Nearly thirty agonizing minutes had crawled by before Claude finally returned to the stage. His presence alone commanded silence, the sweet sharpness of his Omega pheromones seeping into the air until every guest leaned forward in their seats, breath caught.
"The results of the final design competition are in," he announced, his tone like silk pulled taut over steel. He let the hush stretch, his smile a little too polished, too knowing. "But first—let us welcome back the models."
Once more, the ten finalists stepped onto the runway, jewels blazing like captured constellations beneath the stage lights. The hall shimmered with perfume, pheromones, nerves—an electric current of anticipation.
Claude's gaze swept over the crowd, and then he spoke again, each word deliberate.
"The first design chosen for the Ulrick Jewels Elite is…" He let the silence drag, savoring it, before his voice cut through like a blade. "The Scarlet Promise."
Gasps tore through the audience.
But Claude's voice did not falter. His next words struck like thunder.
"The Scarlet Promise—worn tonight by the granddaughter of Don Sebastian Guevarra."
The hall erupted. Whispers crashed against one another, shock thickening the air until it was almost suffocating. Pheromones spiked everywhere—confusion, awe, envy. Even the judges, who had worn masks of composure until now, shifted sharply in their seats, eyes darting toward the old man in the front row.
Don Sebastian rose slowly, his Alpha presence rolling out despite his age. His scent—aged oak and smoke—filled the space with undeniable weight as his proud, astonished gaze locked on Jenny.
No one had expected this. No one had known.
Jenny stood radiant under the lights, the Scarlet Promise blazing at her throat. For the first time, the audience did not see a shy girl or a nervous model. They saw bloodline, legacy, an heiress crowned by destiny.
Claude lifted his hand, pressing the murmurs back down into silence. His expression was a mask of grace, but the sweetness of his pheromones was edged with venom. "And now," he said slowly, savoring the moment, "the designer of The Scarlet Promise must step forward. Roselune… your time for hiding is over. Tonight, your design has claimed the highest votes from both judges and audience alike. Show yourself."
A hush fell—thick, absolute.
Jenny stepped forward first, greeted by a wave of applause, thunderous and unrestrained—for her beauty, for her lineage, for the jewel burning against her skin like fate itself.
And then—another sound.
Footsteps. Slow, steady, climbing the stage.
The applause faltered, then stilled.
From the shadows emerged a man in plain clothes—no glittering suit, no jewel, no mask of wealth. Just simple lines, a body carrying Omega softness and strength both. His crimson hair caught the light like a banner.
Recognition dawned in the hall, sharp and undeniable. Whispers surged into a roar.
Eren.
The quiet Omega who had stood backstage, dismissed, overlooked—now stepping into the blaze of the spotlight.
At his back, Adriel's Alpha scent rolled low and protective, steel and storm pressing into the hall. It steadied Eren, shielded him, dared anyone to laugh or doubt.
The crowd's disbelief curdled into awe. Because here was Roselune. Not a hidden heiress, not a man draped in finery—an Omega, stepping forward with head held high, his creation shimmering proof of his worth.
And the world could no longer look away.
"It's him… Claude's secretary! I thought he was just a secretary!"
The words tore through the crowd like a spark in dry tinder. Murmurs ignited, pheromones spiking in shock—bitterness, awe, envy—so thick the air almost quivered.
Even Claude recoiled, his sweet-vanilla scent faltering, curdling at the edges. His composure, usually flawless, cracked. His lips trembled, then pulled taut as he hissed, his voice rough with disbelief and fury.
"What… what is the meaning of this?"
But Eren did not flinch.
He stepped onto the stage with quiet certainty, every motion deliberate. The plainness of his clothes only sharpened the contrast—the Crimson Promise blazing at Jenny's throat, and his crimson hair catching the light like fire. He stopped at her side, the jewel burning between them like a secret unveiled, and curved his lips into a calm, defiant smile.
"You called for me," he said softly. Yet the words carried, steady and unyielding, to every corner of the hall. "And here I am. I think I deserve to stand beside my own design."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then the hall erupted. Not in polite applause, but in chaos. Some rose to their feet in admiration, their pheromones bursting with wonder and respect. Others recoiled in outrage, sharp notes of disbelief tainting the air. Judges leaned forward, whispering urgently, their voices low but strained.
Don Sebastian's expression tightened, torn between pride and astonishment, his oak-and-smoke Alpha scent swelling like a storm.
And at the center of it all, Jenny and Eren stood together—heiress and hidden artist—beneath the storm they had unleashed.
For a moment, Claude could not move. The world blurred around him—perfume, pheromones, whispers crashing like waves. But all he could see was Eren standing there.
Eren.
The Omega he had dismissed. The shadow at his side, suddenly illuminated as Roselune—the name the fashion world had ached to uncover.
No. This isn't possible.
His smile faltered. He forced his jaw tight, posture rigid, but his scent betrayed him, cracking under the strain—sweetness soured, edged with panic. Rage, humiliation, fear tangled inside him, clashing until his stomach knotted.
How dare he deceive me? How dare he humiliate me before the Elite?
And worse—how dare the hall look away?
Because they weren't whispering Claude's name anymore. Their gazes, their awe, belonged to Eren and Jenny. Two stars blazing together, eclipsing him in an instant.
Claude clenched his fists behind his back, nails biting into his palms. No. I won't let him steal this stage. Not here. Not ever.
From the shadows, Adriel's Alpha presence rolled low and steady—dark steel and storm. His pheromones pressed into the hall like a shield at Eren's back, daring anyone to sneer, to dismiss, to challenge.
And with that silent, undeniable weight behind him, Eren no longer looked like a secretary at all.
From the corner of his eye, Eren caught Don Sebastian's expression: pride gleaming as he studied his granddaughter, approval softening his stern features when his gaze shifted to him. The judges leaned forward, murmuring, their eyes sharp—already calculating how to pull Roselune into their grasp.
Claude 's chest burned. He's not supposed to be here. He's not supposed to matter.
But Eren only stood taller, calm and certain, the Scarlet Promise glinting between him and Jenny like a crown shared between them. And Claude knew—in that instant—that this night would not only change Eren's life. It could ruin his.
Then Adriel moved.
The Alpha strode forward with deliberate grace, his dark, storm-scented pheromones rolling through the hall. Heads turned instinctively; even the whispers faltered under the weight of his presence. His gaze never left Eren.
"You've outdone yourself, Red," he murmured low, his voice pitched for Eren alone, though it carried like a secret the crowd strained to overhear. "I always knew you would. Tonight, you've proven it to the world. Now… let me do my part."
Before Eren could answer, Adriel clasped his hand, fingers threading through his in a gesture so intimate it stole the air from the room. With measured certainty, he guided him to the center of the stage. Gasps broke across the hall—a ripple of shock, awe, outrage. The air thickened with pheromones: sharp envy, stunned admiration, bitter disbelief.
Adriel turned to face the sea of stunned faces. His voice rose, deep and commanding, his Alpha resonance vibrating through the hall.
"Distinguished guests," he said. "For so long, you have asked who stands as my mate. I hid his name—not from shame, but because he wished to stand first on his own strength. Not as my Omega, not as my mate, but as a creator. Tonight, he has done so."
He lifted Eren's hand high, then bowed over it, lips brushing his knuckles with reverence. His words struck like an oath, thrumming with scent and promise.
"With pride, I present the one fate has given me—my jewel, my destiny, my forever. He is my Red."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned, heavy with pheromones, every breath caught. Then applause thundered—wild, deafening, unstoppable. Laylah and Akira leapt to their feet first, their cheers shattering the spell. Don Sebastian rose next, clapping with pride blazing in his eyes, his Alpha scent swelling like oak and smoke. Jenny followed, tears glittering as she clapped until her hands stung. The models joined, and then the entire hall—an eruption of voices and hands that shook the room.
But Claude did not clap.
He stood stiffly in the shadows, his fists clenched until his nails bit deep into his palms. His practiced smile had crumbled. His pheromones, usually sweet and polished, soured and twisted with humiliation, betraying him.
Every gaze had turned away from him. Every whisper, every cheer, every drop of admiration belonged to Eren.
That was supposed to be me.
His chest constricted as Adriel kissed Eren's hand again, the tenderness of the gesture so raw it eclipsed everything else. The applause swelled louder, brighter, and Claude, caught at the edge of the light, felt himself shrinking, dissolving into shadow.
The hall adored them. Eren, the hidden star. Adriel, his champion. Together, they blazed so brightly that Claude's rage hardened into something colder, sharper.
This isn't over, he vowed silently, his jaw tight, his eyes unblinking as his scent soured bitter in the air. I will make him pay for this. I swear it.