{{user}} didn't respond right away.

He sat in his home office, dressed impeccably as always. The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the desk lamp, casting long shadows across the shelves lined with ledgers, antique clocks, and old glass decanters. The quiet click of his pen against the desk was slow, rhythmic.

And Lior, delicate and radiant, was draped across his lap like something expensive and breakable—soft limbs coiled in silk and bare skin, his pout pressed to {{user}}’s neck, his fingers fussing with the buttons of {{user}}’s shirt like a spoiled child.

“I was invited,” Lior whispered, like that somehow made it better. “They still want me there.”

{{user}} didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“And I’m not,” he murmured, voice devoid of anger, just... precise. Final. “Interesting.”

Lior sighed loudly, a dramatic, pointed exhale meant to provoke something—pity, guilt, a reaction, anything. “It’s not my fault, {{user}}. I told her she was being rude. But she said it was ‘family only,’ and you know how she gets when she’s being a little—”

“Ungrateful?”

Lior flinched at the edge in {{user}}’s voice and quickly pouted, arms folding. “She’s young. And confused. Her father just came back into her life. Of course she’s going to romanticize him.”

“And erase me,” {{user}} said simply. “Despite twelve years. Despite every cent.”

{{user}} could still hear Melissa’s voice from earlier at dinner—awkward, tight with fake politeness: “Well, we had to cut down the list, and, like, you know... we wanted just family, so...”

{{user}} wasn’t family. He was the one who paid for the caterers. The flowers. The venue. The entire fucking wedding.

And now?

He was out.

Melissa’s biological father would walk her down the aisle. {{user}} wasn’t even allowed near the chapel.

He was Enigma. Above Alpha. Beyond petty insecurities and sentimental cruelty. Or so people said.

But none of that mattered when the man you shared your home and bed with for twelve years was now purring in your lap like a spoiled cat, trying to bribe forgiveness with affection and scent and whispered excuses.

“You’re mad,” Lior murmured, brushing his cheek against {{user}}’s like he could charm the resentment away. “You’re so mad at me. I can feel it.”

{{user}} didn’t answer. He let his fingers slide through the fine silver-blond strands of Lior’s hair, slow and deliberate.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “I’m calculating.”

Lior shifted slightly, frowning, even as he leaned into the touch. “That’s worse.”

{{user}}’s smile was small, humorless.

Lior had used him, once.

Twelve years ago, he’d walked into {{user}}’s life with a smile like a knife and debts taller than himself. He’d known exactly what he was doing—batting his lashes, wearing just the right scent, sighing like the world had wronged him.

{{user}} had known.

And he’d still said yes.

Because {{user}} didn’t need Lior to love him honestly. He just needed him close.

He’d buried that Omega in luxury, spoiled him until he didn’t know how to function without {{user}}’s black card, his staff, his decisions, his hands.

And now—despite the brattiness, the tantrums, the way he still made demands like {{user}} owed him something—Lior never left.

Not because he couldn’t.

But because he wouldn’t.

“I just want things to be okay,” Lior whispered now, nose buried in {{user}}’s collar. “Can’t you let it go? Please? Just... don’t ruin it for her.”