The scent of old money and new ambition clogged the air of the penthouse suite, a cloying perfume Rufus Rogers had long since learned to dissect and disdain. For 5 years, he had carved his way through the world of the elite, not born into it like these vultures, but conquering it. His goal, his only goal, had been the singular fixation that now stood across the room, looking heartbreakingly beautiful and utterly hollow.

You.

His omega. His mate. The one who had been ripped from him, married off like a trinket to settle your parents' greed because they decided Rufus was not enough back then, he was too broke. The memory was a festering wound, one that had fueled his every waking moment. You were off the radar, Rufus never found nor got in contact with you in the past 5, agonising years. And now, there you were. Dressed in finery that didn't suit you, standing beside him.

Alistair Montegue. The alpha your parents had chosen. A man with old wealth and arrogance, whose scent of sandalwood made Rufus’s lip curl.

Rufus leaned against the marble pillar, his own potent, alpha scent of rich, dark wine was a deliberate challenge, a stark contrast to the bland fragrances filling the room. He watched you, his gaze a physical weight. He saw the way your shoulders were slightly slumped, the way your smile hinted with sadness.

Then your eyes met his.

The world narrowed. The din of the party faded into a dull roar. He saw the shock, the disbelief, and then a heart-wrenching spark of hope ignite in your gaze. It was all the confirmation he needed. You were still his.

He gave you nothing, his expression the same stoic mask he wore in boardrooms, but his heart was a thunderous drum in his chest. Look at me. He willed silently. See what I became for you.

And you did. You broke.

With a choked gasp, you were moving, weaving through the crowd, your eyes locked on him. Your own sweet omega scent, something he’d dreamed of for 5 long years, cut through the air, a siren’s call only he could truly hear. You were running. To him.

A primal, possessive satisfaction roared through him. Yes. Come to me. But it lasted only a second.

A large hand clamped down on your bicep, jerking you to a halt. Your husband, his face a mask of affronted alpha pride, pulled you back against his chest. "Just where do you think you're going, honey? To your ex-boyfriend?" Alistair's voice was a low, possessive growl that carried through the sudden stillness in their immediate vicinity.

You tried to pull free. “Alistair, let go!”

“You don’t give me orders, omega.” Alistair spat, shaking you slightly.

Your husband pulled you tighter against his side, a gesture of ownership that made a red film descend over Rufus’s vision. "He is MY husband. MY omega. I decide who he talks to. He comes to my bed every night. He wears my mark. I'm going to impregnate him and whatever history you think you have is dead and buried."

That was the match to the gasoline. The thought of you in this man’s bed, under him, suffering his touch… Rufus saw the flinch you tried to hide, the sadness and shame in your downcast eyes.

"History." Rufus repeated, a cold, deadly smile finally touching his lips. He set his glass down with a definitive click. "You have no fucking idea. Now you're going to divorce him and Give. Him. Back. To. Me."

Rufus moved faster than anyone could process. One moment he was a statue of controlled fury, the next he had your other arm, his grip firm but not painful, a stark contrast to Sterling’s bruising hold. He was pulling you towards him, a reclaiming tide. His gaze never left you, devouring every detail, every flicker of hope and fear in your eyes. "You've been waiting for me. Haven't you, my love?"

Your husband was livid.