On his way to the printer, Eren slowed when he caught his coworkers' hushed voices drifting from the break area.
"What do you mean the president will be staying at this branch?" one asked, her tone sharp with disbelief.
"Why? Is something wrong with how our branch is being run? The general manager's been doing fine," the other replied.
The first woman lowered her voice, though Eren could still hear. "It's not about problems. They say he's introducing his new jewelry line here. You know the competition—designers are already preparing. Rumor is, the winner might get transferred to the main office. Imagine it—working with the elite team at Ulrick Jewels."
Eren lingered without realizing, his chest tightening.
"Hey!" One of them turned and caught his gaze. "Why are you staring? Eavesdropping now?" Her lip curled. "Just because the president helped you once doesn't mean you get to act like you're special."
"Go back to your desk. You've got work to finish," the other snapped.
Eren lowered his eyes and said nothing. He was used to this, but the sting never dulled. He turned away, shoulders tense, when the atmosphere in the office shifted.
A tall figure strode in, his suit cut to perfection, the kind of presence that bent a room around him. Behind him followed James and several branch managers. The chatter died instantly.
Adriel.
Eren froze mid-step. The moment their eyes met, his stomach lurched. He looked away at once, as if burned. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Adriel's brow crease, the faintest sign of irritation—or maybe confusion. But the Alpha didn't stop. He simply walked on, his gaze unreadable, his pheromones steady and controlled.
Eren's coworkers, who seconds ago were sneering, now practically swooned.
"God, look at him," one whispered, clutching her chest. "Like a god made flesh."
Eren clenched his jaw and forced himself back to his desk, fingers trembling against the keyboard. He could still feel the weight of Adriel's stare even though the man was already in the conference room.
Not long after, one of the managers stepped out with a broad smile. "Good news, everyone. President Ulrick is treating us all to lunch today."
Gasps and cheers rippled through the room. Excitement grew when a team of chefs from Ulrick's five-star restaurant arrived, setting out trays of food fragrant enough to make the whole office buzz with delight.
Eren stared at the spread, his stomach tight. To everyone else, it was generosity from a distant, godlike figure. To him, it was a reminder: Adriel was close enough to touch—yet untouchable, and their bond was a secret he had to pretend didn't exist.
"Why are you doing this? Trying to impress the staff? They already know you're the president," James muttered, watching the employees practically swoon over the five-star meal laid out before them.
Adriel didn't answer. His gaze was elsewhere.
Eren.
At his desk, the Omega's plate was untouched. Just like at the hotel. Just like at dinner with Akira and Laylah. Adriel's jaw tightened. He remembered the hotel manager mentioning Eren hadn't eaten, only drank milk. Even now, surrounded by food, he sat stiffly, hands idle.
Adriel didn't intend to let it slide. Not when Eren was carrying his child.
He gave a subtle nod to one of the chefs. The man approached Eren with practiced politeness.
"Sir, would you care for something else? Please tell me your preference, and I'll prepare it right away."
Around them, the office buzzed with chatter and laughter. No one seemed to notice that Eren alone had yet to eat.
"I'm fine. Thank you," Eren said quickly. He tried to smile, not wanting to insult the chef, but his stomach churned at the mere thought of food.
The chef hesitated. "The president arranged this meal with you in mind. It would be a shame if you didn't touch it."
Eren froze. His coworkers were too busy enjoying themselves to overhear, but heat rose in his face all the same. He lowered his eyes, then, against his will, glanced toward the conference room.
Adriel was watching him. Steady. Unblinking.
Eren's throat tightened. He couldn't read whether that look was anger, disappointment, or something far heavier. He gripped his fork with trembling fingers, fighting the nausea twisting his gut. Why did it feel like eating one bite in front of him would be harder than skipping it altogether?
Eren could feel Adriel's gaze on him. The Alpha's eyes tracked every small movement, and it made his throat tighten. He bit his lip, gripped the spoon, and forced himself to lift it.
Just one bite. He could at least manage that.
But the moment the food touched his mouth, his stomach lurched violently. Heat rushed to his face as nausea clawed up his throat. He dropped the spoon with a sharp clatter and clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.
"What's wrong, sir?" the chef asked gently, startled.
"What now, Eren?" one of his colleagues muttered under her breath, just loud enough for others to hear. "Even fine dining's too much for you?"
The words stung, but worse was the silence that followed. Eren dared a glance at Adriel. The Alpha's jaw was locked, his expression dark.
"I… I'm sorry. I need a moment," Eren whispered, pushing back his chair. He fled the room before anyone could stop him, the sting of humiliation chasing him down the hall.
Behind him, the chef looked at Adriel in quiet alarm.
James leaned lazily in his chair, a smirk curling his lips. "You saw it yourself, Uncle. You keep forcing this, but no matter how much luxury you put in front of him, he doesn't belong at your side. He's just an employee. Fragile, out of place—"
The scrape of a chair cut him off. Adriel stood abruptly, his presence filling the room like a sudden storm. Every head turned toward him.
"Continue your meal. It's for you," he said curtly, then strode out without another word.
As soon as the door closed behind him, whispers spread through the room.
"Our president is incredible. Even with that temper… who else would treat us this well?" one staff member sighed.
"He's too perfect. Handsome, successful, generous…" another added dreamily.
James only scoffed, watching the door where his uncle had vanished.
Eren splashed water on his face in the washroom, trying to wash away the taste of bile and the heat of shame. He couldn't go back in there. Not with everyone staring. Not with Adriel watching him like that.
When he finally stepped into the hallway, he froze.
Adriel was there—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his dark gaze locked on him. He wasn't moving, as if he had been waiting the entire time.
"Pr–president…" Eren stammered, his pulse hammering in his throat.
Adriel didn't answer immediately. He straightened, unfolded his arms slowly, and closed the distance between them with measured steps.
"What do you think I'm doing here?" he said at last, his voice low, taut with restrained anger.
Eren swallowed hard, his back pressing against the cool wall. He could still taste the nausea, still feel the sting of his colleagues' laughter. But the Alpha's scent, sharp and heavy, wrapped around him now, leaving him caught between shame and something deeper—something he couldn't name.
Eren's voice thinned out, rough in his throat. "It's not that I don't respect the food. The chefs prepared everything beautifully. I just…" He lowered his eyes, ashamed. "I can't force myself to eat. My body refuses it."
Adriel's gaze sharpened, his Alpha presence pressing down like a weight. "Then starve if you want," he said coldly, every word clipped with command. "But don't starve my child." He turned as if dismissing him outright.