The walls of the private elevator were cold mirrors, reflecting Isabella White's current disheveled and terrified state with brutal clarity. Her face was pale, like a sheet of crumpled paper, and her teal eyes were wide with panic, like a fawn suddenly caught in a blinding light, with nowhere to hide. Her damp chestnut hair clung to her cheeks and neck, emphasizing her fragility even more. The outdated black-rimmed glasses sat crooked on her nose, nearly sliding off. Instinctively, she gripped the hem of her cheap suit jacket so tightly that her knuckles whitened, as if it were the last, pitiful layer of armor she had.
The elevator moved upward silently but swiftly, the unnatural force pressing against her chest, dragging her heart down into a dark, unknown abyss. Her nose still lingered with that fatal wisp of white bloom scent—and the cold, fiery alpha pheromones of the man, Alexander Kane. These two utterly contrasting scents twisted around her like invisible chains, constricting, suffocating.
She pressed desperately on the inhibitor patch at the back of her neck. The skin beneath her fingertips was still faintly warm, her glands throbbing in response to the lingering shock from moments ago, and her instinctive dread of what was to come. The dull pain in her ankle reminded her of the humiliating fall just before, yet even that physical pain was insignificant compared to the storm raging in her chest.
He found out… he must have found out… The thought circled her mind like a curse. His gaze—piercing, stripping away every layer of pretense—and the shiver-inducing touch of his fingers near her gland… it all pointed toward the worst possible outcome.
The elevator emitted a subtle ding as it stopped. The smooth, metallic doors slid open silently, like the jaws of a great beast slowly parting.
What lay beyond stole Isabella's breath.
This was not an office—it was a private kingdom perched atop the clouds, a realm of extreme luxury. The soaring ceilings and expansive views were breathtaking, almost terrifying. One entire wall of floor-to-ceiling glass replaced conventional walls, revealing the skyline of Star City, countless skyscrapers shrouded in gray rain, like a flowing, oppressive mural. Large raindrops pounded the glass relentlessly, a steady, muffled percussion that amplified the eerie stillness inside.
Inside, the décor was the epitome of modernist cold minimalism. The palette consisted solely of black, white, and gray; every line was crisp and precise, without a trace of superfluous ornamentation. Polished black marble floors mirrored the meticulously positioned, ownerless lighting embedded in the ceiling. Expensive Italian leather sofas, cold-lined metal coffee tables, and a distant, massive black ebony desk—almost the size of a conference table—radiated a chilling aura of untouchable power and wealth.
The air was clean to a sterile degree, the climate control system silently maintaining perfect temperature and humidity, keeping the chaos of the outside world at bay. Yet it also filtered out… human warmth. This was not a workplace; it was a fortress, controlled to perfection. And even here, the scent of Alexander Kane's alpha dominance lingered—sharp, cold, inescapable—a silent declaration that this realm was his alone, every breath infused with his will.
Isabella was "escorted" out of the elevator by the two silent bodyguards. She stumbled forward, a sharp pain shooting through her twisted ankle making her gasp involuntarily.
"Miss Isabella, please wait here." Kane's chief assistant—a Beta man in his thirties, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, expression as precise and unyielding as a calibrated instrument—spoke coldly. He gestured toward a set of gray sofas that looked expensive but offered no comfort.
Isabella had no choice. She limped over, carefully settling on the edge of the leather sofa. Its chill seeped through her damp clothes, making her shiver again. Head bowed, she dared not look around. Her gaze fixated on her tightly clasped, slightly trembling hands.
The assistant paid her no mind, moving directly to the massive ebony desk. He picked up the intercom, his voice low and efficient as he handled business with steady professionalism, as if the chaos downstairs had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Time crawled forward, each second scorching her like oil. Her heart pounded violently in her chest, loud enough for her to hear. Her mind raced, spinning out every possible scenario and escape plan—but each one seemed laughably inadequate against the sheer dominance of the man above her.
Escape? How could she escape? This was the penthouse, the only exit being the restricted private elevator or the guarded security passage. Explanation? How could she possibly explain? Claim to be an ordinary Beta? Against the pheromone trail he had already detected, every lie would be absurd. Beg for mercy? To the man whose eyes betrayed not a shred of compassion? She could almost see the cold, mocking look in his gaze.
Despair coiled around her like icy vines, tightening until it was hard to breathe. She even regretted defying her family's arrangements—at least then… at least then she wouldn't feel like a prisoner awaiting judgment, completely stripped of control over her own fate.
Just as fear threatened to swallow her whole, the sound of measured, oppressive footsteps echoed from a hidden door at the side of the office.
Tap… tap… tap…
Leather soles striking the marble floor, neither fast nor slow, but each step hammered into Isabella's chest like a weighty mallet.
Her head snapped up, muscles tensing.
Alexander Kane emerged. He had removed his rain-dampened suit jacket, wearing only a perfectly tailored white shirt. The top two buttons were undone, revealing smooth, strong collarbones and a hint of bronzed chest beneath. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing muscular forearms and a costly watch on his wrist. He seemed less formally aggressive than downstairs, but far more unnervingly intimate in the way he exuded control—as if every inch of the room now belonged to him.
He seemed to have just washed up; his black hair was still slightly damp, a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead, softening his otherwise sharp features just a fraction. Yet those gray-blue eyes remained as cold as the Siberian tundra. His gaze showed no hesitation—it locked onto the tiny, trembling figure on the sofa with pinpoint precision.
In his hand, he held a tablet. On its screen was Isabella White's complete dossier—her status as the unwelcome Omega illegitimate of the White family, her mother's history, every detail of her escape from the family, her assumed identity while working at 卓越商贸, even her monthly purchases of potent suppressants… In less than twenty minutes, Kane Group's information network had unearthed every secret she had tried to bury.
He stepped closer. His towering shadow engulfed Isabella completely, yet he spoke nothing. Standing over her, he examined her with a clinical detachment, as if dissecting a specimen. His gaze felt like a blade, tracing her pale face, her quivering body, and finally lingering on the fingers clutching the back of her neck.
Isabella felt nailed to the sofa, paralyzed. As he drew nearer, his potent pheromones rolled over her like a tidal wave, scorching her senses, igniting her glands, weakening her limbs. A raw, primal mix of Omega instinct—fear of a top-tier Alpha—and an almost shameful physiological arousal churned within her, threatening to overwhelm her. She bit her lip hard, tasting the copper tang of blood, using pain to force herself to stay conscious.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, calm, yet carried the unyielding weight of judgment.
"Isabella White. The Omega illegitimate of the White family who tried to run." He enunciated her name like a trivial document title. "Hiding behind cheap suppressants, thinking you could fool everyone?"
Color drained from Isabella's face, even her lips turning a ghostly gray. Her worst fears were confirmed—he knew everything.
"I…I don't know what you're talking about…" she stammered, her voice barely audible, trembling uncontrollably. "I'm just a Beta. I came to deliver documents… just… it was an accident…"
"An accident?" Kane repeated lightly, a faint, merciless curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned closer, and the pressure of his presence surged. Isabella shrank back instinctively, her spine pressing against the icy leather of the sofa.
He extended his hand—not to touch her—but to tilt the tablet toward her. The screen displayed her encrypted orders for high-strength suppressants and a nearly forgotten photo of her and her mother from childhood.
"Enjoy pretending to be a Beta… by accident?" His voice dripped with unhidden mockery. "Or did the White family send you on this little… accident? To catch my attention with such a… clumsy method?"
"No! It's not like that!" Isabella shot her head up, her teal eyes blazing with raw emotion for the first time—anger, and the desperate plea of being misunderstood. "I have nothing to do with them! I ran to avoid becoming a tool for an arranged marriage! I never wanted to catch your attention! Today really was an accident!"
Her defiance seemed to amuse him—or perhaps intrigue him even more. The icy edge in his eyes appeared to melt slightly, replaced by a deeper, more inscrutable interest.
"Oh?" He slowly withdrew the tablet, tossing it onto the nearby coffee table with a light snap, startling Isabella into another shiver. "So… all that effort hiding your identity, risking your health with overdosed suppressants… just to exist as a powerless little clerk, barely noticed by anyone?"
His words cut sharp, tearing through the fragile shell of dignity Isabella had tried to maintain, leaving her feeling painfully exposed.
"That's my freedom!" she shot back stubbornly, voice still trembling. "I just want to survive on my own. What's wrong with that?"
"Freedom?" Kane let out a sound like a laugh at some absurd joke. He lunged closer, hands bracing on the sofa's armrests, trapping Isabella entirely under his shadow. They were so close she could see the terrified reflection of herself in his pupils, feel the heat of his breath brushing her cheek. His pheromones, overwhelming and intoxicating, threatened to make her collapse.
"From the moment you were born an Omega, Isabella, you never truly had freedom." His gaze locked onto hers, each word deliberate, cold, and merciless. "Your pheromones, your body—they don't fully belong to you. They attract Alphas, provoke competition, become bargaining chips. That is the law of this world."
"And you…" His eyes drifted to the nape of her neck, filled with naked possessiveness and an almost obsessive curiosity. "Your pheromones… are unique."
Isabella's heart nearly stopped.
"They calm my pain." His voice dropped low, tinged with a twisted, almost unacknowledged longing. "After all these years… you are the first… and the only one."
He reached out. This time, without hesitation, he ripped away the loosened suppressant patch from the back of her neck, precise and merciless.
"No—!" Isabella let out a sharp cry, struggling to resist—but it was useless.
With the patch gone, the pure, distant scent of night-blooming jasmine—long suppressed, faint but unmistakable—wafted into the air. It was like a sudden shaft of moonlight piercing through darkness, instantly shattering the cold, oppressive atmosphere of the room.
Alexander Kane drew in a near-greedy breath, and in the depths of his icy blue eyes, a dark flame suddenly flickered. A flicker of almost painful pleasure crossed his face, as if a long-suffering man had finally found the perfect cure. The chaos that had plagued his pheromone disorder for years—the restless agitation, the low hum of frustration—miraculously quieted under the sweet, intoxicating scent now wafting from Isabella.
But this calm only fueled a darker, more possessive hunger.
Isabella felt utterly stripped of all defenses, completely exposed under the gaze of a predator. Shame, fear, and anger twisted together, making her tremble violently. Tears spilled over, tracing pale paths down her cheeks, uncontrollable.
"Look," Kane murmured, his fingers cruelly brushing against the exposed, slightly reddened skin of her sensitive glands, feeling the tremor and warmth beneath his touch. "This… this is your true scent. How beautiful… how fragile."
Isabella jerked her head away, trying to escape his touch, tears blurring her vision. "Let me go… please…"
"Let you go?" Kane's low laugh carried no warmth, only absolute control. "And then what? Back to that pathetic office, hiding yourself behind those poisonous suppressants? Or worse… caught by your family, or some stray Alpha who sniffed you out?"
He gripped her chin suddenly, forcing her to look up at him, her tear-filled eyes meeting his.
"From today on… you go nowhere."
His voice was deep and absolute, a final, irrevocable verdict.
"Your pheromones… belong to me."
"You… belong to me."
The words fell like a death knell in Isabella's world. The light in her eyes dimmed, snuffed out, leaving only endless despair and darkness.
Kane released her and straightened, regaining that imperious, untouchable demeanor. He addressed his ever-watchful assistant, who had been silently observing.
"David, take her to the 'Silence' suite. Not a step without my permission. Have a doctor treat her foot injury. And," he paused, his gaze sweeping over the tempting glands at the nape of her neck, "prepare the highest standard Omega meals and… suitable suppressants."
"Yes, Mr. Kane," David replied with respect.
Two female bodyguards appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Their movements were polite but unyielding, lifting the slumped Isabella with ease.
She no longer struggled, no longer begged. It was as if her soul had been drained. Her teal eyes stared emptily at the gray sky and endless rain outside, letting them carry her down the corridor toward the private wing of the office.
She was like a bird whose precious feathers had just been discovered—before she could taste the freedom of the sky, her wings were broken, and she was caged in a gilded prison of unimaginable luxury.
Alexander Kane remained where he stood, watching the fragile little figure disappear at the corridor's end. Slowly, he raised the fingers that had just touched her glands, and it was as if the delicate sensation and that intoxicating jasmine scent still lingered on his skin.
In the depths of his gray-blue eyes, the storm had not calmed; instead, it brewed even more violently. He had found his medicine, his cure, his one and only Omega.
Then, she could only be his.
By any means necessary.