Neville barely slept that night.
He had spent the whole time tossing and turning, staring at the water-stained ceiling of the bathroom while his mind raced through several scenarios. The silence from Shelly was making his anxiety worse, with no comfort or guidance, or just purely sense of existence from the system.
Around three in the morning, Shelly finally popped out of nowhere.
[Why are you so stressed, Host? ε-(´・｀) ﾌ]
Neville just glared at her.
Shelly flew closer to his face. [This could be an opportunity! (⺣◡⺣)♡]
"For what?" Neville shot back, annoyed.
[Just think about it,] Shelly continued, his animated eyes practically sparking with mischief. [Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? Maybe a little jealousy is exactly what our stubborn target needs to realize his feelings! (/∇＼*)｡o○♡]
"What feelings? There are no feelings!" Neville groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. "That's not how real life works."
[Isn't it though? (◕‿◕)]
By the time his alarm went off at six, Neville had only managed to scrape two hours of sleep. He dragged himself through his morning routine, spending an extra minute making sure his pheromone patch was secure, in good condition, and his appearance was as unremarkable—as unattractive—as possible.
Neville arrived at the Maxwell Corporation building at seven-thirty, a bit later than his usual time. After all, there was no point in appearing too eager.
The doors opened, revealing the secretary department's floor in all its morning glory. Or rather, revealing the complete chaos that had apparently happened overnight.
The southern end of the floor, which yesterday had been an open conference area, had been completely transformed. New walls had been put up, creating an exact mirror of Grayson's office suite on the opposite side of the floor.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Sarah, who was supervising the whole renovation, followed Neville's stunned gaze. "We've worked through the night to get this ready."
…
His new workstation sat just inside Mick's office. It was brand-new equipment, much flashier than before. This wasn't just a workstation; it was an art display—in the worst way possible.
Neville settled in, trying to start the familiar routine of checking messages and organizing the day's schedule. At least, he tried to. The system was different here—flashier, but less efficient.
Style over substance, just like its owner.
Neville had been working for exactly forty-three minutes when Mick made his entrance. The guy strode in like he owned the place—which he did. His designer suit was perfectly tailored. There was not a single hair out of place on his head despite arriving in the early hours (sarcastic).
Killian followed close behind, arms full of memory chips and looking busy.
"Ah, Hope. Punctual. I like that." Mick's grin was all teeth and no warmth. "Come on, let me show you your new home."
Neville rose smoothly, his light brain already ready with the morning report. "Good morning, Mr. Hewitt. I've already started reviewing your schedule—"
"Schedules are for people without imagination," Mick cut in, flicking his hand dismissively. "And drop the Mr. Hewitt.'' Call me Mick. We'll be spending a lot of time together."
The way he lingered on together made Neville's skin prickle. He kept his expression neutral. "Of course, Mr.—Mick."
Mick's inner office was even worse than the exterior suggested. It looked like someone had given unlimited funds to a teenager with questionable taste.
Multiple holographic displays showed everything from stock tickers to what appeared to be a reality show. The furniture was all sharp angles and full of unnecessary features. And was that a full bar[1] in the corner?
Mick immediately threw himself into his huge chair and propped his feet up on the desk. In his hand, a holographic Rubik's cube materialized, its colors shifting in patterns that hurt to look at.
"Dump those anywhere," he told Killian, gesturing vaguely at the memory chips. "Hope can sort them out later. That's what secretaries are for, right?"
Killian expressionlessly looked at Neville as he carefully placed the chips on a side table. The sheer volume was staggering—what could Mick possibly need to do with that much data storage?
"Will there be anything else, sir?" Killian asked, already edging toward the door.
"Nah, you can go. Play with your numbers or whatever it is you do." Mick's attention was already focused on his puzzle cube, his fingers moving in practiced patterns.
After Killian escaped, Neville stood uncertainly in the middle of the office. Mick seemed to have forgotten his existence entirely, completely absorbed in his game. The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft synthesized clicks of the holographic cube.
Just as Neville was about to excuse himself to go back to his desk, Mick looked up. His pale green eyes fixed on Neville with unsettling intensity.
"You're exactly as I imagined," Mick said, voice deceptively casual.
Neville's pulse quickened, but he kept his voice steady. "I'm not sure I understand."
Mick set aside his Rubik's cube and stood, closing the distance between them with predatory demeanor. Someone who never rushed—and never needed to.
"Oh, come on. Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you." His gaze flicked over Neville, lingering. "Though I admit, the glasses are a nice touch. 'Mild-mannered employee'? But I heard there's more to you than meets the eye."
Who? Neville thought.
He circled Neville slowly, like a shark sniffing blood in the vast ocean. Neville forced himself to remain still, even when Mick stopped directly behind him, close enough that he could feel his breath on his neck.
"Tell me, Hope," Mick murmured, voice dropping low. "What does Maxwell see in you?"
"I'm efficient," Neville replied evenly. "I complete my work on time and to a high standard."
Mick's laugh was low and mocking. "Efficiency. Right. And I suppose that's why he keeps you close? For your filing skills?"
Neville didn't know what Mick was getting off of for doing this to him, staring at him. But, he didn't let the Mick notice his nervousness. He challenged his gaze head-on.
Mick seemed to find it interesting and moved his gaze away. He came back to his seat and leaned his back against the chair.
He flashed a nasty smile at Neville and said, "You can go back now."
The first hours dragged. Neville sorted the chips—most of which were empty or contained garbage data—field calls from people Mick had no intention of speaking to or going to, and trying to create some semblance of order in the chaos.
But the moment Mick got bored—which happened at an alarming frequency—things took a turn.
At first, he simply stared. Neville could feel those pale eyes boring into him from across the room, watching his every move. It felt vastly different from when Grayson did the same to him. He tried to ignore it, concentrating on his work, but Mick's attention felt like a nasty poop stuck on his shoe, crept into the shoe's crevice, and he couldn't do anything about it.
When staring from a distance lost its appeal, Mick moved closer. He perched on the edge of Neville's desk, designer shoes dangling on the desk, and resumed his observation from this new vantage point.
"You're focused," Mick said after several minutes of silence.
"I try to be thorough in my work," Neville replied without looking up.
"Hmm." Mick leaned closer, invading Neville's personal space with casual disregard. "Do you know what I find fascinating?"
Neville's fingers didn't stop, and he didn't answer him.
"You haven't looked at me once since I sat down." Mick's voice was amused, but his eyes were sharp.
"Most people can't help themselves—curiosity, attraction, fear. But you…" His smile curved, slow and deliberate. "Nothing. It's like I don't exist."
Neville's jaw tightened, but he calmly said, "Professional boundaries."
"Professional boundaries," Mick repeated, savoring the words like fine wine. "How... peculiar."
He moved again, and now Neville could smell his pheromones—expensive, cloying, with undertones of something sharper that he couldn't describe. Mick's eyes lingered on Neville's collar, where the edge of his pheromone patch was barely visible.
Mick leaned down. And down. And down—until his face hovered less than a foot from Neville's. From this distance, Neville could see that his eyes weren't pure green but had flecks of gray. Those eyes were fixed on something specific, and with a jolt of alarm, Neville realized what it was.
His pheromone patch.
Neville's pulse spiked. Before he could react, before he could pull back or say anything or do anything, Mick abruptly straightened, stepping back with a languid ease that felt just as deliberate as his approach.
"What gender are you?"
The question hung in the air like a loaded weapon. Neville's mind raced. The patch was medical grade, designed to completely mask pheromones. There was no way Mick could have smelled him through it.
Lying was pointless; Killian could dig up his file in seconds. If he refused to answer, it would look suspicious. And if he told the truth—though it stuck in his throat.
"Omega, sir," Neville said quietly, still not looking up from his work.
"Omega?" Mick tilted his head, studying Neville with renewed interest. Then he said in amusement, "How can an Omega work?"
The sheer stupidity of the statement left Neville momentarily speechless.
How could an omega work? The same way anyone else worked—by showing up to work, using their brain, and surviving, making sure they wouldn't rummage through the trash for food the next day.
'Same way a complete moron like you can pretend to run a business,' Neville thought viciously, but kept his expression neutral.
But of course, someone like Mick wouldn't understand that. He probably never met an omega who wasn't a pampered trophy spouse, a decorative assistant hired more for their looks than their skills, or someone who sold their body for money.
Neville kept his eyes fixed on his screen, fingers moving steadily and refusing to say anything.
Mick seemed unbothered by the lack of response. He pulled out his light brain, angling it so Neville couldn't see the display. Whatever he saw there made him smile—a slow, unpleasant expression that screamed, he was up to no good.
"Fascinating," he murmured, more to himself than to Neville. "Absolutely fascinating."
[1] A full bar is an establishment or a catering package that serves a wide variety of alcoholic beverages, including hard liquors, wines, beers, and cocktails, along with the necessary non-alcoholic mixers, garnishes, and tools.