The Park Corporation boardroom gleamed with polished wood and glass, the very image of power. Alistair Park sat at the head of the table, jacket draped over his chair, sleeves rolled up in a show of confidence. His voice was steady, commanding, as he outlined the details of a merger that would expand the Park empire's influence into new markets.
His board members nodded, scribbling notes, some with awe, others with envy. Ali didn't care which. This was his world, his battlefield, and he was winning. The echoes of the gala—the whispers about his reckless confrontation with Dante Moretti—were nothing but background noise.
Let them whisper. He had faced sharks his entire life. Dante was just another one.
Across the city, however, Dante Moretti sat in a room far removed from the clean, sterile brightness of corporate towers. His penthouse study was all shadows and sharp lines, a place of black leather, low amber light, and silence heavy enough to choke. Around him, his lieutenants—alphas, all of them dangerous men in their own right—stood at respectful distance.
No one spoke. They waited.
Finally, one man, braver than the rest, stepped forward. "Boss… about the Park heir. Perhaps it's best to let this one go. His insult was public, but if we crush him too hard, the board might—"
The words died in his throat when Dante's gaze lifted. Cold, silver eyes fixed on him, and the man took a step back as though burned.
Dante didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "A debt of pride is never forgiven. It is paid."
He rose from his seat, tall and sleek in a dark suit that looked tailored from shadows themselves. The air shifted, thickening with something primal, something that reminded even his most loyal men exactly why Dante Moretti was untouchable.
The only Enigma Alpha. The predator above predators.
"Clear my evening," he murmured, slipping on his watch. "It's time I collect."
---
Hours later, Alistair Park was celebrating. The merger had gone through, champagne glasses clinked, and the rooftop restaurant buzzed with expensive laughter. The skyline glittered beyond the glass walls, a symbol of his family's legacy—and his own triumph.
Ali stood near the head of the table, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of champagne. He smiled, sharp and confident. "To the future," he declared.
The toast was interrupted by silence. Not awkwardness. Not hesitation. Silence that spread like a contagion.
The door to the private dining room had opened.
And Dante Moretti stepped inside.
He didn't belong here—this was a Park celebration—but he didn't need permission. He moved without haste, without fear, each step claiming the room as though it already belonged to him. Conversations faltered, glasses froze mid-air, and the pulse of power shifted violently.
Alistair stiffened, his Alpha instincts flaring at the intrusion. "You weren't invited," he said coldly.
Dante's gaze slid to him, slow and deliberate, like a blade caressing a throat. "I don't need invitations, Alistair. I only need intent."
The way he said his name—Alistair—made the hairs rise at the back of Ali's neck. No one spoke his full name like that, as though savoring it, claiming it.
The board members shrank into their seats. Some looked away, others whispered in dread. Everyone knew who Dante was. Everyone knew what it meant that he was here.
Ali squared his shoulders, masking the unease that rippled through him. "If you came to make a scene, you're wasting your time. This is business, not—"
"This is personal."
The words cut through the room like thunder. Dante stopped only a step away from Ali, close enough that the air between them vibrated with the clash of their auras.
"You stood in a ballroom," Dante said, his voice low, dangerous, intimate, "and dared to spit pride into my face. You thought yourself untouchable."
Ali smirked, though his grip on the champagne glass tightened. "I'm not afraid of you."
A flicker of heat burned in Dante's silver eyes. Not rage. Desire. "Good. Fear bores me."
Ali's pulse spiked. He hated the way those words curled low in his stomach, hot and sharp. Hated the way Dante's scent—dark, intoxicating, impossible to classify—wrapped around him like smoke.
Dante leaned closer, his lips near Ali's ear, voice pitched so low only he could hear. "But arrogance has a price. And I don't take payment in money or contracts."
Ali turned his head sharply, their eyes colliding. "What do you want, then?"
Dante smiled—a slow, predatory thing. "You."
The word rang louder than the music, louder than the city beyond the glass.
Gasps filled the room. Someone dropped a fork. Board members stared, pale and horrified.
Ali froze, every nerve in his body thrumming. "You're insane."
"No." Dante's voice was silken steel. "I'm inevitable. You belong to me, Alistair. From the moment you refused to bow, you wrote the debt. And I always collect."
He straightened, letting his words sink like poison into every watching ear. Then, to the entire table, his voice rang calm and absolute:
"Alistair Park is mine."
The declaration was final, chilling, a verdict carved in stone. The room was silent, no one daring to breathe.
Ali's chest rose and fell, defiance burning in his eyes even as something deeper twisted inside him—fear, fury, and something he couldn't name. Desire.
The champagne glass in his hand shattered, sharp pieces cutting into his palm. He didn't even flinch. His gaze never left Dante's.
"Over my dead body," Ali whispered.
Dante's smile widened, predatory and certain. "I'll take you alive."
And with that, he turned, walking out as effortlessly as he had arrived, leaving the taste of his claim burning on everyone's tongue.
Ali stood rooted to the floor, breath ragged, pulse racing. He hated him. He wanted him. He feared what would happen next.
And he knew, deep down, that the Enigma Alpha wasn't finished. Not by far.