The next morning, the sky over Long Island was a bleak, heavy gray.
Alston drove his beat-up sedan through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Hayden family estate. The tires crunched over the pristine white gravel driveway.
His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles ached. On the passenger seat rested a crumpled copy of the divorce agreement.
He was done. The revelation of Emelia's pregnancy had severed the last pathetic thread of loyalty he held for his marriage.
A stiff, silent butler escorted Alston to the glass-enclosed sunroom at the back of the mansion.
Genevieve Hayden, Braydon's mother, stood among the blooming white rose bushes. She wore a flawless Chanel suit and held a pair of silver pruning shears.
She didn't turn around when Alston entered.
"You have a lot of nerve showing up here unannounced on a Tuesday, Alston," Genevieve said coldly. Snip. A perfect white rose fell to the floor.
Alston took a deep breath. He walked over to the wrought-iron patio table and placed the crumpled divorce papers on the glass surface.
"I want a divorce," Alston said. His voice shook slightly, but he forced himself to stand tall.
Genevieve finally stopped pruning. She turned slowly, her eyes scanning the papers on the table. She didn't look angry. She looked profoundly bored.
She set the shears down and picked up a porcelain teacup.
"Are you stupid, or just having a temper tantrum?" Genevieve asked, taking a sip of her tea. "Did you forget who is keeping your family's pathetic little manufacturing company afloat?"
Alston dug his thumbnails into his fingers. "Braydon got his mistress pregnant. That violates the morality clause in the Omega Protection Act. I have the right to leave."
Genevieve laughed. It was a sharp, cruel sound.
"The Omega Protection Act is for people who can afford lawyers, Alston," she sneered. "Alphas have mistresses. It is a biological reality. Your job was to give me a grandson with a 96% genetic match. You failed."
She walked up to Alston. She reached out and patted his cheek. The physical contact was demeaning, like she was petting a disobedient dog.
"If you file those papers," Genevieve whispered, her eyes turning hard, "I will pull the credit lines on your father's factories tomorrow morning. Your family will be on the street by Friday."
Alston felt the blood drain from his face. The air in the sunroom suddenly felt too thin to breathe.
"You can't do that," Alston choked out.
"I can do whatever I want," Genevieve replied smoothly. "In fact, you are going to call a press conference this Friday. You are going to stand next to Braydon, smile for the cameras, and deny these ridiculous rumors about a mistress."
She picked up the divorce papers and tore them in half, dropping the pieces onto the floor.
"Go home, Alston. And learn your place."
Alston stumbled backward. The sheer, crushing weight of the capitalistic violence pressing down on him made his chest cave in. He was trapped. There was no legal way out.
He turned and ran out of the sunroom, gasping for air.
At that exact moment, in the Marks Tech boardroom in Manhattan.
Easton sat at the head of the table. Braydon stood at the projector, confidently presenting the final numbers for the European merger.
Braydon was smiling. He looked incredibly satisfied with himself, riding the high of whatever he had done the night before.
As Braydon paced near the head of the table, Easton inhaled.
The scent hit him.
It wasn't chamomile. It was the sickening, artificial stench of rose perfume, layered heavily over Braydon's natural Alpha scent.
Braydon had gone straight from his mistress's bed to the office.
A wave of pure, violent nausea rolled through Easton's stomach. The absolute disrespect. The sheer audacity of this pathetic Alpha, parading around covered in another Omega's scent while Alston was suffering.
Easton's vision tinted red.
He picked up the heavy metal laser pointer resting on the table.
He gripped it in both hands. His Enigma strength flared.
Snap.
The thick metal cylinder broke cleanly in two. A jagged edge of the broken metal sliced deep into the pad of Easton's thumb.
The loud crack echoed like a gunshot.
Braydon stopped mid-sentence. The entire room of executives froze in terror.
Easton didn't flinch. He didn't look at his bleeding thumb. He slowly raised his eyes and locked them onto Braydon.
"Your projections are garbage," Easton said. His voice was a deadly, quiet whisper that made the hair on the back of Braydon's neck stand up.
"Sir?" Braydon stammered, his confident smile vanishing. "The data is solid. We ran the models-"
"The models are flawed because you are incompetent," Easton interrupted, his voice rising in volume, laced with a crushing Enigma pressure. "You missed a five percent variance in the offshore accounts. You are careless. You are sloppy. And you are a liability to my company."
Braydon's face turned beet red. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but the sheer weight of Easton's aura forced him to look down at the floor.
Easton pulled a wet wipe from the dispenser on the table and slowly wiped the blood from his thumb.
"Redo the entire portfolio," Easton ordered coldly. "And get out of my sight."
Braydon swallowed hard, gathered his files with shaking hands, and practically ran out of the room.
Easton tossed the bloody wipe into the trash.
He pulled out his phone beneath the table and typed a heavily encrypted message to his private legal team.
Get me a detailed, unredacted report of all business dealings and financial leverage between the Hayden family trust and the Lindsey manufacturing factories. I want every single document on my desk immediately.
