Chapter 166
Dorian
Finally, I'm back on track. Sooner or later, my previous success will return — no, surpass it.
I'll rise higher than before.
Outside the window, the skyline glitters — all sleek glass and arrogance — but beneath it, this country is still bound by its backward beliefs. They praise male alphas and betas, tolerate female betas and omegas, and sneer at anything that doesn't fit neatly into their categories like female alphas and male omegas.
I don't care about any of that.
It's like my past was just a bad dream.
Yes… a bad dream I've finally woken from.
And when I grow powerful enough, when the name Dorian Black is feared again, they'll regret ever crossing me.
My chest tightens as Ivan's name flickers across my mind.
I grit my teeth. No. I shouldn't think about him. Not if I want my good mood ruined.
***
Harry
There isn't enough space left in the apartment for the flowers Mason keeps bringing.
Seriously.
When people say newly mated alphas are a menace, I didn't realize they meant this.
I stand in the middle of the living room, hands on my hips, surrounded by vases — glass, clay, porcelain, even one shaped like a swan. The air smells like a damn garden festival. It's ridiculous. And yet… kind of nice.
The front door clicks open, and in comes Mason — surprise, surprise — holding another bouquet.
"Harry," he says, bright smile lighting up his whole face.
I try to scowl, but it's impossible.
"There are no vases left," I say, gesturing helplessly.
"Already ahead of you." He lifts the bouquet — and sure enough, it's already sitting in one.
"They're beautiful," I admit, taking them from him. I try not to think about how much he's been spending on all this. As long as it keeps him happy…
I sniff them and they smell amazing.
Mason leans down to kiss me, but his phone rings. He frowns, fishes it from his back pocket, and winces. There's only one person who can make him pull that face.
His grandfather.
"Pop. Pop. Heyyy…" he answers and immediately jerks the phone away from his ear.
"YOU UNGRATEFUL—!" a voice bellows loud enough for me to hear.
Mason winces again and retreats into the hallway like a scolded puppy.
I place the flowers with the others and cross my arms, watching his face cycle through amusement, guilt, disbelief, and pure suffering. It's… honestly entertaining.
He's chewed out for a solid twenty minutes before he finally ends the call with a deep sigh.
"What's going on?" I ask.
He groans, takes my hand, and gently pulls me to the couch. "You should probably just… see for yourself."
He grabs the remote and switches to the one gossip channel we always avoid.
"I'm telling you, they're most likely mated," one of the hosts says.
I flinch. Oh no.
"Yeah, fans have done their investigation," another one adds smugly.
"What makes you think so?" the third asks, already leaning forward like they're about to solve a crime.
"Look at this — from user MasonGreeneClippedLeftToeNails."
I snort at the creative username, Mason's fans are always... interesting.
"It all started when they posted a fan theory that went viral because it wasn't far-fetched," the host continues.
"This is Harry's last public appearance," they say, and my stomach sinks.
"Harry is The Handsome A-Lister's confirmed lover! A beautiful boy, isn't he?"
"Wasn't he one of Dorian Black's—"
"Man, this is not the time for that."
"Get the fuck outta here," the other two cut in simultaneously.
It's ridiculous — but a small, vindictive part of me warms at that. Dorian's shadow isn't clinging to me anymore.
"Anyway, look at this!" The scarf I wore is now circled on-screen.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I mutter.
"It's not every day you assume an omega actor is mated when they vanish from public, but…" the host says dramatically. "Zoom in — see that? When the scarf slips, there's a hint of what appears to be a bite mark!"
All three gasp like it's breaking news.
A cheesy sound effect plays, and I groan into my hands.
They keep showing zoomed-in, pixelated photos of my neck — all from absurd angles — like they're analyzing UFO footage.
"And Mason Greene," one says, "has been observed buying flowers every single day for the last three weeks."
Cue another round of dramatic gasps and a slideshow of Mason leaving various flower shops, looking guilty as sin.
"So if one plus one equals two," the host concludes smugly, "this is classic newly mated alpha behavior."
A flashing disclaimer appears: 'All allegations are speculative. We're just having fun.' Probably to dodge the next lawsuit.
This show is like a cockroach — sued, banned, canceled, and somehow always back on air. No one even bothers anymore.
"That explains the call from your grandfather," I say, muting the TV and collapsing onto the couch.
Mason sits beside me, rubbing his face. "I'm sorry. And, uh… this is probably not the best time to mention it, but… they want us there for dinner."
I blink. "It was bound to happen anyway. Honestly, if your fans ever quit their day jobs, they'd be unstoppable as detectives."
He chuckles weakly, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
"When, anyway?" I ask.
He hesitates. "Today."
I jolt upright. "What do you mean today?!"
He gives me the world's guiltiest smile.
Apparently… I'm meeting my in-laws today.