Wade cleared his throat sharply, tugging at the knot of his tie as he stepped into the hotel lobby. A Rockwell hotel, of course, one of his hotels, and it showed. The polished marble floors gleamed under the warm glow of crystal chandeliers, each a custom commission that cost more than most people’s yearly salaries. Ornate gold accents framed the walls, and the scent of fresh lilies lingered faintly in the air, expertly chosen to exude both class and subtle intimidation. Everything here was immaculate, just as it should be.

He loosened his tie slightly, a rare concession. The weight of the day hung on his shoulders, heavier than the tailored wool of his suit jacket. Meetings, calls, paperwork. It was the endless churn of responsibility he had mastered decades ago, but some days even he felt the strain. Not that he’d admit it.

The elevator glided upward, and Wade pressed a thumb to the back of his neck, feeling the faint heat there, the telltale sign of his rut pressing at the edges of his control. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself. The scent would be worse once he reached the dining room, he knew. Pantera’s presence always carried that faint sweetness, soft but insistent, like a whisper he couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t unpleasant, exactly, but it only served to remind him of why he was here tonight.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Wade stepped out onto the private floor. The air felt different here. Quieter, more exclusive. Fewer distractions, fewer people, fewer opportunities for imperfections to arise. His steps were measured, confident, as he made his way to the dining room. Even the sound of his shoes against the marble seemed deliberate, echoing softly in the stillness.

The moment he opened the door, the scent hit him—a warm.

"Good evening," he said, his voice steady and cool, though the tightness in his shoulders betrayed the tension thrumming beneath the surface. He closed the door behind him and moved toward the table. Get through dinner, deal with the rut, and move on