Joss Wayar didn't like being played.

He was born to control—
money, power, people.

He was an Alpha in every sense of the word.
No one came near without bowing their head.

But Fluke Wichit Kittiwattanakul was the exception.

He didn't bow.
He didn't challenge outright.

He just existed—
calm, quiet,
like a silent river cutting through even the deepest stone.

An existence that couldn't be grasped.
Couldn't be crushed.
And it was driving Joss insane.

A game had begun.
And by the end of it—
one of them would fall first.

The morning after the gala.

Gawin appeared in the office right on time.

Crisp shirt.
Straight tie.
Calm eyes that betrayed nothing.

Not a trace of fatigue from a night spent among predators in silk suits and champagne smiles.

Joss leaned back in his chair, watching.
Every movement, clean and calculated.
Not a single crack he could exploit.

His finger tapped the desk.

Voice low. Heavy with pressure.

"What did you think of the gala last night?"

Gawin glanced over, tone steady.

"I think it was quite successful. The partners seemed pleased."

Joss chuckled softly.
A laugh that didn't reach his eyes.

"Were they pleased—
or were you?"

A blade disguised as a question.

Gawin tilted his head slightly.
A flicker of caution in his gaze.

"What do you mean, sir?"

Joss steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, studying him.

"Don't you think you were... a little too provocative?"

The air thickened.
Silence pressed down on the room.

Gawin didn't smile.
But there was something in his eyes—
waiting.

Like he'd been planning for this confrontation all along.

"Sir, I believe you're mistaken."

"Mistaken?"
Joss's voice was colder now.

Gawin stepped closer to the desk.
Slow. Deliberate.
He placed both hands on the glass surface, leaning in just enough that their breaths almost mingled.

"I have never once tried to provoke you,"
he said—calm, unwavering.

Joss stared at him.

He was lying.

And what infuriated him more—
was knowing it,
and still being dragged deeper anyway.

Neither of them touched.

But the tension was thick enough that a slight tilt of the head would bring their lips crashing together.

"I was only doing my job,"
Gawin finished.

A beat of silence.

Then Joss laughed softly, leaning back.

"You're a very good assistant."

"I think so too,"
Gawin replied, stepping back, slipping into his usual emotionless facade.

"But the problem is—"
Joss rose to his feet,
eyes dark.

"I don't want you to just be my assistant."

This time, Gawin truly paused.

Not out of surprise.

But because he'd known this was inevitable.

With a man like Joss Wayar, there was no gray area.
You were either claimed or destroyed.

"I don't think that's covered in my employment contract,"
Gawin said, voice razor-sharp.

"Contract,"
Joss repeated, savoring the word.

"The contract says you're my assistant."

He circled the desk, closing the distance.

Breath warm against Gawin's skin.

"But it never said you couldn't become mine."

Gawin clenched his fists in his pockets.

Not from fear.

From the sinking realization that
he was being pulled into the spiral too.

That the line between act and reality, between control and surrender, was starting to blur.

"You think I'll agree?"
Gawin asked, voice weary.

"You could refuse,"
Joss said—almost gently.
"But you won't."

A feather-light touch against Gawin's wrist.
Barely there.

Yet it felt like chains snapping closed around him.

Gawin didn't pull away.

He should have.

He should've shoved Joss back and ended this game.

But he didn't.

Because deep down—
he wasn't sure
he wanted to escape anymore.

The Shadowed Corner.

That night.

Gawin stood alone by the glass window of the office,
staring down at the city's golden arteries.

Outside: darkness.

Inside: the sound of soft footsteps.

Joss didn't speak.

His pheromones rolled out—
not as an attack,
but as a silent declaration:

"I'm here.
And I'm not leaving."

Gawin didn't turn.

But his scent changed.

No longer just green tea.
No longer a rigid, manufactured Beta shell.

Now there was sandalwood—
warm, smoky.
Rain drifting over lavender fields.

A sorrow that clung to the edges of the air.

Joss inhaled deeply.

"No Beta would smell like this,"
he thought.

And somewhere inside—
he already knew the answer.

He just didn't dare say it aloud.

Gawin stood for a long time.
Watching the world below blur into streams of light.

Behind him, Joss remained.
Silent. Heavy.

The pheromones between them
thickened,
curled,
weaved into the spaces they refused to cross.

Gawin had spent years perfecting his control.

Years burying his name,
his emotions,
his scent,
even his grief.

But one encounter.
One night.
One man—

and the walls he had built in New York
were crumbling.

Joss Wayar had always been the one
who could break him.

Not with force.

But with patience.

With those unwavering eyes.
With that suffocating scent that Gawin could never truly hate.

For a second,
he wanted to turn.

To tell him to stop.
To beg him not to drag him back to who he used to be.

But his mouth wouldn't open.

So he closed his eyes instead.

And whispered:

"You should go home, sir."

A pause.

Then footsteps.

Soft.

Hesitant.

The door clicked shut.

The last trace of Joss's pheromone brushed along his spine like a ghost's hand.

Cold.
Final.

Gawin opened his eyes.

Outside—
rain had begun to fall.