Ivan – POV
I press the button for the top floor, the elevator humming softly around me as I lean against the mirrored wall.
Zander's office.
Technically, we're already scheduled to meet later for dinner—something tasteful, something quiet, because I told him if he pulled out another rented rooftop orchestra, I'd leave him with the bill.
But… I miss him.
I haven't seen him all week. Sure, yes, I was in heat. Delirious. Clingy. Emotionally unhinged.
But still.
A whole week without him in front of me feels like something vital has gone missing.
I adjust the hem of his hoodie around my waist and tap my fingers against the elevator railing. He hasn't seen me since—well, since the heat calls. The ones where I might have begged. Moaned. Threatened to die from deprivation.
And he still didn't come over.
Which was frustratingly noble. And infuriatingly sweet.
So now I'm here. Not to seduce him. Just to… haunt his office until he gives me attention.
Also, I have an agenda.
Harry.
Contrary to the soft, weepy image the world seems to have of him, the real Harry is stubborn. Surprisingly sharp when he isn't busy burying his feelings. And now that I've actually spoken to him, I can see it—see the parts of himself he's still clutching onto like loose threads, desperate not to unravel.
He deserves better.
He always did.
I snicker to myself, lips twitching. Because the plan forming in my head is so painfully cliché, I can barely stand it. I mean—come on. The second male lead? Rich, successful, supportive? An award-winning actor with a secret fondness for indie poetry readings?
Classic.
I don't even understand how Harry ended up with Dorian in the first draft of this universe. Emotional masochism? Trauma bonding? Stockholm syndrome?
Whatever the reason—it ends now.
I know the actor in question. Zander definitely knows him. And Zander owes me after the calls I made. Plural. The things I said. The things he heard.
So once I'm done smothering him in physical affection, I'll casually ask him to pull some strings.
Not a lot.
The elevator doors part with a soft chime, and I step out into polished silence.
No one stops me.
Of course they don't.
They see the hoodie I'm wearing—his hoodie—and they glance away respectfully. Or fearfully. Hard to tell.
I walk with purpose, the rhythm of my boots clicking lightly against the marble floors. Familiar territory now. I pass the front desk of the executive wing without pause, flash a smile at the assistant who gulps and quickly looks down.
Zander's office is at the end of the hall. I reach for the handle without knocking—because really, I don't need to—and push open the door.
And there he is.
Zander Vale.
My boyfriend.
My alpha.
Dressed to ruin me.
Black tailored suit. Crisp white shirt. Dark tie. The silver watch on his wrist glints in the office light, elegant and heavy. He's perched casually on the edge of his desk, speaking lowly in a foreign language I don't recognize. Some negotiation, clearly important.
And yet—
He glances up the moment I walk in.
I shut the door quietly behind me, and his eyes track me as I step further into the room, slow and unhurried. The office smells like him—clean, cool, expensive. Leather and dark citrus and faint ozone, like the storm he always threatens to be.
I don't say anything.
Not yet.
He continues speaking into the phone, voice calm but clipped. I hear the word acquisition in the mix. Something about projections. He's focused, composed, the very picture of control.
I, on the other hand, am anything but.
Heaven help me, he looks good.
Too good.
He says a few more things into the phone, then ends the call with a simple "Handle it." before setting the device down beside him.
He looks at me now, properly. Fully.
And for a moment, the world stops spinning.
"I thought we were meeting at seven," he says smoothly, voice low and warm.
"We are," I answer, stepping closer, unhurried. "But I missed you."
His eyes flicker downward to the hoodie. His hoodie. His smile curls slow, pleased.
"I can tell."
I stop in front of him, reach up to adjust his tie like I have every right to, because I do.
"So what brings you by early, sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice roughening slightly as I smooth my fingers down his chest.
I tap his chest lightly. "I want a favor."
His brow lifts.
"Oh?" he says, voice low and amused. "Thought you missed me."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. "Two things can be true at the same time."
He hums thoughtfully, tugging me forward by the waist until I'm slotted between his legs. His palm rests flat against the small of my back, possessive without effort.
"You'll have to butter me up," he says, that arrogant smirk playing on his lips like he knows exactly what he's doing to me.