Two days later. The midday sun beat down on the busy streets of Manhattan.

Inside the hushed, opulent dining room of Le Bernardin, Easton Marks sat perfectly still.

He was seated at a private corner table, wearing a bespoke navy suit. His face was an emotionless mask, carved from stone.

Sitting across from him was Peregrine Thorne, a top-tier Alpha from a prominent political dynasty. Peregrine was elegantly slicing into a piece of bluefin tuna, talking endlessly about a recent corporate merger.

Easton wasn't listening.

His mother, Lorraine, had threatened to freeze his proxy votes in the family trust if he didn't attend this arranged blind date. Easton had agreed only to get her off his back.

He picked up his crystal glass of sparkling water and took a slow sip.

His mind was stuck on the report his assistant had given him that morning. Alston had never called an ambulance during the storm. He had survived the heat cycle completely unanchored.

Easton's jaw tightened. He twisted the platinum watch band on his left wrist, the metal biting into his skin. The thought of Alston enduring that agony alone made a dark, possessive rage coil in his gut.

He was about to stand up and walk out of the restaurant when the heavy mahogany doors at the entrance swung open.

A woman walked in.

She was dressed in a tight, crimson designer dress, her heels clicking loudly against the marble floor.

Before Easton even fully looked at her, his Enigma senses caught the scent.

It was the cheap, artificial rose perfume. The exact same scent that had been clinging to Braydon's clothes.

Easton's eyes narrowed. He recognized her from the background files. Emelia. Braydon's mistress.

Emelia didn't wait for the hostess. She marched past the front desk, her chin held high in an arrogant tilt. She walked straight toward a secluded booth in the far back corner of the restaurant.

Easton's gaze followed her.

When he saw who was sitting in the booth, his blood turned to ice.

Alston was sitting there.

He looked like a ghost. His skin was translucent, devoid of any color. He was wearing a thick, cream-colored turtleneck sweater, pulled up high under his chin.

Easton knew exactly why. Alston was hiding the ugly, bruised puncture marks on his neck from injecting black-market suppressants.

Alston was staring down at the table, his hands wrapped tightly around a cup of black coffee. His knuckles were bone-white.

Emelia slid into the booth across from him.

She didn't say hello. She unclasped her limited-edition Hermes Birkin bag and slammed it down onto the polished wood table.

The heavy thud echoed through the quiet restaurant.

Several wealthy patrons at nearby tables turned their heads, frowning at the disruption.

Easton's hand tightened around his water glass. He shifted slightly in his chair, using the large floral centerpiece on his table to obscure his face while keeping a direct line of sight to the corner booth.

Peregrine noticed Easton's distraction. He followed Easton's gaze and chuckled softly.

"Ah," Peregrine said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "The classic Upper East Side tragedy. The mistress confronting the discarded wife. It's almost too cliché to watch."

Easton slowly turned his head.

He locked eyes with Peregrine. He didn't say a word, but he let a fraction of his Enigma aura slip out. The heavy, suffocating pressure of a true apex predator slammed into Peregrine.

Peregrine choked on his breath. The smug smile vanished from his face. He shrank back into his chair, suddenly terrified to make another sound.

Easton looked back at the corner booth.

Emelia reached into her designer bag. She pulled out a thick stack of legal papers and shoved them roughly across the table. The papers hit Alston's coffee cup, spilling dark liquid onto the white tablecloth.

Alston flinched. He slowly lowered his eyes to read the bold print on the first page.

Even from across the room, Easton could see Alston's thin shoulders tremble.

It was a divorce agreement.

Emelia leaned forward, a vicious smirk on her red lips. She reached up and casually brushed her hair over her shoulder, exposing the side of her neck.

Right over her scent gland was a fresh, dark purple bite mark. An Alpha's claim.

It was a deliberate, sickening display of dominance. She was showing Alston exactly what Braydon had been doing while Alston was dying in the hallway.

Alston stared at the bite mark. His eyes filled with tears, but he bit his lower lip so hard a drop of blood welled up. He reached out with shaking fingers and pushed the divorce papers back toward Emelia.

He was refusing to sign.

Emelia's face twisted in fury. She stood up abruptly. She grabbed her glass of ice water from the table and pulled her arm back, preparing to throw the freezing water directly into Alston's face.

The last thread of Easton's control snapped.

Easton stood up.

He pushed his chair back with such explosive force that it tipped over and crashed onto the marble floor. The loud bang silenced the entire restaurant.

Easton didn't look at Peregrine. He didn't look at the shocked waiters.

He stepped out from behind his table. His face was a mask of lethal, terrifying calm, but his eyes were burning gold.

He walked straight toward the corner booth.

Before Easton could take three steps, Alston moved.

Alston slapped a hand over his mouth. His face turned a sickly shade of green. The toxic side effects of the black-market suppressants were tearing up his stomach lining.

He shoved himself out of the booth, knocking his knees against the table, and bolted toward the hallway leading to the restrooms.

Easton stopped dead in his tracks.

He watched Alston's retreating back, his chest tightening at the sight of the Omega's desperate, stumbling run.

Emelia scoffed loudly. She left the divorce papers on the table, grabbed her Birkin bag, and marched after Alston, her heels clicking aggressively against the floor. She wasn't done torturing him.

Easton turned his head. He caught the eye of the restaurant manager, who was rushing over to apologize for the fallen chair.

Easton held up a single finger, stopping the man in his tracks.

"Clear the hallway to the restrooms," Easton commanded. His voice was low, but it carried absolute authority. "Now."

The manager recognized the CEO of Marks Tech instantly. He nodded frantically and waved the waitstaff away, blocking off the corridor.

Easton walked into the dimly lit hallway.

He stepped into the deep shadow of an alcove, perfectly concealed from view. He stood perfectly still, his breathing silent.

Emelia stood outside the closed door of the men's restroom. She didn't go in. Instead, she pulled her phone out of her purse and dialed a number.

Easton leaned his head back against the wall. His Enigma hearing picked up the faint ringing from the phone's earpiece.

The call connected.

"Bray," Emelia whined, her voice instantly dropping into a sickeningly sweet, helpless tone.

Easton's jaw clenched. He twisted his watch band.

"He won't sign it," Emelia complained. "He's just sitting here crying. He's trying to hold onto your money, Braydon. You need to cut off his family's factories today."

Through the phone, Braydon's voice sounded exhausted and annoyed. "Emelia, I told you to back off. If you push him too hard, he'll go to the trust lawyers. I need him to sign it quietly."

"Well, you better figure it out," Emelia snapped, dropping the sweet act. "Because I got the medical report this morning. We need to talk now. You better fix this before it's too late."

The words hung in the air.

Inside the restroom, there was a loud crash. A heavy plastic soap dispenser hit the tile floor.

Alston had heard her.

Easton's eyes darkened. He felt a sharp, phantom pain in his chest, mirroring the absolute devastation he knew Alston was feeling on the other side of that door.

Braydon went dead silent on the phone. "Are you sure?" he finally asked, his voice tight.

"Yes," Emelia lied smoothly. "So fix this."

She hung up the phone. A triumphant, vicious smile spread across her face. She reached out to push open the restroom door to deliver the final blow to Alston.

A large, heavy hand shot out of the shadows and slammed flat against the wooden door, holding it shut.

Emelia gasped and jumped back.

She spun around and found herself staring at a massive chest in a navy suit. She slowly looked up into the terrifying, golden eyes of Easton Marks.

Easton looked down at her as if she were a cockroach he was about to step on.

He let a fraction of his Enigma pheromones bleed into the air. It wasn't the protective cedar he used around Alston. It was pure, suffocating gunpowder and dominance.

Emelia's knees buckled. She slammed her back against the wall, her hands flying up to her throat as she struggled to breathe. The biological terror of an Enigma predator paralyzed her vocal cords.

"If you ever come near him again," Easton whispered, his voice a lethal, vibrating rasp, "I will erase you from this city. Do you understand?"

Emelia couldn't speak. She nodded frantically, tears of pure terror spilling down her cheeks.

Easton pulled his hand back from the door.

Emelia scrambled away, clutching her bag to her chest, and ran down the hallway like she was being hunted.

The corridor fell dead silent again.

Easton stood outside the restroom door. He could hear the ragged, suppressed sobs coming from inside. Alston was crying, trying desperately to muffle the sound with his hands.

Easton raised his hand. His knuckles hovered an inch from the wood.

He slowly lowered his hand. The pure, concentrated agony bleeding into Alston's chamomile scent slammed into Easton's Enigma receptors like a freight train. His own pheromonal dysregulation flared violently, a blinding spike of pain driving behind his eyes. His chest heaved as he leaned heavily against the wall, fighting the urge to tear the door off its hinges. He couldn't go in there. His biology was completely out of control, and if he stepped into that small space, his Enigma instincts would take over and he would violently claim the Omega right on the bathroom floor. The physical agony of resisting his own nature forced him to retreat.

Easton reached into his pocket. He pulled out the clean, folded silk handkerchief.

He placed it gently on the edge of the decorative marble sink right outside the restroom door.

He took one last look at the closed door, turned around, and walked away.

The next morning, the sky over Long Island was a bleak, heavy gray.

Alston drove his beat-up sedan through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Hayden family estate. The tires crunched over the pristine white gravel driveway.

His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles ached. On the passenger seat rested a crumpled copy of the divorce agreement.

He was done. The revelation of Emelia's pregnancy had severed the last pathetic thread of loyalty he held for his marriage.

A stiff, silent butler escorted Alston to the glass-enclosed sunroom at the back of the mansion.

Genevieve Hayden, Braydon's mother, stood among the blooming white rose bushes. She wore a flawless Chanel suit and held a pair of silver pruning shears.

She didn't turn around when Alston entered.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here unannounced on a Tuesday, Alston," Genevieve said coldly. Snip. A perfect white rose fell to the floor.

Alston took a deep breath. He walked over to the wrought-iron patio table and placed the crumpled divorce papers on the glass surface.

"I want a divorce," Alston said. His voice shook slightly, but he forced himself to stand tall.

Genevieve finally stopped pruning. She turned slowly, her eyes scanning the papers on the table. She didn't look angry. She looked profoundly bored.

She set the shears down and picked up a porcelain teacup.

"Are you stupid, or just having a temper tantrum?" Genevieve asked, taking a sip of her tea. "Did you forget who is keeping your family's pathetic little manufacturing company afloat?"

Alston dug his thumbnails into his fingers. "Braydon got his mistress pregnant. That violates the morality clause in the Omega Protection Act. I have the right to leave."

Genevieve laughed. It was a sharp, cruel sound.

"The Omega Protection Act is for people who can afford lawyers, Alston," she sneered. "Alphas have mistresses. It is a biological reality. Your job was to give me a grandson with a 96% genetic match. You failed."

She walked up to Alston. She reached out and patted his cheek. The physical contact was demeaning, like she was petting a disobedient dog.

"If you file those papers," Genevieve whispered, her eyes turning hard, "I will pull the credit lines on your father's factories tomorrow morning. Your family will be on the street by Friday."

Alston felt the blood drain from his face. The air in the sunroom suddenly felt too thin to breathe.

"You can't do that," Alston choked out.

"I can do whatever I want," Genevieve replied smoothly. "In fact, you are going to call a press conference this Friday. You are going to stand next to Braydon, smile for the cameras, and deny these ridiculous rumors about a mistress."

She picked up the divorce papers and tore them in half, dropping the pieces onto the floor.

"Go home, Alston. And learn your place."

Alston stumbled backward. The sheer, crushing weight of the capitalistic violence pressing down on him made his chest cave in. He was trapped. There was no legal way out.

He turned and ran out of the sunroom, gasping for air.

At that exact moment, in the Marks Tech boardroom in Manhattan.

Easton sat at the head of the table. Braydon stood at the projector, confidently presenting the final numbers for the European merger.

Braydon was smiling. He looked incredibly satisfied with himself, riding the high of whatever he had done the night before.

As Braydon paced near the head of the table, Easton inhaled.

The scent hit him.

It wasn't chamomile. It was the sickening, artificial stench of rose perfume, layered heavily over Braydon's natural Alpha scent.

Braydon had gone straight from his mistress's bed to the office.

A wave of pure, violent nausea rolled through Easton's stomach. The absolute disrespect. The sheer audacity of this pathetic Alpha, parading around covered in another Omega's scent while Alston was suffering.

Easton's vision tinted red.

He picked up the heavy metal laser pointer resting on the table.

He gripped it in both hands. His Enigma strength flared.

Snap.

The thick metal cylinder broke cleanly in two. A jagged edge of the broken metal sliced deep into the pad of Easton's thumb.

The loud crack echoed like a gunshot.

Braydon stopped mid-sentence. The entire room of executives froze in terror.

Easton didn't flinch. He didn't look at his bleeding thumb. He slowly raised his eyes and locked them onto Braydon.

"Your projections are garbage," Easton said. His voice was a deadly, quiet whisper that made the hair on the back of Braydon's neck stand up.

"Sir?" Braydon stammered, his confident smile vanishing. "The data is solid. We ran the models-"

"The models are flawed because you are incompetent," Easton interrupted, his voice rising in volume, laced with a crushing Enigma pressure. "You missed a five percent variance in the offshore accounts. You are careless. You are sloppy. And you are a liability to my company."

Braydon's face turned beet red. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but the sheer weight of Easton's aura forced him to look down at the floor.

Easton pulled a wet wipe from the dispenser on the table and slowly wiped the blood from his thumb.

"Redo the entire portfolio," Easton ordered coldly. "And get out of my sight."

Braydon swallowed hard, gathered his files with shaking hands, and practically ran out of the room.

Easton tossed the bloody wipe into the trash.

He pulled out his phone beneath the table and typed a heavily encrypted message to his private legal team.

Get me a detailed, unredacted report of all business dealings and financial leverage between the Hayden family trust and the Lindsey manufacturing factories. I want every single document on my desk immediately.