118 — Ivan POV
I look at the wedding catalogues spread across the couch like they personally offended me.
I don't know.
Do I want something lowkey? Candlelight and a few close friends? Or do I want to rent a palace and arrive on a white horse, draped in diamonds?
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
Ugh. I give up.
I stretch and toss the glossy book onto the floor, where it flutters shut like it's relieved.
Maybe I should go to Zander's office. Ask him.
Not that it'll help. Knowing him, he'll just say something frustratingly sweet like, "Anything you want."
It's romantic. And annoying.
I call for Maksim.
We're halfway across the city when a sleek black car swerves in front of us and blocks our lane. Maksim curses under his breath and brings us to a halt. He gets out, exchanging a few words with a man in black—tense ones, from the look on Maksim's face.
When he finally returns, he looks vaguely constipated.
"Someone wants to meet you," he says stiffly.
I raise an eyebrow. "It's not Dorian, is it?"
"No," Maksim mutters. "I've been ordered not to let him even breathe the same air as you."
"Then who?"
He exhales, clearly not thrilled. "They say it's Mr. Vale's… fiancée."
I blink. "Well, that's odd. I was under the impression I'm Mr. Vale's fiancée."
"I didn't say it made sense."
I shrug. I was bored anyway. "Fine. Let's see what they want."
*
The coffee shop is too polished for this kind of encounter—glass counters, gentle jazz, and the kind of ambiance that whispers money. She sits across from me, poised and pretty, dressed in beige cashmere with pearls at her neck. Her makeup is subtle but calculated. She doesn't fidget. She moves like she was bred to be graceful.
I sip my tea.
She stares.
"Are we just going to sit here and blink at each other like owls?" I ask, already bored.
She tenses, then smooths her posture.
"You must know why I'm here," she says evenly.
"I might have the faintest inkling," I reply, playing dumb.
She exhales. "I'll get to the point."
Please do.
"I want you to speak some sense into Zander."
"Sense?" I lean back. "What sort of sense?"
"About this… charade. This idea of marrying you."
I blink slowly. "Oh, that? We're not playing pretend. We're going to get married."
She stiffens. "Don't be absurd. Do you have any idea what kind of family the Vales are? You think this is some fairytale? They are legacy. Tradition. Wealth. The heir cannot possibly bring home—" she cuts herself off and says the next words like she's biting glass, "—an omega. A maleomega. As a daughter-in-law."
Wow she says omega like it's a slur.
"Ah," I nod. "You mean we're still pretending it's 1820. Got it."
"I'm being serious."
"So am I."
"If you care about him—" she starts.
"Of course I care about him. I'm in love with him."
Her lips purse. "Then surely, you want what's best for him."
"I am what's best for him," I say, smiling just a little.
Her expression twists. "You won't even consider stepping aside? Not even for his career? His future?"
"No," I say. "I'm not going to convince him to break up with me for his own good. That's idiotic."
She adjusts her gloves with controlled irritation. "You're not leaving him. Fine. But let's not pretend this is forever. Men in his position always have… lovers. You can surely remain as his—"
"Mistress?"
She flinches. "Paramour."
"That's the same thing." She literally just used another word for mistress.
"Well, I don't care what you call yourself," she says coldly.
I lean forward slightly, resting my arms on the table. "Miss…?"
"Brown."
"Miss Brown." I smile sweetly. "Zander is my fiancé. We're going to get married. You can cry about it, drink about it, or write poetry about it. But you can't change it."
Her lips press into a thin line.
"And if you or any of the Vales try to interfere," I continue, "I guarantee it won't end the way you think. If you think Zander is crazy for wanting to marry an omega, male omega, try hurting me. Just once. See what kind of crazy he becomes."
There's a flicker of something—nervousness, maybe—in her eyes.
"Clearly," she says, rising from her seat, "you're impossible to talk to."
I shrug. "You'll live."
She leaves, heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.
I sip my tea again, and hum. Not as dramatic as I hoped. Was hoping for some pouring drinks, screaming, hair pulling... Oh well.