The city was still wrapped in dawn's silver hush when Cassian Drakov opened his eyes.
Automated curtains slid aside at a silent command, revealing a skyline of glass and steel stretching endlessly below. At the center stood the Drakov Corporation Tower — a monument to ambition, authority, and the man who ruled it.
Cassian sat up.
He moved with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Cold shower. Tailored black suit. Polished shoes. Every detail is deliberate.
Even alone, he commanded the space. A top-class alpha —inevitable. Like gravity.
In the kitchen, a cup of black coffee awaited, prepared automatically.
A wall screen flickered to life, showing the morning news.
"Drakov Corporation reports record-breaking growth."
"CEO Cassian Drakov maintains his position as the youngest corporate leader in the country."
He glanced at the headlines, then dismissed them. Numbers and accolades meant little. He measured his own success differently — by control, by precision, by the fact that no one could touch him.
Minutes later, the private elevator carried him down to the underground garage. A sleek black car waited. The driver bowed as Cassian entered.
The city stirred around them. Pedestrians paused when the car passed. Some recognized the insignia. Some simply felt the pull of authority, a quiet command they could not resist.
Whispers followed in his wake.
"That's him…"
"Drakov's CEO…"
"They say no one has ever seen him lose control…"
Cassian heard none of it. Or rather — he ignored it. Reputation was a tool, not a concern.
The car stopped before the Drakov Corporation Tower. Employees parted silently, heads lowered, as he strode toward the private elevator and up to the top floor.
The office awaited — steel, glass, and sky. Everything in its place. Every surface is immaculate. No distractions.
Cassian Drakov settled behind his desk. The city spread below him, a chessboard of opportunities and challenges.
The soft chime of the office line broke his morning silence.
"Sir," the familiar voice said. Calm, precise, professional.
It was Elena Voss, his secretary, personally trained by him over the past five years to anticipate every need, every nuance of his schedule.
"Elena," he acknowledged. Voice low, controlled. "Yes?"
"Today is the banquet," she said evenly. "A formal event arranged by your close friend Rick Carlen, Sir. He insists on your presence tonight."
Cassian's gaze flicked to the calendar app on the screen.
He nodded once, succinctly. "Understood."
Then returned to his documents. Business always came first. Even tonight, the banquet was secondary — though he allowed himself the barest trace of interest.
Evening came.
The banquet hall gleamed with chandeliers, polished floors, and muted gold accents. Guests in formal attire murmured in polite conversation. Usually, Cassian would navigate such events like a predator among prey — alert, precise, every sense on guard.
Tonight, however, was different.
It had been arranged by a close friend. He trusted the host. Trusted the guest list. Trusted the setting. For the first time in months, he allowed himself to relax, easing the tension in his shoulders.
It was a mistake.
Glasses clinked politely. The wine poured. Cassian, ever composed, lifted his glass and sipped. The taste was fine. Elegant. Subtle. Nothing to raise concern.
Then, moments later, he felt it.
A rush of heat, an unnatural stirring beneath the surface. His body reacted instinctively. Pheromones edging toward uncontrolled release. The world sharpened — every movement of the crowd amplified, every scent heightened.
Cassian's eyes narrowed, scanning the room.
Not weak — never weak.
Not tonight.
But even the untouchable Cassian Drakov could falter if the right circumstances found him.
Elena stayed at his side, calm, watchful. She had been trained to read him like an open book — to notice even the subtlest shifts. But the subtle poison in his glass had already begun to tip the balance.
Cassian's control was slipping.
The formal banquet, intended to be safe and elegant, had become a test of his instincts — one he hadn't anticipated.
And it was already dangerous.
The dangerous pheromones spread through the room like a wave. Guests who were weak-willed faltered first, staggering, clutching their heads, then collapsing to the polished marble floor. Others froze, their faces pale, eyes wide, unable to move as the invisible pressure of his alpha presence tightened around them. Whispers of fear and alarm turned into sharp gasps. The elegant chatter of the banquet was gone, replaced by chaos.
Rick, one of Cassian's closest friends, pushed through the stunned crowd, weaving around collapsing guests with a mixture of fear and disbelief on his face. "Cassian! What… what's happening?!" His voice rose above the commotion, tense and demanding.
Cassian stood perfectly still, though every instinct screamed at him. Heat surged in his chest, and the subtle warning in his mind confirmed it — his pheromones were unstable, spreading far beyond what he could normally control. Normally, he could suppress it. Tonight, someone had sabotaged him.
Elena, his secretary, was at his side in a heartbeat. Calm, precise, trained to anticipate him before anyone else could, she kept her voice low but urgent. "Someone rigged Master's drink," she said, scanning the hall like a hawk. "It's intentional. Be careful."
Cassian's gaze swept across the room. Some guests writhed weakly on the floor, their bodies betraying them as his pheromones assaulted their senses. Others backed away, fear clear in their stiff posture. The chandeliers above reflected their wide-eyed panic in shards of light.
Rick stepped closer, glancing nervously at the fallen. "Who… who would do this?!"
Cassian's jaw tightened. "Someone who knows how to push my limits." His voice was low, controlled, but every word carried weight. The room fell quieter at that sound, though the panic had not yet fully subsided.
He took a measured step forward, every movement commanding the space. Even under duress, he exuded authority. Slowly, the crowd began to obey — not because he said anything, but because every alpha instinct around him recognized his dominance. People steadied themselves, though some of the weaker-willed guests remained prone, shaking on the floor.
Elena was quick to move to his other side, guiding him subtly. "Master, should I clear the room?" she asked.
Cassian shook his head slightly, eyes still scanning for threats. "No. Not yet. I want to know who did this."
Rick looked at him, incredulous. "You're… you're standing there while everyone's collapsing? Cassian, this is—"
"I can control it," Cassian interrupted, his tone sharp. His pheromones were still dangerous, but he had not yet lost full command. He focused on steadying his mind, calming the heat, suppressing the instinct-driven surge as much as he could. "Everyone else is weak-willed. They'll survive. But this… this is a message."
From the other side of the hall came a sharp, deliberate clap.
Heads turned, still dazed from the lingering effects of his uncontrolled pheromones.
A boy stepped forward — blonde, with slightly long hair tied back neatly with a simple hair tie. Every movement he made was precise, calm, yet there was a natural grace about him, as if he belonged more to a painting than a crowded banquet hall. Majestic. Ethereal.
He stopped a few meters from Cassian, gaze unwavering. His expression was steady, almost challenging.
"Mister," he said, voice carrying across the hall, "your problem is not everyone's problem. There are people… like me… who are disturbed by you."
Cassian's eyes narrowed. He locked onto the boy. His aura sharpened further, instinctively alert, every muscle ready to react. Usually, his presence alone would silence anyone daring to speak in such a tone.
But the boy did not flinch. Did not shrink.
He glared back. Cassian's jaw tightened. He had never encountered someone who could meet his gaze without faltering, especially not now, in the middle of a banquet thrown into chaos by his own uncontrolled pheromones.