Eren swallowed hard as Claude's gaze pinned him—sharp, assessing, with the kind of glint that wasn't mischief but dominance wrapped in charm. It wasn't Alpha force, but the particular kind of pressure only a confident Omega could wield: quiet, deliberate, and suffocating.
Just yesterday, Adriel had claimed him—out loud, in front of Claude—as his mate, his wife. Him, an Omega buried in secretarial work, invisible in most rooms. The President's Omega? It was almost laughable. And now here was Claude—elegant, commanding, the kind of Omega others whispered about, admired, even envied. The kind of Omega people expected an Alpha like Adriel to choose.
"There are plenty of more qualified candidates in this company," the HR Manager began, clutching his clipboard like a shield, his voice tight. "I can provide you with a list—"
"No." Claude didn't raise his voice, but his tone dropped with enough weight that the room instinctively stilled. A ripple passed through the other Omegas present—postures straightening, scents tightening, as if their instincts had recognized the unspoken challenge. "I want him."
The HR Manager faltered. "But he's—"
"I know." Claude turned, his poise impeccable, his pheromones carefully restrained but felt all the same—like warm amber and pressure on the skin. "You said he's Adriel's secretary. But I am not just anybody to Adriel."
"You're his—"
"Exactly." Claude cut him off cleanly, the word sharp as a blade. He turned back to Eren, and this time his stare lingered. Every note of it was deliberate, calculated—the kind of gaze Omegas usually reserved for rivals, not equals. You're not what he would choose. Not over me.
Clara shifted uneasily beside Eren, her own Omega instincts bristling. She saw it—the dominance woven into Claude's charm, the unspoken push that made even the Alphas in the room wary of interrupting.
Eren's throat tightened. His own scent threatened to sour with nerves, and he fought to keep it neutral, hidden. But Claude's expression told him it didn't matter. Whatever he tried to say to Adriel wouldn't change this. He'll give me what I want, Claude's eyes said. Because he always has.
"Is Adriel in his office right now?" Claude asked, calm, like he already knew the answer.
"He—he's in a client meeting. With Roen," Eren managed, voice thinner than he wanted it to be.
Claude's lips curved, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. "He'll be back after lunch, then."
"Yes," Eren whispered. "Yes, he will."
Claude turned on his heel and strode out, his heels striking the floor like a drumbeat of authority. The HR Manager scurried after him, muttering protests that came out more like apologies.
The room finally exhaled, pheromones shifting as tension broke into whispers.
"Whoa. So it's true? That ballerino—Claude Parker—is really Sir Adriel's spouse?" one of the Betas gushed, awe in her voice. "No wonder he never dignified those rumors with Kairen. Claude's… untouchable."
"Powerhouse Omega," another murmured.
But Clara stayed silent, her eyes on Eren. He sat stiffly at his desk, fists tight, gaze lowered. His scent was carefully suppressed, but Clara caught the faint trace of bitterness anyway. He didn't look like a man basking in his Alpha's claim. He looked like an Omega bracing for the storm that had only just begun.
Eren stared at the door Claude had just exited, his thoughts tangled. Why pretend to be Adriel's mate? Then again… maybe it wasn't pretense. Claude and Adriel shared history, and truth be told, Claude was the more believable match. Who would ever accept that he—the quiet secretary, an unremarkable Omega tucked behind a desk—was Adriel's actual spouse?
"Ah—" Eren winced, his hand flying to his abdomen. A sharp cramp twisted low, leaving his breath unsteady.
"You okay? Something wrong?" Clara asked immediately, her concern quick and genuine.
"It's just… a stomach cramp," Eren murmured, forcing a small smile.
"Sit," Clara said firmly, guiding him into a chair. "You didn't eat lunch again. I asked you earlier, but you turned it down. You can't keep skipping meals like this."
Before Eren could respond, a voice cut across the room.
"Hey, you two! Back to work. Sir Adriel's coming back soon—quit slacking off," snapped one of the senior secretaries, striding toward them with her clique trailing like shadows.
Clara rolled her eyes but kept her tone mild. "Says the one who never works."
"What was that?" the woman asked sharply, her tone laced with Alpha bite.
"Nothing," Clara replied smoothly, settling back into her chair. Then, quieter to Eren, she added, "Seriously, you've barely touched food since you started here. Being Adriel's secretary can't be easy. Even with Roen helping him, you must be drowning in work."
Eren didn't answer. Work? Inside Adriel's office, he had so little to do. The secretary role felt more like a cover—an excuse to keep him close, to monitor him—especially with the pregnancy. Most of his actual tasks came from the senior secretaries rather than Adriel. In the stolen quiet moments, he'd managed to sketch jewelry designs for the competition. Ironic, really.
"Excuse me, food delivery for Mr. Eren," a voice announced from the doorway.
The security guard stepped aside to reveal a young man in a chef's uniform, carrying a neatly packed paper bag. His scent—neutral, masked—barely touched the air, but it still made several Omegas instinctively straighten in their seats.
All eyes swiveled toward Eren.
"Food delivery? For him?" one of the women scoffed, standing. Her eyes narrowed at the chef, then at Eren. "Since when does a secretary get food hand-delivered?"
"Maybe Sir Adriel's spoiling him," another whispered, not quietly enough. A ripple of laughter followed.
"I'm Eren," he said softly, rising from his chair, though his voice faltered halfway. "But I… I didn't order anything—"
The chef ignored the murmurs, stepping forward with deliberate calm. He placed the bag on Eren's desk, bowing slightly before offering a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
The office buzzed with whispers. Who had sent it? Why him?
Eren's hand hovered above the bag, hesitant. His pulse raced. Whatever this was, it wasn't just food.
"Our special chef prepared this just for you," the man said warmly before turning to leave.
Eren blinked, frozen. The room around him buzzed as his colleagues crowded closer, their faces a mix of disbelief and curiosity.
"Wait a second," one of them said, leaning in. Her eyes darted to the man's chest, to the gleaming name tag. "You're from Sear & Swoon? The Ulricks' restaurant? That place doesn't even do takeout—let alone delivery."
The chef only offered a polite smile, a respectful nod in Eren's direction, and then slipped out the door without another word.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Sear & Swoon?" another voice broke through, low with disbelief. "That's five-star, exclusive, impossible to book. And somehow you get food hand-delivered? Don't tell me this is coincidence."
A snort. "Please. We all know how Omegas survive in this world. You probably charmed someone into it. What else would a secretary have to trade?"
The jab stung like a lash. Heat prickled up Eren's neck, his jaw clenching tight. He didn't dignify it with a reply, but the words burrowed deep.
"You're really jumping to conclusions," Clara cut in, her tone firm, sharp. She stood from her desk, glaring at the clique. "Instead of drooling over someone else's lunch, why don't you mind your own work?"
Clara turned back to Eren, her expression softening. "Come on—let's at least see what's inside."
Eren nodded numbly, though his pulse pounded in his ears. His Omega instincts were already betraying him—his body tightening, responding before his mind could catch up. The faint aroma rising from the bag coiled around him like a tether, warm and achingly familiar. It was his comfort, his craving, his Alpha.
Adriel.
No one else ever cooked this way for him. No one else knew exactly what flavors settled the nausea, what textures eased the tension building in his stomach. It couldn't be anyone else.
His hand trembled slightly as he untied the string. The scent rushed out, rich and heady, filling the office. Gasps rippled around the room.
Eren swallowed hard, wishing he could disappear. The food was delicious, perfect, and made just for him. But here, under the scrutiny of so many watchful eyes, it felt less like comfort—
and more like exposure.