Dorian – POV
Ivan.
Ivan.
Ivan.
I stare at the giant screen across the boulevard, and there he is again—his face, luminous and smug, plastered across the glass like a goddamn billboard deity.
A new campaign.
New cologne.
And that smile.
That fucking smile.
The scar on my forehead throbs.
A phantom ache, triggered by memory more than pain.
By the humiliation of it all.
How dare he.
How dare he look so… carefree after what he did to me?
He's on every screen.
Every bus.
Every glowing billboard and magazine cover, laughing like the world never touched him.
Like I never touched him.
I clench my fists. My knuckles turn white as I stare at the high-rise LED screen beaming Ivan's newest ad campaign.
He was supposed to fall apart.
He was supposed to crawl back.
Beg.
Cry.
Plead for me to take him back like he always used to—those pathetic little eyes full of desperation for even a scrap of affection.
But now?
He's posing in designer cologne campaigns, smiling for Zogue, whispered about as the Omega of the Year.
He was mine.
I made him.
If it wasn't for me, he wouldn't even be a model.
Wouldn't have been discovered.
He would've been nothing.
And now I can't even teach him a lesson.
Not with Zander Vale's shadow looming over everything.
I grit my teeth.
Of all the alphas to end up with…
Zander Vale.
Status. Power. Untouchable family name.
Why him?
Sure, Ivan is beautiful. But the industry is full of omegas like him.
Pretty little things with no spine.
No fire.
Yet somehow… he's the one Zander's wrapped around.
The thought burns deeper than I want to admit.
---
I don't go home. I don't even think about it.
My feet carry me somewhere else—somewhere familiar.
By the time I reach the door, I've already checked twice to make sure no one followed me.
This place isn't exactly public knowledge.
The code still works. Of course it does.
The door opens with a soft click.
Inside, the lights are low, the air warm. I hear soft music playing from the tiny speaker tucked near the kitchen window.
And there he is.
Harry.
In a too-big t shirt, sleeves rolled, stirring something on the stove.
He looks up, startled, but smiles.
"Oh, Dorian—I didn't know you were coming, you should have—"
I don't let him finish.
I walk straight up to him and kiss him.
Hard.
He stiffens.
I don't stop.
Not when he says "Wait—", not when his hands flutter up in confusion, not even when he stiffens for half a breath.
Because Harry always lets me.
He's soft like that. Predictable.
His resistance lasts no longer than a heartbeat.
I tilt his head and deepen the kiss, tongue slipping past his parted lips, and he gasps—but he doesn't pull away.
He never does.
And that's exactly why I come here.
I break the kiss only when I've had enough.
He's breathless.
Flushed.
Still holding the wooden spoon in one hand, like he doesn't know what to do with it now.
Pathetic. And familiar.
"I missed you," he whispers.
I don't respond.
Instead, I move around him and walk toward the couch, unbuttoning my shirt like I own the place—because I do.
Everything in here was paid for by me.
The couch. The television. The fridge.
Even the goddamn soap in the bathroom.
He trails after me slowly, hesitant.
"Do you want dinner first or...?"
I throw him a glance.
He doesn't finish the sentence.
Good. I'm not here to eat.
I sit back on the couch and spread my arms.
"Come here."
He obeys.
Of course he does.
He climbs into my lap like he's done a dozen times before. He's tense at first, like maybe he thought tonight would be different.
Maybe he hoped I came for him.
I didn't.
But he molds against me anyway.
I run my hands up his back, slide them under his hoodie.
Warm skin. Sharp bones. He's always been too thin.
He sighs when I kiss his throat, tilt
ing his head to give me better access.
There's a sick sort of comfort in the way he gives in.
Like watching a machine that still works exactly the way it should.