36. Dorian
Chapter thirty-six
Dorian
The door of the Harborview closes behind Elena with a finality that seems to suck all the oxygen from our booth. For a long moment, the three of us just sit there, marooned in a sea of half-eaten appetizers and the lingering ghost of her intoxicating scent.
James drops his head into his hands with a groan that seems to emanate from the very depths of his soul. "That was a five-star disaster." His voice is muffled, thick with regret.
Cole merely stares at the spot where Elena was sitting, his expression a mixture of concern and a weariness that mirrors my own.
He picks up his beer, takes a long, slow swallow, then sets the glass down with a heavy thud.
"Pretty sure that growl wasn’t the best contribution to our crisis summit, James. "
"I know, it just… slipped out!" James lifts his head, his face mortified. "Her scent… when she got angry… it was like… mainlining pure, uncut sunshine and rage. I’ve never smelled anything so… exquisite ." He shudders. "I basically short-circuited."
I take a slow, deliberate sip of my 1952 Bowmore, the smoky peat a welcome anchor in the swirling chaos of my own senses.
"It’s not entirely your fault, James," I admit.
"Her scent was remarkably intense." Understatement of the millennium.
It took every ounce of my considerable self-control not to react similarly.
My own alpha is still pacing the confines of my mind like a caged panther.
I suspect Cole is wrestling with similar demons, judging by the white-knuckled grip he has on his beer glass.
"We all mishandled this," I continue, because blaming James alone is neither fair nor accurate.
"We pushed her. Too hard, too fast." Damn, this was a masterclass in how not to approach a potentially terrified, newly presenting omega.
"She felt cornered. Managed. And, I suspect, deeply misunderstood. "
"So, that job offer…" Cole begins, turning his perceptive gaze on me, one eyebrow slightly arched. "Was that really just about recognizing talent, Dorian? Or were you already mentally decorating a new omega den in Chicago?"
"I wasn't trying to spirit Elena away," I defend, feeling inexplicably like I've been caught doing something underhanded. "The offer was based entirely on her talent. She's exceptional. Any employer would be lucky to have her."
"Uh-huh," James smirks. "And the fact that she'd be working for you in Chicago was just a happy coincidence?"
"It's a legitimate opportunity," I insist, straightening my cuffs. "And had she accepted, of course I would have consulted both of you about arrangements."
Cole's eyes widen. "Arrangements?"
"You know..." I gesture vaguely. "Living situations. Pack dynamics."
"Wow," Cole's lips twitch with amusement. "For someone who was lecturing us about not getting ahead of ourselves, you sure had us picking out curtains already."
"I was merely being practical," I say primly, but I can feel heat creeping up my neck. "Planning for contingencies is what I do."
"And your contingency plan was... what? All of us moving in together like some kind of alpha Brady Bunch?" James is openly grinning now.
"I don't see what's so amusing about considering practical solutions," I mutter.
The server arrives with a plate of truffle arancini none of us remembers ordering. As she sets everything down, her beta scent hits a little stronger than usual; pleasant but nothing close to the layered symphony Elena’s creates.
"So how do we fix this?" James asks after she leaves. "Do we send flowers? A fruit basket?"
"I believe," I say, swirling the amber liquid in my glass, "that we do… nothing."
Both James and Cole look at me as if I’ve just suggested we all take up interpretive dance.
"Nothing?" James echoes, aghast. "But—"
"Elena made herself clear," I remind them gently. "She needs space. And frankly, so do we. Tomorrow is the final competition. We all have roles to fulfill."
"So, we just… ignore her?" Cole asks, his brow furrowed. "Pretend tonight didn't happen?"
"We respect her boundaries," I correct. "We give her the space she’s requested. And after the final tomorrow, we see what happens. But we do not expect a miracle. In the meantime, no pressure. No… interventions."
James slumps back against the booth, looking utterly defeated. "So, drinks then? To drown our sorrows and collectively mourn the very likely implosion of our nascent pack?" He looks hopefully from me to Cole.
Cole nods slowly. "One more couldn't hurt, I guess. Might help me forget the sound of my heart breaking."
I shake my head. "Thanks, but I’m good. I’ve got an early start, and I’d rather keep a clear head than go for another round." I need to think. To process. To try and disentangle the bewildering knot of instinct, emotion, and… something else… that Elena has so effortlessly tied me into.
After James and Cole depart, presumably in search of more alcohol and mutual commiseration, I remain in the quiet booth. I stare into my scotch, the aged peat and complex notes a familiar comfort in a world that suddenly feels… uncomfortably unfamiliar.
My life is a careful edifice of logic, strategy, and control.
I make decisions based on data, on projections, on calculated risk.
The Beaumont empire was built on these principles.
And yet… this. Elena. With who I have a visceral connection that bypasses strategy and makes a mockery of control.
Is it just biology, the primal pull of a scent match? Or is it… something more?
I think back to that moment when I almost told her I might be falling in love with her… My God . Where did that come from?
As I finish my scotch and rise from the table, I find myself mentally reviewing my schedule for the coming week with a sigh. Board meetings in Paris. A new acquisition in Singapore. The Chicago boutique planning that had initially been my excuse for accepting this judging position.
My real life, waiting for me to return to it.
This small-town interlude, this whatever-it-was with Elena and these two unlikely companions… it was an anomaly. A pleasant deviation in an otherwise orderly existence.
By this time tomorrow, the competition will be over.
A winner crowned. And I'll literally be thousands of feet above it all, returning to my boardrooms, balance sheets and the endless dance of corporate power.
A world where relationships are strategic, beneficial alignments rather than messy emotional entanglements.
It's probably for the best. Business is what I'm good at. What I control. What makes sense.
Even if, for a brief moment, I'd started to believe that something else might matter more.