The air in the Arrivals Hall of Kaelen International was heavy with the scent of wealth and anticipation, but to Lyra Thorne, it smelled only of dust and the faint, bitter metallic tang of old heartbreak.
She pulled her carry-on closer, the Omega suppressing a sharp, nervous tremor beneath her silk suit. Five years. Five years of building a fortress of resolve, of carving out a new identity where the title "Alpha Ares Kaelen's Cast-Off" was nothing more than a historical footnote. Yet, stepping onto his territory—his city, named after his family—felt like walking directly into the blast radius of her past.
She glanced at her watch. 4:30 PM. Right on time. Aunt Elara had the children. Lyra was alone, and she intended to keep it that way.
Just as she adjusted her sunglasses, preparing to stride toward the taxi queue with practiced indifference, the noise level in the vast terminal floor abruptly shifted. It wasn't a loud shift, but a collective inhalation of awe, a ripple of surprised murmurs that flowed backward from the gate, parting the sea of rushing travelers.
Lyra froze. She knew that sound. It was the sound of an Alpha making a move that demanded attention. It was the sound of Ares Kaelen.
And then she saw him.
He was standing precisely where the ropes parted, commanding the end of the arrivals corridor. He was wearing a tailored black suit that looked less like business attire and more like a second skin molded from shadow and steel. Five years hadn't dulled the devastating edge of his Alpha presence; it had only sharpened it. His shoulders were broader, his jawline harder, and his silver-blue eyes—eyes that Lyra had once believed were the only safe harbors in the world—were fixed directly on her.
He wasn't alone. Flanking him were two massive, grim-faced security detail, holding back a small but excitable crowd of onlookers and paparazzi who had clearly been tipped off.
But it wasn't the guards or the crowd that stopped Lyra's breath; it was the tableau Ares had created.
He held no phone, no attaché case—only a small, velvet box in his left hand and a single, enormous, ridiculous sign in his right. The sign was professionally printed on heavy card stock, framed in a garland of fresh white roses, and written in a stark, bold script that only Ares would dare to use:
LYRA. I AM HOME. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.
Beneath the sign, forming a breathtakingly luxurious path straight to her, were exactly ninety-nine long-stemmed, perfect, deep-crimson roses, scattered across the sterile marble floor. They lay like a spilled river of blood and repentance, leading directly to her feet.
A gasp escaped her. It was so Ares—dramatic, excessive, utterly lacking in subtlety, and devastatingly effective.
Lyra felt the heat of a blush, fueled by a mixture of anger and a sudden, unwelcome rush of memory. She shoved her sunglasses up onto her hair and narrowed her gaze, allowing her Omega pheromones to release a sharp, cold spike of rejection. It was the strongest rejection scent she could manage, designed to physically push a lesser Alpha back.
Ares didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He only held her eyes, the expression in his own a raw plea that went beyond words.
He's playing a game, she reminded herself fiercely. He's always playing a game.
She started walking, deliberately stepping on one of the ninety-nine roses, grinding the perfect petals beneath her heel. The sound was a barely audible crunch, but in the sudden, electric silence that had fallen, it sounded like a gunshot.
She stopped two feet from him, crossing her arms. "Ares. That sign is embarrassing. You're causing a scene. You should know I hate scenes."
His voice, when he finally spoke, was a low, resonant rumble that bypassed her ears and vibrated through her chest, softening the edges of her anger. "I know. And for five years, I've tried to figure out a way to get your attention that wasn't embarrassing. I failed. I apologize for the roses and the sign. I am not apologizing for being here."
He let the sign fall to the floor and took a step closer, his Alpha scent—a smoky, clean smell of cedar and rain—washing over her, a smell that was still irrevocably linked to safety in her primitive Omega brain.
"Lyra," he said, his voice dropping lower, for her ears only. "I know this is humiliating for you. It's meant to be humiliating for me. I'm here because I broke my promise to you, and I broke your heart. I didn't send a driver. I didn't send a representative. I came myself. And I am not leaving until you talk to me."
"We have nothing to talk about, Ares. The divorce papers were signed, sealed, and delivered five years ago. I am here for business, nothing else."
"You are here for me," he countered, his conviction absolute. He reached up, his fingers brushing the cool skin of her temple as he gently nudged her sunglasses back down over her eyes. It was a simple, tender gesture, an act of possession she couldn't immediately pull away from. "That suit is gorgeous. The color of your eyes has gotten deeper. You haven't changed the perfume I bought you."
"It's a different brand," she lied, hating the fact that he was right. She still wore the custom blend he had created for her scent profile.
"No, it's not," he murmured, a faint, possessive smile touching the corner of his mouth. "It's the scent of home. And you're wearing it because part of you still wants to come home."
She inhaled sharply, stepping back a foot, breaking the close contact. "I am mated, Ares. You know I have a companion Alpha."
The air around Ares darkened perceptibly. His silver eyes flashed with a sudden, dangerous possessiveness. "Rhys Valerius. The one who cleans up your business deals. I checked. He's a Beta Alpha—all muscle and ambition, but no claim. No scent mark on you, Lyra. No true bond. Don't lie to me about that." He tapped the velvet box in his hand. "This is not an engagement ring. It is the necklace I promised you on your 25th birthday, the one I didn't give you because I was too much of a coward to stay."
He snapped the small box open. Inside, nestled on white satin, was a delicate platinum chain holding a single, flawless, iridescent teardrop sapphire—the color of his eyes.
"Lyra," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "I am asking for an hour. One hour to drive you to the best hotel in the city, the one I bought after you left. It has your favorite tea, your favorite pillows, and it is entirely secured. I need to know that you are safe, and I need to prove that the man who loved you five years ago is ready to be the man who earns you back today."
Lyra looked at the necklace, and then up at the raw desire and need in his face. She remembered how quickly she had fallen for that intensity, how absolute his love had seemed. To reject him now, publicly, would cause an even bigger scene and might expose her true movements in the city. To agree... was dangerous.
She finally let out a long, slow breath, lowering her guard just enough to meet him halfway. "Fine," she whispered. "An hour. Not for you, but because I am exhausted and that suit is far too wrinkled for a business meeting. But the moment you mention anything about the past, or about us, the hour is over, Ares. Do you understand?"
He didn't waste time with a verbal confirmation. His eyes flared with triumph, and he stepped past the ropes. He didn't touch her, but he positioned himself just behind her left shoulder, his hand hovering near her waist, an unspoken promise of protection.
"The hour starts now," he stated, his voice now calm and authoritative. He nodded once to his security detail, and the perimeter broke. The crowd surged slightly, but Ares's presence was too strong.
He took the handle of her suitcase—a small, intimate act that made her jaw clench—and steered her toward a private exit.
"It's not the Grand Hyatt," Lyra managed, forcing her focus on the logistics.
"No," Ares said, his voice close to her ear, sending shivers down her neck. "It's my hotel. It's called Lyra's Star. I bought it the month you left. The only rooms that matter are on the penthouse floor. They've been waiting for you."
He ushered her into a private elevator, his Alpha scent overwhelming her, enveloping her in the dangerous warmth of their history. Lyra closed her eyes, fighting the desperate, primal urge to lean back into him. The romantic siege had begun, and she knew, with cold certainty, that the man she was fighting to hate was fighting even harder to make her love him again.
The elevator doors closed, sealing them into an impossibly small space. Lyra could hear the heavy thump-thump of his heart, a rhythm she knew better than her own.
"I missed you," Ares whispered, breaking her single rule before the hour had even properly started.
Lyra opened her mouth to protest, but before the words could form, his head dipped down. His lips brushed hers, soft and tentative, a question rather than a demand. It was only a breath of a kiss, but it tasted of five years of regret and longing, and for the first time since she left, Lyra felt the foundation of her fortress begin to crack.