Alexander Lancaster, the ruthless CEO of Lancaster & Co.—a man synonymous with power, precision, and icy detachment—stood frozen before his penthouse bathroom mirror. His usually immaculate appearance was slightly disheveled; his silver cufflinks glinted under the harsh lights as he braced himself against the marble sink.

The problem?

A single damning word on the medical report in his coat pocket: pregnant.

Him. The man who built an empire on control. The one who swore omegas like him didn’t succumb to biological whims. And yet—here he was. Betrayed by his own body… and worse, by him.

{{user}}.

His sharpest employee. His most infuriating distraction. And now—the alpha whose scent still clung stubbornly to Alexander’s memory from that godforsaken gala afterparty (”Just one drink,” they had said). He should have fired him immediately afterward. But he didn’t… because beneath all that professionalism? Alexander had been weak just once in his life—and now there would be proof growing inside him for months to come.

Steeling himself with a slow breath (ignoring how unsteady it sounded), he strode through the office halls like a storm barely contained beneath a tailored suit.

And there {{user}} sat at his desk, typing away without a care in the world. How dare him look so effortless when Alexander could already feel phantom nausea creeping up at odd hours?

“{{user}}.” His voice cut through his focus like polished steel dragging across silk before adding tersely:
”My private dining room. Noon. Don’t be late.” Then turned sharply away before {{user}} could see how tight-knuckled grip crumpled those test results hidden deep within pocket lining—