He grabs my hand. It’s not a handshake; it’s a vice grip. He squeezes, his thick fingers digging into my palm, testing the bone structure, testing my tolerance. It’s the classic insecure Alpha power move—try to crush the other guy’s hand to prove you’re the one with the testosterone.
I don't flinch. I don't squeeze back, either. I just hold his gaze, keeping my hand firm but relaxed, letting him exert all that energy for nothing.
"Strong grip," he grunts, though his eyes narrow slightly when I don't wince. "Good. I hate a limp handshake. Tells you everything you need to know about a man’s character."
Then, it hits me.
It’s not a smell; it’s a physical assault.
Byungho flares his pheromones. It’s deliberate, a heavy, suffocating wave of musk, burnt tobacco, and something sharp like cheap brandy. It washes over the table, thick and aggressive, designed to make everyone in the room lower their heads and bare their necks. It’s a command.Submit.
Beside me, Sihwan wilts. I hear his breath hitch, his shoulders curling inward instinctively as his biology screams at him. Instincts of a dominant alpha telling him to fight while his brain grapples with the knowledge not to challenge his father.
I, on the other hand, have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from curling my lip in disgust.
It’s potent, sure. To a Beta or an Omega, it would be overwhelming. But to me? It feels like a damp towel to the face. It’s annoying. It’s posturing.
And it tells me everything I need to know: Sihwan didn't tell them.
He didn't tell his parents I’m a Dominant Alpha.
If he had, his father wouldn't be trying this. You don't try to cow a Dominant with pheromones unless you’re looking for a bloodbath. Byungho thinks I’m just a regular Alpha, someone hecan bully into submission to establish the hierarchy right out of the gate.
My own instincts roar to life in response. My scent—the cold, biting winter air—wants to snap out and crush him. It wants to fill the room, freeze the air in his lungs, and force him to his knees for daring to try and dominate me. The urge to challenge him is a sharp, violent spike in my chest.
I lock it down.
It takes effort. I have to physically tense my core, forcing the aggression back down, keeping my scent tightly coiled under my skin. If I let it slip, even a little, this dinner ends with the table flipped and the patriarch of the Oh family humiliated in his own dining room. And while that would be entertaining, it wouldn't help Sihwan.
So I smile. It’s tight, and it doesn't reach my eyes, but it passes for polite.
"Thank you, sir," I say, my voice steady, unaffected.
Byungho blinks. He looks confused for a split second, likely wondering why I’m not looking at the floor or sweating. He flares his scent again, harder this time, searching for the crack in my armor.
I just widen my smile, bordering on condescending.
He releases my hand abruptly, clearing his throat. The confusion in his eyes shifts to irritation. He can't figure out why his party trick didn't work, but he’s too proud to acknowledge it.
"Sit," he barks, turning his back on me to march to the head of the table. "Let’s eat. I’m starving."
Sihwan practically collapses into his chair, looking pale. I sit slowly, adjusting my cuffs, and shoot a glance at the older man.
This is going to be a long night.
The first course is a clear consommé with a literal flake of gold floating in it. It's insufferably pretentious.
I eat it with good grace, keeping my posture perfect, my elbows tucked, and my expression politely engaged. Across from me, Sihwan is staring at his bowl like he’s waiting for the gold flake to drown him. He hasn't said a word since we sat down.
He doesn't have to. His parents are doing enough talking for all of us.
"I heard your grandfather was recently appointed to the Cultural Heritage Committee," Mrs. Oh says, beaming at me over the rim of her wine glass. She’s trying to look casual, but her eyes are hungry. "We’ve been looking to make a donation to the preservation fund. Perhaps you could put in a good word?"
"I'm sure he would appreciate the gesture," I say smoothly, cutting a piece of bread. "He’s very passionate about legacy."
"Legacy is everything," Byungho grunts from the head of the table. He’s already on his second glass of red, and the alcohol is making his scent—that choking mix of musk and burnt sugar—heavier. He ignores his wife, ignores his son, and locks those beady, assessing eyes on me. "Your father understands that. I ran into him at the Economic Forum last quarter. Sharp man. Ruthless."
He saysruthlesslike it’s the highest compliment a human being can receive.
