Chapter 26
Sébastien
T he elevator hums softly beneath my feet as it climbs toward the hundredth floor. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the scent of polished steel and faint lavender cleaner fade into the background.
I should be thinking about the lab. About the samples Veronica mentioned last week, the schedule I need to finalize, or the team I’m supposed to meet this morning. But my thoughts keep drifting backward toward flushed skin and tangled sheets. Toward her.
Rowan.
Even now, her scent lingers in my memory. Honeysuckle, peaches, and that rich note of nutmeg when she’s anxious or overwhelmed. I’ve created entire profiles based on less. But nothing I’ve ever bottled compares to her. She’s not just my scent match. She’s mine. And yet... she doesn’t know. Not fully.
And there’s more. There are them . The Alphas. Massimo. Cole. Laurent. Even Xavier, brooding and resistant. The push and pull of those bonds still hum under my skin, and I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours trying to make sense of all of it without falling completely apart. Rowan’s Heat was only a spike, but we all know that was just the beginning.
The elevator chimes, and I open my eyes as the doors slide open. The air up here is different. It’s cooler, sharper, laced with layers of luxury and efficiency. The hundredth floor belongs to the creatives. This is where art happens. The inspiration. The magic. And I’m part of it now.
I step into the glass-walled corridor and take in the space. Frosted doors marked with gold lettering line the walls: Photography, Design, Textiles, and finally Fragrance Studio . My domain. The moment I step through the double doors, I exhale. This... this is home.
The Fragrance Studio is stunning. Elegant. Purposeful. A seamless blend of old-world craftsmanship and cutting-edge innovation. Soft, natural light filters through skylights overhead, casting a warm glow over sleek glass counters and polished oak shelving. The walls are lined with hundreds of crystal bottles, each carefully labeled with handwritten calligraphy, everything from bergamot and cedarwood to more obscure elements like saffron blossom, pink pepper, and suede accord. One long wall is covered in a scent library, floor to ceiling, cataloged by note type and potency.
A brushed brass chandelier hangs over the central workspace an enormous table carved from reclaimed wood, worn smooth by use and years. It’s scattered with notebooks, scent strips, and glass tools. Everything is perfectly organized yet brimming with creativity.
Several people are already here, heads turning the moment I enter. A tall, willowy woman with deep brown skin and dark, coiled hair tucked into a silk scarf steps forward. Her eyes are intelligent and assessing, but her smile is warm.
“You must be Monsieur Chevalier,” she says, extending a hand. “I’m Dr. Nia Caldwell, your senior compound chemist. I’ve been keeping the team steady until your arrival.”
Her grip is confident. Her tone, clipped and British. Definitely the one who runs this lab when no one’s watching.
“Please, call me Sébastien.” I return the handshake with a small bow of my head. “And thank you, for everything.”
To her left stands a younger man with dyed silver hair and a studded earring, wearing a cropped blazer and flared pants like he stepped out of a Paris fashion week show.
“Dev Shah,” he says with a wink. “I blend, I balance, I translate your wild genius into something marketable.”
“And dramatic,” Nia adds dryly.
Dev grins, unbothered.
“Behind me,” Nia continues, “is Elsie, formulator, mother of three, and the only one who can find anything in this place.”
A curvy woman in her forty’s waves from behind a set of drying scent strips, her glasses perched halfway down her nose. “Coffee’s fresh,” she calls.
“And last but not least,” Nia says, gesturing toward a quiet presence near the window, “that’s Mateo. Our technical perfumer. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s the best nose in the building.”
Mateo glances over and gives me a respectful nod. I exhale again, this time with something close to peace. These aren’t just colleagues, they’re professionals. And they’re mine , now. My team.
“I’m looking forward to creating something extraordinary with all of you,” I say simply.
Nia nods. “Let’s get you settled, then. We’ve got a lot to catch up on. and a schedule that just got very full.”
I close the door to my new office, the gentle click muffled by the thick carpeting underfoot. The space is modest but elegant. warm wood, soft lighting, floor-to-ceiling shelves already stocked with ingredient references, aged formula books, and rare extracts housed in temperature-controlled cases. A wide drafting table sits beneath a large window overlooking the city.
I take a breath. Then another. And finally, let myself feel everything I’ve been holding at bay since Rowan opened her eyes and whispered yes .
Her scent lingers in my memory like sunlight clinging to skin honeysuckle and peaches, the soft kiss of nutmeg. Sweetness and spice. Familiar. Fated. She’s not just mine. She’s theirs , too. Cole. Laurent. Massimo. And Xavier should he ever get his head out of his ass.
Alphas, all of them. Powerful. Different in every way, but united in one instinctive truth. We’re a match. All of us. One impossibly tangled web of chemistry, fate, and timing. I should be overwhelmed. Maybe I am. But beneath the awe and uncertainty... is relief.
I’ve spent a lifetime cultivating precision. Control. Masks. And yet when I’m near them—near her —there’s a kind of surrender that doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like coming home. Massimo, with his quiet intensity and eyes that see more than they admit. Laurent, wild and warm and so much deeper than he pretends. Cole, steady as stone and always watching, calculating. Protective.