The chandelier above glimmered like a constellation of dying stars, its golden light spilling over silk gowns, tailored suits, and glasses of champagne that never seemed to empty. The Park family's name was carved into every conversation tonight—subtly, indirectly, but always present. Alistair Park didn't need to remind anyone of who he was. His very presence did it for him.
Ali moved through the gala with an easy, predatory grace, every inch the heir to the Park conglomerate. His tailored black suit fit him like a second skin, the deep emerald silk of his tie a quiet nod to the family crest. Eyes followed him, some filled with admiration, others with envy, but none dared step in his path. He was an Alpha, a man used to commanding the room, and tonight was no different.
At least until he walked in.
The atmosphere shifted before Ali even saw him. Conversations stuttered, glasses stilled midair, and a ripple of something heavy, electric, moved through the ballroom. Ali turned, his sharp eyes narrowing as they found the source.
Dante Moretti.
The man didn't enter so much as arrive. The crowd seemed to instinctively part, as though the sheer force of his aura bent them out of the way. Tall, broad-shouldered, and draped in an obsidian suit with a cut as sharp as a blade, Dante was a presence that couldn't be ignored. His dark hair was swept back carelessly, as though he didn't need the meticulous polish everyone else wore tonight. His eyes—icy gray, almost silver—glittered under the lights, scanning the room not with curiosity, but with ownership.
Ali had seen powerful men before. He was one of them. But this… this was different. Dante didn't exude power the way others did. He was power. He didn't follow the unspoken rules of dominance that governed their society of alphas, betas, and omegas. He bent those rules until they broke around him.
Whispers followed in his wake.
"Moretti…"
"The Enigma…"
"They say he doesn't belong to any rank—Alpha, Beta, or Omega. Something else…"
Ali's lips curved faintly at that, though his expression remained cool. Enigma Alpha. What kind of pretentious title is that?
When Dante's gaze landed on him, Ali felt the weight of it immediately. It wasn't just someone looking—it was someone measuring, someone deciding. For the briefest second, his instincts screamed at him to lower his eyes, to yield. But Alistair Park didn't bow to anyone.
Their collision came sooner than expected.
A senior executive from the Kangs, flushed with wine and greed, brought up the recent negotiations between Park Corp and a shipping conglomerate. "A pity," the man drawled, "that Moretti Enterprises seems to be outmaneuvering the Parks at every turn these days. Isn't that right, Dante?"
Ali stiffened. The comment was a clear jab, and the smug way the executive glanced at him only twisted the knife. Ali set his glass down with a quiet clink.
Dante's voice, when it came, was smooth velvet wrapped around steel. "Outmaneuvering implies there was a game. There was no game. There was only inevitability."
The crowd chuckled uneasily. Ali's jaw tightened. He turned to face Dante fully, his emerald eyes meeting silver. The silence between them was a storm, thick with defiance and curiosity.
"Strange," Ali said, his tone polite but edged, "I thought inevitability was just another word men use when they're afraid of competition."
The ripple that went through the room was palpable. Someone inhaled sharply. No one talked to Dante Moretti like that.
Dante's lips curved, slow and deliberate. Not quite a smile—more like the flash of a predator showing teeth. He stepped closer, closing the distance until Ali could smell him: a scent that was sharp, intoxicating, dangerous. Not like any Alpha he'd ever encountered. Stronger. Wilder. A scent that curled low in his stomach, stirring something he refused to name.
"You must be Alistair Park," Dante murmured, his voice low enough that only Ali could hear. "The proud heir. The golden Alpha. The boy who thinks the world will kneel because of his last name."
Ali's chest rose, his pride bristling at the condescension. "And you must be Dante Moretti. The man who mistakes fear for respect."
For a long moment, their gazes locked, unblinking. Heat coiled between them, not just anger but something sharper, heavier. The air smelled faintly of ozone, as though the bond that tied Alphas and Omegas had recognized something foreign, something forbidden.
Dante tilted his head slightly, studying Ali like a puzzle. Then he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed Ali's ear, intimate and dangerous.
"You don't know what I am," Dante whispered. "But you will."
Ali's pulse jumped—once, hard—before he shoved the sensation down. He smirked, meeting Dante's eyes without a flicker of submission. "Maybe I don't. But I know what you're not."
"And what's that?"
"Untouchable."
The words hung between them like a gauntlet thrown.
Dante chuckled softly, the sound dark and amused. "Careful, Park. You've just made yourself very interesting."
And just like that, he stepped back, leaving Ali staring after him, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with anger—or at least, not just anger.
The gala resumed its rhythm around them, but the center of gravity had shifted. The normal rules of polite society had been broken. Two forces had collided, and the world would not remain the same.
For the first time in his life, Alistair Park had met someone who did not yield, who could not be dismissed. And for the first time in years, Dante Moretti had found someone who dared to defy him.
The storm had begun.