers brushing Gawin's wrist—
still cold from the drink.

Then whispered:

"Because you already are."

Gawin smiled.
But not at the words.

At the flash—
of something raw
behind Joss's eyes.

Somewhere between hunger
and fear of losing control.

He slipped Joss's hand off.
Slow. Deliberate.

Then leaned in,
until their breaths met.

"Then maybe you should learn to control your trophies better."

Joss froze.

For the first time,
he was the one pushed back.

Not by pheromones.
Not by power.

But by a sentence
sharp as a knife.

Joss lowered his voice.
Mocking.

"You're playing with fire, Fluke Wichit."

Gawin sipped his wine.
Eyes unshaken.

"Then tell me, sir—
can you put it out?"

Under the chandelier's glow,
his eyes gleamed—
cold and merciless.

Like a snowstorm
about to swallow the city whole.

Joss didn't answer.

Because he wasn't sure.

He could mark Gawin.
Possess him.

But he wasn't sure
he could make him stay.

The party went on.

Chatter.
Clinking glasses.
Polite lies.

Gawin didn't need to turn around
to know Joss was still watching him.

That gaze never left.
Like a phantom hand around his neck.

Joss wouldn't stop.

And Gawin?
He had no intention of backing down.

The game had begun.

Neither would yield.

And worst of all—
the real danger wasn't losing.

It was falling together.

If victory was out of reach—
then maybe destruction was the only way forward.

After the Gala.

Gawin left before Joss.

He walked down the marble hallway,
each step sharp and clean.

No one stopped him.
No one called his name.

But when the doors shut behind him
and the breath of the night brushed his face,
he finally slowed.

Rain.

Light. Silent.
Like fragments of memory never fully gone.

He tilted his head toward the sky.

Expressionless.

But inside—
something had hollowed out.

That feeling—
the one he thought he buried over a decade ago—
was leaking back in.

"Why did I come back?"

"For justice...
or to get hurt all over again?"

No answer.

Just wind at his neck.
Soft. Lingering.

And the faintest trace of Joss's pheromone.

Still clinging
to his cuff.
To the corners of memory.

Gawin clenched his fists.

And walked on.

He couldn't soften.
Not now.

Joss – 22nd floor, behind glass.

Joss hadn't left the gala yet.

He stood by the massive window,
untouched wine in hand,
eyes fixed on the man stepping into the rain.

Gawin didn't look back.
Not once.

Didn't hesitate.

Joss tightened his grip.

"He didn't turn around."

"He doesn't need me."

Hundreds had looked back at him.
Had begged.
Had wanted to stay.
To be marked.
To be part of the golden empire he built.

But Fluke Wichit—
or whatever his name truly was—
had never been one of them.

Joss used to think
he controlled the game.

But maybe...

he was the one being controlled.

Gawin's pheromone still clung to the air.
Faint.
But haunting.

A familiar ache.

A voice from a lost summer
he couldn't reclaim.

Joss shut his eyes.

A quiet fury simmered.

"You want to claim him."

"But you're afraid."

"Afraid you'll lose him again."

He opened his eyes.
Brought the glass to his lips.

Cold.

Bitter.

Completely tasteless.