I stood outside the gleaming doors of Blackwood Tower and took a steady breath before stepping inside.
Five years. That was how long it had taken to reach this moment. Five years of planning, of burying everything I used to be, of reshaping myself until even I barely recognized the reflection staring back at me. My name used to be something else. My scent used to be softer, something that could never be mistaken for anything but Omega. Now I was Eric Hart, a Beta on paper, supported by forged documents, illegal suppressants, and a quiet kind of hatred that never really went away.
Everything led here.
The elevator ride to the top floor felt longer than it should have. I stood still, watching the numbers climb, keeping my breathing even. By the time the doors opened, I was ready. Or at least I told myself I was.
The moment I stepped out, the scent hit me.
It was heavy, controlled, unmistakably Alpha. It filled the corridor like it belonged there, like everything else adjusted around it. My body reacted before I could stop it. My glands tightened, a dull pulse building under my skin even through the suppressants I had taken earlier.
I clenched my jaw and forced it down.
I had trained for this. I knew what his presence would feel like. I was not going to lose control now.
I walked down the corridor at a steady pace, shoulders straight, expression calm. The black shirt I wore was fitted carefully, the top button left open just enough to show the line of my collarbone. It was deliberate, but not obvious. Just enough to be noticed without drawing attention.
Control. Everything about this had to be controlled.
The office at the end of the corridor looked exactly like I expected. Glass, steel, expensive silence, and a view that made it clear who sat at the top.
Charles Damien.
He was seated behind his desk, not looking up at first, but his presence filled the room so completely that it did not matter. Dark hair, touched lightly with silver at the temples. Sharp features. Broad shoulders that carried authority without effort. He looked like a man who had never been denied anything.
I stopped a few feet in front of him and waited.
When he finally lifted his gaze, it locked onto me with a kind of focus that made my chest tighten. For a second, it felt like he was seeing through everything. Not just the surface, but everything beneath it.
"Eric Hart," he said, his voice low and steady.
There was something in it that pressed against my instincts, something that made my body want to react even when my mind refused to.
"Sit."
I sat without hesitation.
"My thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Damien."
He leaned back slightly, studying me in a way that was far too deliberate to be casual.
"Your résumé is unusual," he said after a moment. "No references. No employer willing to speak for you. You appear without a past and expect me to trust you with a position that requires absolute reliability."
I allowed myself a small smile, measured and polite.
"I prefer to let my work speak for itself."
There was a faint shift in his expression, something close to amusement.
"That is a confident answer."
The silence that followed was heavier than before. I could feel his attention moving over me, not in a careless way, but in a way that cataloged everything. The angle of my shoulders, the steadiness of my breathing, the exposed skin at my collar.
My body reacted again, and this time it was harder to ignore. A slow warmth settled low in my stomach, unwanted and intrusive. I hated it. I hated how easily his presence slipped past the suppressants, how quickly my body responded to him.
Charles stood and moved around the desk.
The distance between us disappeared too quickly. When he stopped in front of me, I had to tilt my head back slightly to meet his gaze.
Then his hand lifted.
There was no warning when his fingers caught my chin and tilted my face upward. The gesture was calm, controlled, but it carried a quiet kind of ownership that made my breath catch before I could stop it.
"You have an interesting scent," he said, his voice lower now. "It is controlled, almost too controlled. But there is something beneath it."
For a brief moment, my pulse spiked hard enough to make me wonder if he could hear it.
I forced my expression to remain steady.
"I have always been told it is subtle," I replied, keeping my tone even.
Not denial. Not confirmation. Just enough to deflect.
His thumb brushed lightly against my lower lip, slow enough to be deliberate. The contact sent a sharp, electric reaction through me that I refused to show.
"Most candidates would be nervous by now," he said. "You are not."
I held his gaze.
"Maybe I am not easily intimidated."
It was a safer answer, but not entirely honest.
Something in his expression changed, not softer, but more focused. His scent grew heavier in the space between us, pressing into my senses until it was difficult to ignore.
He released my chin, but he did not step away. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, bracing one hand against the chair, effectively trapping me in place.
"Tell me the real reason you want this position, Eric."
I looked up at him, aware of how close he was, aware of how thin the line between control and instinct was becoming.
"Because I want to be close to power."
He watched me for a long moment, and then a slow smile formed on his lips.
He straightened and returned to his desk, pressing the intercom without breaking eye contact.
"Cancel the rest of my interviews," he said. "Mr. Hart starts tomorrow."
That caught me off guard.
"Just like that?"
His gaze remained steady.
"Just like that."
He slid a black card across the desk.
"My private number. Use it only when necessary."
Then his eyes dropped briefly to my collar before returning to mine.
"Tomorrow, leave the top two buttons open. I want to see exactly what I am working with."
I picked up the card, allowing my fingers to brush lightly against his. The contact sent another unwanted reaction through me, subtle but undeniable.
"Understood, Mr. Damien."
I turned toward the door, but his voice stopped me before I could leave.
"One more thing."
I paused.
"I do not share what is mine."
His tone did not rise, but it carried a weight that settled heavily in my chest.
I left without responding.
The moment the door closed behind me, I exhaled sharply and leaned back against the wall of the private elevator.
My legs felt less steady than they should have. His scent still clung to me, faint but persistent, and my body had not fully settled. The suppressants were working, but they no longer felt as strong as they had before.
"Fuck," I muttered under my breath.
This was supposed to be simple. Controlled. Planned.
Instead, it already felt like something had shifted.
"Five years," I said quietly, staring at my reflection in the mirrored wall. "I am finally inside."
But even as I said it, something in my expression looked wrong. My cheeks were slightly flushed, my eyes a little too bright. My body had already started reacting in ways I could not completely suppress.
I adjusted my shirt and forced my expression back into something neutral.
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped out, composed again, every movement measured.
The plan had begun.
But as I walked away from the building, one thought stayed with me, quiet and unsettling.
This might not go the way I expected.