Chapter 4
506words
Those words haunted me for days. Morris kept his distance at work—all business, all CEO. But something had shifted between us.
I caught him watching me in meetings. He'd look away immediately, jaw tight, knuckles white around his pen. The air crackled whenever we were in the same room.
"You're playing a dangerous game," my colleague warned over lunch. "Nobody gets close to Lawson."
"I'm not trying to get close," I lied. "Just doing my job."
"Right." he snorted. "That's why he keeps staring at you like you're either dinner or dessert."
I nearly choked on my sandwich.
A week after our confrontation, an email arrived: *My office. 8 PM. After everyone leaves.*
I spent the rest of the day distracted, wondering if I was about to be fired or... something else entirely.
The office was eerily quiet at night. Morris's door was closed, but light spilled from underneath. I knocked.
"Come in."
He stood by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. No suit jacket, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. My mouth went dry.
"You wanted to see me?"
"I've been thinking about our conversation," he said without turning. "About what I am."
"And?"
"And I haven't spoken about it with anyone in fifteen years." He finally faced me. "It's... difficult."
I leaned against his desk. "I'm a good listener."
"You're a liability," he countered, but there was no heat in it. "Yet here we are."
"Here we are," I echoed. "So talk."
He poured two glasses of whiskey, handed me one. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. Start with why an Omega is pretending to be an Alpha."
His expression darkened. "I'm not pretending. I'm surviving."
For the next hour, Morris Lawson told me his story. Born into an old werewolf family with traditional values. Omegas were protected, cherished—and controlled. When he presented as an Omega at sixteen, his father's disappointment was crushing.
"He'd been grooming me to take over the company," Morris said, staring into his glass. "Suddenly, I was... unsuitable."
"Because you're an Omega?"
"In our world, Omegas don't lead. They support. They nurture." His voice turned bitter. "They submit."
"So you decided not to."
A humorless smile. "I started suppressants at seventeen. Built a persona. Worked twice as hard as any Alpha. And here I am."
"Hiding who you are."
His eyes flashed. "Surviving."
I moved closer. "And that episode in your office? The one I witnessed?"
He looked away. "The suppressants are failing. My body's built up resistance."
"So what happens now?"
"I find stronger medication. I adapt. I survive."
"Or," I said carefully, "you stop fighting what you are."
His laugh was sharp. "You have no idea what you're suggesting."
"Then educate me."
Our eyes locked, and for a moment, I glimpsed the struggle within him—the need for control warring with something deeper, more primal.
"This conversation is over," he said finally. "Go home, Noah."
But as I reached the door, he added, "Same time tomorrow."
It wasn't a question.
