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The glass walls of the CEO’s office reflected the city in clean, cold lines—just like Shen Wenlang liked it. Orderly. Predictable. Contained.
“Still brooding over spreadsheets,” a voice drawled from the door.
Wenlang didn’t look up. “You walked in without knocking again, Hua Yong.”
Hua Yong kicked the door shut behind him anyway, hands in his pockets as if he owned the place. “If I knocked, you’d pretend you weren’t here.”
“I wish I weren’t here,” Wenlang muttered, finally setting his pen down. “What do you want?”
Hua Yong didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he tossed a thin folder onto the desk. It slid across the polished surface and stopped right in front of Wenlang.
Wenlang’s eyes flicked down. His expression darkened instantly.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Your father sent it to me too,” Hua Yong said casually. “Thought I’d do him a favor and remind his stubborn son.”
Wenlang didn’t touch the folder. “Take it back.”
“Did you at least look at them?” Hua Yong leaned forward, smirking. “Top-tier omegas. Good families. Proper matches. The kind your company board would—”
“I said take it back.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Hua Yong’s smirk faded, but only slightly. “You’re still on this?”
Wenlang finally looked up, eyes sharp. “You know I am.”
“Yeah,” Hua Yong shrugged. “I also know it’s been ten years.”
Silence pressed in for a moment.
Wenlang leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. “And I also know I have no intention of marrying an omega just because my father decided it’s convenient.”
“Convenient?” Hua Yong let out a short laugh. “It’s not about convenience. It’s about you refusing to move on.”
“From what?” Wenlang snapped. “There’s nothing to move on from.”
Hua Yong raised a brow. “Really? That’s what we’re calling it now?”
Wenlang’s fingers curled slightly against the armrest. “Gao Tu is my secretary.”
“Mm.” Hua Yong nodded slowly. “Your secretary. The one you’ve kept by your side for years. The one you trust more than anyone. The one you—”
“Watch your words.”
“Oh, I am,” Hua Yong said lightly. “You’re the one avoiding yours.”
Wenlang exhaled sharply, looking away. “This is pointless.”
“No,” Hua Yong said, voice quieter now. “What’s pointless is you sitting here rejecting every option thrown at you while clinging to something you won’t even name.”
Wenlang’s silence said enough.
Hua Yong studied him for a moment, then sighed. “So you’re not over him.”
Wenlang’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?” Hua Yong pushed.
A beat.
Wenlang’s voice, when it came, was lower. Controlled. “He’s a beta.”
Hua Yong blinked. “…And?”
“And,” Wenlang’s gaze hardened, “he has never shown any interest in alphas. Not once. Not in ten years.”
There it was.
Not anger. Not arrogance.
Just something frustratingly close to resignation.
Hua Yong leaned back, crossing his arms. “So your grand solution is… what? Do nothing? Forever?”
“It’s called knowing your place.”
Hua Yong snorted. “Since when do you know your place?”
Wenlang shot him a look. “This isn’t a negotiation, Hua Yong.”
“No, it’s worse,” Hua Yong said. “It’s you being a coward.”
The word landed harder than expected.
Wenlang’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”
“I am being careful,” Hua Yong shot back. “Careful enough to say this to your face instead of watching you ruin your own life from the sidelines.”
Wenlang stood abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the floor. “You think I haven’t considered it?”
“Clearly not enough.”
The words echoed—
And for a split second, the present blurred.
Ten years ago........
The school corridors were louder than usual, filled with the careless energy of students who thought time was endless.
Wenlang stood at the far end of the walkway, fingers tightening around the bouquet in his hand. The flowers were slightly uneven—he’d picked them himself, after rejecting three different “more appropriate” arrangements.
Too formal. Too distant. Too unlike what he felt.
This one… was imperfect.
Like him.
“…This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, though his steps didn’t stop.
At the far end, he spotted him.
Gao Tu.
Leaning against the railing, half-turned toward someone else.
Wenlang slowed.
An unfamiliar alpha stood in front of Gao Tu—taller, confident, the type that didn’t hesitate. Wenlang’s grip on the bouquet tightened, something uneasy settling in his chest.
He should walk away.
He didn’t.
Instead, he stayed where he was—just out of sight, just close enough to hear.
“…I’ve liked you for a while now,” the alpha was saying, voice steady. “You don’t have to answer right away, but I wanted you to know—”
Wenlang’s jaw clenched.
He hadn’t expected this.
No—he had.
Gao Tu was… easy to like. Quiet, capable, the kind of person people gravitated toward without realizing it.
Still—
His gaze fixed on Gao Tu, searching.
Waiting.
Because a small, stubborn part of him believed—
Gao Tu would refuse.
Not just refuse.
But hesitate. Or soften. Or—
Show something.
For him.
Gao Tu didn’t react immediately. He looked at the alpha for a moment, expression unreadable.
Then—
“I’m sorry.”
Simple. Direct.
Wenlang exhaled quietly, something in his chest loosening—
Until Gao Tu continued.
“I’m not interested in alphas.”
The world stilled.
Wenlang’s fingers went numb around the bouquet.
“…I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring this up again,” Gao Tu added, voice polite but firm. “I don’t want any misunderstandings.”
The alpha looked stunned, clearly not expecting such a clean rejection.
“Not… into alphas?” he repeated.
Gao Tu gave a small nod. “Yes.”
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
No room left for interpretation.
Wenlang didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing.
The words echoed in his mind, over and over, each time sharper than the last.
Not interested in alphas.
Then—
What was he?
Just another assumption.
Just another mistake waiting to happen.
The bouquet slipped slightly in his grip.
For a moment—just a moment—he considered walking forward anyway.
Saying it.
Risking it.
But then Gao Tu turned slightly, and for the briefest second, Wenlang saw his expression—
Calm.
Certain.
Untouched by the confession he’d just rejected.
There was no space there for doubt.
And certainly no space for Wenlang.
The thought settled, cold and absolute.
…There’s nothing here for you.
Wenlang’s grip tightened again—but this time, not out of nerves.
Out of restraint.
Slowly, deliberately, he stepped back.
One step.
Then another.
The laughter of passing students swallowed the moment, as if it had never existed.
By the time Gao Tu glanced up again—
Wenlang was already gone.
The bouquet never made it to its destination.
Back in the present—
Wenlang’s hand curled slightly at his side, as if remembering the shape of something long discarded.
His voice, when it came, was quieter.
“…I already have my answer.”
Hua Yong frowned. “What are you talking about?”
But Wenlang didn’t elaborate.
Because as far as he knew—
He had been rejected ten years ago.
And he had never tried again.
Hua Yong frowned. “What are you talking about?”
But Wenlang didn’t elaborate.
Because as far as he knew—
He had been rejected ten years ago.
And he had never tried again.
The silence stretched for a moment before Wenlang exhaled, the tension in his shoulders settling back into something controlled, distant.
“…Enough about that,” he said, returning to his desk. “You didn’t come here just to lecture me.”
Hua Yong blinked, then scoffed lightly. “Wow. Deflecting already?”
Wenlang shot him a flat look. “Get to the point.”
A pause.
Then, slowly, Hua Yong’s expression shifted—less teasing, more deliberate.
“…You really forgot.”
Wenlang frowned slightly. “Forgot what?”
Hua Yong let out a short breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable. I spent weeks setting this up, and you—”
“Hua Yong.”
“—just erased it from your mind because you’re too busy being emotionally constipated—”
“Hua Yong.”
“—fine,” he muttered. “I’ll remind you.”
He straightened, tone sharpening just a bit.
“I’m joining your company.”
Wenlang’s brows knit together. “…You already invest in my company.”
“Not as an investor.” Hua Yong’s lips curved slightly. “As your secretary.”
That made Wenlang pause.
“…No.”
“Too late,” Hua Yong replied easily. “I’ve already arranged everything.”
Wenlang stared at him. “On whose authority?”
“Mine.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is when I own a significant portion of your company,” Hua Yong shot back, unfazed.
Wenlang clicked his tongue in irritation. “You hate paperwork.”
“I do,” Hua Yong agreed. “Which is why this isn’t about the job.”
Wenlang leaned back slowly, eyes narrowing. “…Then what is it about?”
For a brief second, Hua Yong didn’t answer.
And when he did—
The usual playfulness was gone.
“…Sheng Shaoyou.”
The name landed differently.
Wenlang’s gaze sharpened slightly. “The president of that pharmaceutical group?”
“Yes.”
“The one who’s been ignoring you for years?”
Hua Yong’s jaw tightened. “He’s not ignoring me.”
“Mm.”
“He’s just…” Hua Yong hesitated, then scoffed at himself. “Complicated.”
Wenlang gave him a look that clearly said that’s your excuse?
Hua Yong ignored it.
“I’ve tried everything,” he continued. “Approaching him directly doesn’t work. He shuts me down before I even get close.”
“So your solution is… what?” Wenlang asked dryly.
Hua Yong’s eyes flickered with something sharp.
“I change the game.”
Wenlang said nothing.
“I’ll join your company,” Hua Yong continued. “As your personal secretary. Publicly.”
Wenlang’s expression didn’t change—but his attention sharpened.
“And,” Hua Yong added, watching him carefully, “I’ll present myself as an omega.”
That got a reaction.
A slight frown. A flicker of disapproval.
“…You’re not an omega,” Wenlang said flatly.
“I know,” Hua Yong replied. “That’s the point.”
Wenlang’s voice cooled. “Explain.”
Hua Yong crossed his arms. “Sheng Shaoyou doesn’t respond to me as I am now. But if I appear in a different position—closer to you, under your protection, with a different dynamic—”
“You think he’ll react.”
“I know he will.”
Wenlang studied him for a long moment.
“…You’re planning to provoke him.”
Hua Yong smiled faintly. “Something like that.”
“And where do I fit into this?” Wenlang asked, already half-knowing the answer.
Hua Yong met his gaze directly.
“I need you to act as my love interest.”
The words hung in the air.
Wenlang didn’t react immediately.
Then—
“No.”
“Wenlang—”
“I’m not interested in playing along with your ridiculous schemes.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” Hua Yong snapped. “It’s calculated.”
“It’s unnecessary.”
“It’s the only way he’ll look at me!”
The sudden sharpness in Hua Yong’s voice cut through the room.
Silence followed.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Hua Yong exhaled, slower this time. “I’m not asking you to feel anything,” he said, quieter now. “Just act. Publicly. Long enough to get his attention.”
Wenlang’s gaze shifted slightly, thoughtful now despite himself.
“Why me?” he asked.
Hua Yong let out a humorless laugh. “Because you’re the only person he might take seriously.”
Wenlang didn’t look convinced.
“And,” Hua Yong added, more softly, “because I trust you.”
That landed differently.
Wenlang’s fingers tapped once against the desk, a small, controlled motion.
“This will create unnecessary complications,” he said.
“It already has,” Hua Yong replied. “You just haven’t agreed yet.”
Wenlang sighed faintly, closing his eyes for a brief second as if weighing something unseen.
When he opened them again—
The resistance was still there.
But not as firm.
“…This doesn’t involve Gao Tu,” he said finally.
Hua Yong hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.
“…It doesn’t have to.”
Wenlang’s gaze sharpened. “That’s not what I asked.”
A beat.
Then Hua Yong raised his hands slightly. “Fine. It doesn’t involve him.”
Another pause.
Wenlang leaned back, expression unreadable.
“…You’re asking me to pretend to be interested in someone,” he said slowly.
“Yes.”
“In front of everyone.”
“Yes.”
“For the sake of provoking a third party.”
“…When you say it like that, it sounds a little insane.”
“It is insane.”
Wenlang exhaled through his nose.
Then, after a long moment—
“…Give me time,” Wenlang said at last, voice low.
Hua Yong blinked. “Time?”
“I’ll think about it.”
There was no bite in his tone this time. No immediate dismissal.
And somehow—that was worse.
Hua Yong studied him for a moment, then let out a quiet breath, half amused, half exasperated. “You always do this.”
Wenlang didn’t look at him. “Do what?”
“Hesitate. Right when it matters.”
Wenlang’s jaw tightened slightly. “And you always assume I have the luxury not to.”
Hua Yong’s expression softened—but only just.
“…Fine,” he said. “Think about it.”
He turned toward the door, then paused, hand resting on the handle.
“But don’t take too long,” he added, voice quieter now. “You can pretend this is optional—but it isn’t.”
Wenlang frowned faintly. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Hua Yong glanced back.
For once, there was no humor in his expression.
“No,” he said. “But your life will.”
A beat.
“And trust me,” he added softly, “you’re already at the point where standing still is a decision.”
Then he left.
Silence settled over the room again.
But it wasn’t the same silence as before.
It felt… heavier.
Wenlang exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple.
“…Troublesome,” he muttered.
Yet the word lacked conviction.
Because something inside him had already begun to shift—
Something restless.
Something unsettled.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
“Enter.”
The door opened.
And just like that—
Everything familiar returned.
Gao Tu stepped in, composed as always, carrying a tray with a porcelain cup.
“Good morning, President Shen,” he said gently. “Your white tea.”
The faint curl of steam rose into the air.
Wenlang’s gaze flickered to it.
Perfect timing.
Perfect temperature.
Perfect—
Gao Tu.
“…Leave it,” Wenlang said.
Gao Tu placed the cup down with practiced precision. Not a sound out of place. Not a movement wasted.
“Today’s schedule,” Gao Tu continued, opening his tablet. “Your ten o’clock meeting with the board has been confirmed. At eleven thirty, there is a call with—”
His voice was steady.
Calm.
Exactly the same as always.
But Wenlang wasn’t listening.
Because something—
Something was wrong.
At first, it was subtle.
Almost unnoticeable.
A faint shift in the air.
Then—
He caught it.
A scent.
Soft. Understated. But unmistakable.
Wenlang’s gaze sharpened.
“…Gao Tu.”
The voice wasn’t loud.
But it stopped Gao Tu instantly.
“…Yes, President Shen?”
Slowly—
Wenlang looked up.
Not at the tablet.
Not at the schedule.
But at him.
“…What is that smell?”
For a split second—
Gao Tu’s world tilted.
His fingers tightened around the tablet, nails pressing faintly into the surface.
No.
He had taken his inhibitors.
He always did.
He needed to.
But recently—
They weren’t enough.
His body had begun to betray him in small, dangerous ways.
Fatigue that didn’t go away.
Dizziness that lingered too long.
And now—
This.
A faint trace of pheromones slipping through the cracks of his control.
Barely there.
But to someone like Wenlang—
It might as well be a confession.
Think.
“Gao Tu.”
The second call was sharper.
Demanding.
There was no avoiding it.
Gao Tu lowered his gaze, forcing his breathing to steady.
“…It’s nothing,” he said.
Wenlang’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“That’s not an answer.”
Silence pressed in.
Gao Tu could feel it—the weight of Wenlang’s attention, the quiet scrutiny, the instinctive awareness of an alpha sensing something off.
If he pressed further—
If he stepped closer—
If he realized—
Everything would end.
His job.
His stability.
His place here.
Beside him.
No.
That couldn’t happen.
Not like this.
Not after ten years.
“…I’ve been seeing someone,” Gao Tu said suddenly.
The words came out smooth.
Practiced.
A lie built in seconds—but one he would commit to fully.
Wenlang stilled.
“…Explain,” he said.
Gao Tu kept his eyes lowered.
“An omega,” he added.
The air changed.
Sharp.
Cold.
“We’ve been… living together,” Gao Tu continued, each word carefully placed, like stepping across thin ice. “Recently.”
His throat tightened slightly.
But he didn’t stop.
“We’re planning to settle down.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
Gao Tu felt it then—
Not anger.
Not immediately.
But something far worse.
Stillness.
Across from him—
Wenlang had gone completely quiet.
Too quiet.
“…I see,” Wenlang said at last.
His voice was calm.
Controlled.
And completely unreadable.
But Gao Tu had known him for ten years.
He knew—
That tone was dangerous.
“Then keep your distance,” Wenlang continued. “I don’t like omegas.”
The words landed exactly where they were meant to.
Gao Tu’s chest tightened—
Just slightly.
Just enough to hurt.
“Of course,” he replied softly.
“As my secretary,” Wenlang added, colder now, “you should be more mindful. I won’t have unnecessary distractions in my workspace.”
“…Understood.”
There was a pause.
A small one.
But in it—
Everything they didn’t say lingered.
“Anything else?” Wenlang asked.
Gao Tu shook his head. “No.”
“…Then leave.”
Gao Tu bowed his head slightly.
And turned.
Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last.
But he didn’t stop.
Didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t look back.
Because if he did—
He might not be able to leave at all.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The moment he was outside—
His composure cracked.
Not visibly.
Not enough for anyone passing by to notice.
But inside—
Everything wavered.
He pressed a hand lightly against the wall, grounding himself.
His breathing was uneven now.
Shallow.
Controlled only by force.
That was close.
Too close.
If Wenlang had stepped closer—
If the scent had been stronger—
If he had asked just one more question—
Gao Tu squeezed his eyes shut.
“…An omega,” he whispered under his breath.
The words felt bitter.
Heavy.
False.
And yet—
They were the safest truth he could offer.
Because if Wenlang believed he belonged to someone else—
Then he would never look deeper.
Never question.
Never discover what Gao Tu had spent years hiding.
“…This is better,” he murmured.
Safer.
Cleaner.
Final.
Even if it meant cutting off the one possibility he had never allowed himself to hope for.
Even if it meant—
Watching Wenlang push him away without ever knowing why it hurt so much.
Gao Tu straightened slowly.
Adjusted his expression.
And walked away.
Like nothing had happened.
Inside the office—
The silence felt suffocating.
“…Living together,” Wenlang repeated quietly.
The words didn’t sit right.
They didn’t fit.
For ten years—
Gao Tu had been constant.
Unmoving.
Untouchable.
Something Wenlang had never reached for—
But had always known was there.
And now—
Someone else had taken that place.
Without hesitation.
Without fear.
Without waiting.
Wenlang’s grip tightened suddenly.
The pen in his hand snapped with a sharp crack.
Ink spread across his fingers—but he didn’t react.
Didn’t even notice.
“…Of course,” he muttered.
Of course this would happen.
What else had he expected?
That Gao Tu would remain exactly where he left him—
Unclaimed.
Unchanged.
Waiting.
A humorless breath escaped him.
“…Ten years.”
Ten years of silence.
Ten years of restraint.
Ten years of convincing himself it didn’t matter.
And in the end—
He hadn’t even been part of the equation.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
Cold.
Final.
He had lost something—
Without ever having had it.
Wenlang leaned back slowly, staring at the ceiling for a brief moment.
“…Enough,” he said under his breath.
This—
This was exactly why he hadn’t said anything.
Why he hadn’t acted.
Because this outcome had always been inevitable.
Predictable.
Deserved.
His gaze shifted toward the door.
Empty now.
Like it had always been.
“…I was too late.”
The words were quiet.
Barely audible.
But they carried ten years’ worth of weight.
A long silence followed.
Then—
Abruptly—
Wenlang reached for his phone.
His movements were sharper now.
Decisive.
Almost reckless.
The call connected quickly.
“Hua Yong.”
“Well, this is unexpected—”
“I’ll do it.”
A pause.
“…That was fast.”
“Your plan,” Wenlang continued, voice steady again—too steady. “I’ll cooperate.”
“…You sure?” Hua Yong asked, tone shifting slightly.
Wenlang’s gaze lingered on the untouched cup of tea.
The faint warmth had already begun to fade.
“…I need something else to focus on,” he said.
Something that wasn’t—
Him.
“…Alright,” Hua Yong said after a moment. “Then don’t back out later.”
“I won’t.”
Because there was nothing left to hold onto.
The call ended.
Wenlang set the phone down slowly.
The office returned to silence once more.
But this time—
It felt empty.
Completely.
Irreversibly empty.
The next morning—
Something was different.
It started as a whisper.
Then another.
And another.
By the time Gao Tu stepped into the office, the air was already thick with curiosity barely disguised as professionalism.
“Did you hear—?”
“—President Shen actually—”
“—an omega—”
Gao Tu didn’t pause.
Didn’t react.
Didn’t even slow his steps as he walked past the clusters of employees pretending not to gossip.
But he heard enough.
More than enough.
An omega.
His grip on the folder in his hand tightened—just slightly.
So that was it.
For a moment, something in his chest sank—
But just as quickly, he forced it down.
It doesn’t matter.
It shouldn’t matter.
Wenlang had made his stance clear countless times.
Dislike.
Distance.
Disinterest.
If anything, this—
This was expected.
Logical.
Inevitable.
Gao Tu exhaled quietly and continued toward the CEO’s office.
But the moment he reached the outer secretary desk—
He stopped.
Because someone was already there.
Leaning casually against the desk, flipping through a file as if he had always belonged there.
Hua Yong.
Softer.
His usual sharp presence was carefully restrained, replaced by something lighter—subtler.
His build appeared more delicate, his posture relaxed in a way that drew attention rather than deflected it.
And the faint trace of scent in the air—
Warm.
Gentle.
Undeniably omega.
Gao Tu’s fingers tightened.
So this is him.
Perfect.
Effortless.
Unhidden.
Everything Gao Tu could never afford to be.
For a brief moment—
Something sharp flickered in his chest.
Unfamiliar.
Unwelcome.
…Jealousy.
He looked away almost immediately.
Suppressing it before it could take shape.
Before it could betray him.
“…Secretary Gao,” Hua Yong greeted lightly, as if nothing about this situation was strange.
Gao Tu inclined his head slightly. “Secretary Hua.”
Polite.
Distant.
Controlled.
Exactly as he should be.
“President Shen is waiting,” Hua Yong added, watching him just a little too closely.
“…Understood.”
Gao Tu didn’t linger.
Didn’t question.
Didn’t allow himself to.
He knocked once—then entered.
Inside—
Wenlang was already seated behind his desk.
Composed.
Unreachable.
As if nothing had changed.
But the moment Gao Tu stepped in—
His gaze lifted.
And stayed.
Just a fraction longer than necessary.
“…You called for me, President Shen?” Gao Tu asked.
“Sit,” Wenlang said.
Gao Tu obeyed.
There was a brief silence.
The kind that used to feel natural between them.
Now—
It felt… strained.
“…From today onward,” Wenlang began, voice even, “Secretary Hua will be assisting me directly.”
Gao Tu didn’t react.
At least—not outwardly.
Wenlang continued, “He’ll be taking over the management of my daily schedule and internal coordination.”
A pause.
“You will transfer all relevant details to him by the end of the day.”
“…Understood.”
The answer came immediately.
Too immediately.
Gao Tu lowered his gaze slightly, already organizing the tasks in his mind.
Efficient.
Professional.
Exactly what Wenlang expected.
And yet—
Something about it felt… off.
Wenlang’s fingers tapped once against the desk.
“…That’s all you have to say?” he asked.
Gao Tu blinked faintly, then looked up. “Is there anything else you require, President Shen?”
Formal.
Distant.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
Wenlang’s gaze sharpened.
Because now that he was looking—
Really looking—
He noticed it.
The subtle tension in Gao Tu’s shoulders.
The slight tightness in his expression.
And his eyes—
There was something there.
Something Wenlang had never seen before.
Not in ten years.
“…No,” Wenlang said slowly.
Gao Tu gave a small nod.
Then rose to his feet.
“Then I will begin the handover immediately.”
He turned—
And for a brief moment—
Their eyes met.
It was fleeting.
Barely a second.
But in that second—
Wenlang felt it.
That look.
Not anger.
Not resentment.
Something quieter.
Heavier.
…Disappointment.
The realization struck unexpectedly.
Wenlang frowned slightly.
Why is he looking at me like that?
As if—
As if Wenlang had done something wrong.
As if he had—
Betrayed him.
The thought didn’t sit right.
Didn’t make sense.
Because if anyone had changed things—
It was Gao Tu.
He’s the one who said he has someone.
He’s the one who chose—
An omega.
The word surfaced again, sharp and unwelcome.
Wenlang’s expression cooled slightly.
Then what right does he have—
But the thought didn’t finish.
Because that look—
It lingered.
Even after Gao Tu turned away.
Even after he left the room.
The door clicked shut.
And the silence returned.
Wenlang leaned back slowly, gaze fixed on the empty space in front of him.
“…Disappointed?” he muttered under his breath.
It didn’t make sense.
It shouldn’t matter.
This arrangement—
Was practical.
Necessary.
Even beneficial.
So why—
Why did it feel like something had shifted out of place?
Wenlang exhaled quietly, pressing his fingers against his temple.
You’re overthinking.
That’s all it was.
A minor adjustment.
A change in roles.
Nothing more.
And if anything—
This distance was better.
Cleaner.
Safer.
For both of them.
“…This is for the best,” he said, as if stating a fact would make it true.
Yet—
Despite that—
A faint image lingered in his mind.
Gao Tu’s eyes.
That brief, unguarded moment—
Filled with something Wenlang couldn’t quite name.
But it unsettled him.
More than it should have.
Outside—
Gao Tu didn’t stop walking until he reached the end of the corridor.
Only then did his steps slow.
Just slightly.
His hands were steady.
His breathing even.
His posture flawless.
But inside—
Something had quietly collapsed.
“…Transfer everything,” he murmured under his breath.
Of course.
That was only natural.
Hua Yong was—
Better suited.
Openly omega.
Unrestricted.
Able to stand beside Wenlang without fear.
Without lies.
Without limits.
Gao Tu lowered his gaze.
This is how it should be.
He had known this day might come.
Prepared for it.
Accepted it.
So why—
Why did it feel like something had been taken from him?
Something he had never even claimed.
His fingers tightened slightly.
“…Don’t be ridiculous,” he whispered to himself.
This was his role.
To support.
To remain in the background.
To never cross the line.
And now—
That role was simply being… reassigned.
That was all.
Nothing more.
Nothing personal.
Then why—
Why had Wenlang looked so indifferent when he said it?
Why had it felt so easy for him—
To replace him?
Gao Tu exhaled slowly.
Forcing the thought away.
Because he had no right—
No right to feel this way.
Not when he was the one who had drawn the line first.
Not when he was the one who had said—
I belong to someone else.
“…This is better,” he repeated softly.
Even if—
For the first time in ten years—
Standing outside that office door—
He felt like he no longer belonged there at all.
The call came just past noon.
“President Sheng has arrived.”
Gao Tu straightened slightly at his desk.
“Understood,” he replied. “I’ll escort him.”
His tone was as calm as ever.
Measured.
Professional.
Untouched.
At least—
That’s how it sounded.
The lobby was quieter than usual when Gao Tu arrived.
Sheng Shaoyou stood near the reception, tall and composed, his presence alone enough to draw subtle attention from those passing by.
“President Sheng,” Gao Tu greeted with a slight nod.
Sheng’s gaze swept over him briefly, sharp and assessing, before a faint smile appeared. “Secretary Gao.”
“President Shen is expecting you. This way.”
Gao Tu turned, leading him toward the private elevator.
Every step was precise.
Controlled.
Just like always.
The walk to the CEO floor was silent.
But not uncomfortable.
Sheng Shaoyou observed quietly, his eyes occasionally lingering on Gao Tu’s back, as if noting something unspoken.
“…You’ve been with him a long time,” Sheng remarked casually.
“Five years,” Gao Tu replied.
“Mm.” A pause. “That’s rare.”
Gao Tu didn’t respond.
Because there was nothing to say.
They reached the office.
The door stood closed.
Familiar.
Unchanged.
Gao Tu stepped forward, lifting his hand to knock—
Then paused for the briefest second.
A strange feeling settled in his chest.
Unexplained.
Unwelcome.
He ignored it.
Knocked.
“Enter.”
Wenlang’s voice.
Steady.
Unaware.
Gao Tu pushed the door open.
And stepped inside.
The world stopped.
Not gradually.
Not softly.
But all at once.
Because the first thing he saw—
Was Hua Yong.
Standing far too close.
Leaning into Wenlang’s space.
One hand braced lightly against the desk.
The other—resting near Wenlang’s shoulder.
Their faces—
So close—
That from where Gao Tu stood—
There was no space between them.
It wasn’t a kiss.
Not yet.
But it was—
About to be.
The kind of closeness that didn’t need confirmation.
The kind that said everything without a single word.
Gao Tu didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
His mind went blank.
His fingers tightened instinctively around the file in his hand, the edges digging into his palm—but he didn’t feel it.
Didn’t feel anything.
Except—
That sharp, hollow drop in his chest.
As if something inside him had just—
Given way.
Behind him, Sheng Shaoyou stepped in fully.
And saw it too.
“…Well,” Sheng murmured, a hint of surprise in his voice. “This is new.”
Inside—
Wenlang had not expected this.
Not now.
Not like this.
Hua Yong’s movement had been sudden.
Deliberate.
Calculated.
And before Wenlang could react—
The door had already opened.
And Gao Tu—
Had already seen.
For a split second—
Wenlang’s mind blanked.
His body stilled.
Because Gao Tu was standing there.
Looking at him.
And in his eyes—
There was something Wenlang had never seen before.
Not in ten years.
Not once.
It wasn’t anger.
It wasn’t confusion.
It was—
Something quieter.
Something that didn’t belong on Gao Tu’s face.
Something that made Wenlang’s chest tighten instinctively.
Why does he look like that—
But the moment didn’t wait.
Didn’t pause.
Didn’t give him time to process.
Because this—
This was the plan.
And it had already begun.
Hua Yong’s voice came softly, close enough that only Wenlang could hear.
“Don’t break character.”
Wenlang’s jaw tightened.
For a fraction of a second—
He considered pulling away.
Ending it.
Rejecting it.
But then—
That thought surfaced again.
Cold.
Bitter.
He has someone.
He chose that.
Something in Wenlang hardened.
If Gao Tu could move on—
Then so could he.
Or at least—
Pretend to.
Slowly—
Deliberately—
Wenlang lifted his hand.
Resting it lightly against Hua Yong’s waist.
Not pushing him away.
Not creating distance.
But closing it.
Just enough.
Just enough to make it real.
“If you’re done,” Wenlang said evenly, gaze never leaving Gao Tu, “bring our guest in properly.”
Gao Tu heard the words.
But they felt distant.
Muted.
Like they were coming from somewhere far away.
He forced himself to move.
Stepped aside.
“President Sheng,” he said, voice steady despite everything, “please.”
Sheng Shaoyou walked in, but his gaze lingered briefly on Gao Tu—curious.
Then shifted to Wenlang.
A slow, knowing smile appeared.
“I must say,” Sheng began lightly, “this is quite the change.”
His eyes flicked toward Hua Yong.
“Last I heard, you couldn’t stand omegas.”
Wenlang leaned back slightly, his hand still resting where it was.
Unmoved.
Unbothered.
“That was before,” he said.
“Before?” Sheng echoed, amused.
Wenlang’s gaze flickered—just for a second—
To Gao Tu.
Still standing there.
Still silent.
Still watching.
“It depends,” Wenlang continued calmly, “on the omega.”
The words landed cleanly.
Deliberately.
Like they were meant to be heard.
Hua Yong let out a soft laugh, playing along. “I told him the same thing.”
Wenlang didn’t deny it.
Didn’t correct it.
Instead—
He allowed it.
Even as his eyes—
Refused to leave Gao Tu.
Because he was waiting.
For something.
Anything.
A reaction.
A contradiction.
A sign that this—
Meant something.
But Gao Tu—
Gave him nothing.
Because he couldn’t.
Because if he did—
Everything he had built would fall apart.
The meeting began.
Words were exchanged.
Terms discussed.
But none of it reached Gao Tu.
Because every time he tried to focus—
That image returned.
That closeness.
That acceptance.
That quiet, undeniable shift.
So this is what he meant.
“It depends on the omega.”
Gao Tu lowered his gaze slightly.
His chest felt tight.
Heavy.
Like something was pressing down from the inside.
You knew this would happen.
He had prepared for it.
Told himself it didn’t matter.
That this—
Was inevitable.
So why—
Why did it feel like something inside him was breaking?
“…Secretary Gao?”
The voice pulled him back.
Wenlang.
Looking directly at him.
Too directly.
For a moment—
Their eyes met again.
And this time—
Wenlang saw it clearly.
That quiet fracture.
That restrained, almost invisible pain—
Hidden behind perfect composure.
And it unsettled him.
Deeply.
“…Apologies,” Gao Tu said softly, lowering his gaze. “I’m feeling unwell.”
A pause.
“I’ll excuse myself.”
He didn’t wait.
Didn’t trust himself to.
He turned—
And walked out.
Step by step.
Steady.
Controlled.
Until the door closed behind him.
Silence lingered for half a second longer than it should have.
Then—
“…You’ve changed,” Sheng Shaoyou remarked lightly.
Wenlang didn’t respond.
His gaze remained fixed on the door.
“…Or maybe,” Sheng added with a faint smirk, “you’ve finally stopped lying to yourself.”
Still—
No response.
Because Wenlang wasn’t listening.
Not really.
Because for the first time—
That look in Gao Tu’s eyes—
Didn’t feel like distance.
Didn’t feel like indifference.
It felt like something else.
Something he hadn’t expected.
Something he didn’t understand.
And something—
He couldn’t ignore anymore.
Wenlang sat behind his desk long after the meeting ended.
The room had emptied. Hua Yong had left, Sheng Shaoyou had departed, and the usual hum of office life had returned.
Yet Wenlang remained still, rigid, staring at the door through which Gao Tu had exited.
I should follow him, he thought, fists tightening on the desk. See what’s wrong… make sure he’s—
But the act. The plan. The pretense he’d promised Hua Yong…
I can’t.
He exhaled slowly, gripping the armrest.
I can’t break character now. I need to finish this play… but I need to check on him. I will. Soon.
That day passed without Wenlang meeting Gao Tu. By evening, the office was quieter, and Wenlang had noticed something—Gao Tu had not returned. No emails. No messages.
On leave? Wenlang murmured to himself, a faint furrow appearing between his brows.
I have to ask him personally…
Meanwhile, Gao Tu sat in the sterile white light of the clinic, hands clasped tightly in his lap. His body trembled slightly—not from fear, but from exhaustion.
The doctor, a discreet man who had been handling Gao Tu’s prescriptions for years, adjusted his glasses and stared at him with uncharacteristic severity.
“This is serious, Gao Tu,” he said, voice low but sharp. “Even if you maintain this dosage for one more month, your glands will fail completely. No one can save you after that.”
Gao Tu froze.
No…
His mind immediately went to his younger sister. She depended on him. He was her only family, her only blood tie, her anchor.
“I… I can’t—” Gao Tu whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “I can’t let anything happen to me. She—she relies on me.”
The doctor’s eyes softened slightly, but his tone remained firm.
“Your current problem isn’t just dosage—it’s emotions. Your pheromone leakage is not responding to inhibitors because your emotions are uncontrolled. You must regain control, Gao Tu. Stop trying to reduce usage recklessly, or you’ll risk more than your health. You’ll risk everything you’re responsible for.”
Gao Tu sank back in the chair, the weight of the words pressing down like iron. His chest felt tight.
He had always hidden his vulnerabilities—his status as an omega, his weakened body, his fragile emotions—behind that mask of professionalism and calm.
But now the mask was slipping.
The doctor’s warning echoed in his mind:
Control your emotions… or lose everything.
Gao Tu clenched his fists. His body wanted to shake, but he forced himself still.
I have to manage it. For her. For myself. For him…
Even the thought of Wenlang—the quiet, piercing alpha who had just been in the room that morning, whose gaze had landed on him for a fraction of a second too long—made his chest tighten. His inhibitors failed not because of chemicals but because of his heart.
And now, more than ever, he had no choice but to hold himself together, or risk losing the very people who depended on him.
Back in his office, Wenlang’s thoughts drifted again, sharp and insistent.
He’s on leave… something must have happened.
His fingers drummed lightly on the desk. For the first time in a long while, Wenlang realized how much he actually cared about Gao Tu’s well-being—not as a secretary, not as a subordinate, but…
As him.
And yet, the play he had promised to perform lingered like a chain around his chest.
I can’t go to him yet. But I will. Soon.
The tension was unbearable, yet both were trapped in their own silent torment: one fighting the limits of his body, the other the limits of his pretense and pride.
Two hearts breaking quietly, while the rest of the world remained oblivious.
The office was quiet, save for the soft hum of computers and the occasional clatter of keyboards in the distance. Gao Tu sat at his desk, hands folded neatly, posture flawless, yet his mind was anything but orderly.
He stared at the folder of documents in front of him, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on the doctor’s warning that had replayed in his mind like a relentless echo. Every word, every caution, had forced him to reckon with a truth he had been trying to avoid: he could no longer sustain this charade. The inhibitors, the constant suppression, the emotional strain—his body and mind were no longer in alignment.
His gaze drifted toward Wenlang’s office across the hall. He remembered yesterday, the way the alpha had snapped, stormed, and panicked—how his own fainting had triggered Wenlang’s raw, unfiltered panic. There was a sharp pang of guilt, mixed with a quiet pride: Wenlang had always cared, and even in that moment of chaos, it had shown.
But the thoughts of Hua Yong lingered, stabbing him in a way he refused to admit aloud. The omega’s lightness, the ease with which he had embedded himself into Wenlang’s life, the way Wenlang had accepted him without hesitation… it stung. Gao Tu’s chest tightened, a pang of jealousy he couldn’t deny. He had loved Wenlang silently for ten years, yet here was someone else, effortlessly breaking down walls he had spent a decade guarding.
He exhaled slowly, fingers tightening on the edge of his desk. I cannot compete with this. I cannot… belong here anymore. Not emotionally. Not physically. His mind drifted to the long nights of suppression, the constant control of his pheromones, the fear of letting anyone see his truth. The thought of staying, of continuing this life, felt heavier than leaving.
A sense of bittersweet resolution settled over him. He could no longer fight against the current of fate, nor against the realities of his own body and heart. He could admire Wenlang from afar, treasure what had been, but it was time to step back.
He straightened in his chair, hands resting neatly on the desk once more, projecting the flawless professionalism that Wenlang had always seen. Inside, however, there was a quiet ache—a surrender to the inevitability of his departure, and a sorrowful acknowledgment of a love that could never be claimed, not in this life, not in this place.
Gao Tu looked around the office one last time, memorizing the scent, the light, the precise angles of Wenlang’s cabin. This chapter ends here. I have done all I can. And with that thought, he let himself settle into the calm façade, masking the storm that raged beneath.
The soft hum of the office felt unusually loud to Wenlang as he strode into his cabin, his mind preoccupied with concern. Gao Tu had returned to work, but his presence had always been quiet, composed, and now there was something… different.
“Gao Tu,” Wenlang called, voice sharp but threaded with worry. “I heard you were back. How… how are you feeling?”
Gao Tu looked up from his desk, expression perfectly neutral, posture impeccable. He straightened slightly, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. “I am well, President Shen,” he replied, voice calm, controlled—professional as always. There was no hint of emotion, yet Wenlang felt the tautness in his shoulders, the careful precision in every movement.
Wenlang took a step closer, instincts flaring. “I wanted to check on you personally. I—” His words faltered, the concern he felt for Gao Tu threading through the alpha pride that usually demanded control.
But before Wenlang could continue, Gao Tu spoke, calm and deliberate, cutting the conversation with surgical precision. “Mr Shen.… I am submitting my resignation.”
The words struck Wenlang like a thunderclap. His eyes widened. “Resignation? Now? Why… why are you saying this?”
Gao Tu’s gaze met his briefly, steady and composed, though there was a faint shadow of sorrow he didn’t allow himself to voice. “I’ve decided that I, and my… omega, will be leaving the city. We will settle in my hometown. This decision is final.”
Wenlang’s mind stuttered. Leaving? After everything… like this? Without a word? Panic surged, sharp and unrelenting, his alpha instincts demanding action. His hands tightened on the edge of the desk. “Tu… you can’t just—this isn’t like you. Not like this. You’re not ill, you’re not… you’re not broken. Why leave?”
Gao Tu’s voice remained even, restrained, professional. “This is not about illness or weakness. I cannot continue here, not under these circumstances. My obligations, my life… require it.”
Wenlang’s chest tightened, heart hammering. He paced slightly, trying to suppress the rising tide of panic, fear, and disbelief. He’s leaving. He’s actually leaving. And I… I can’t let this happen. He searched Gao Tu’s face for any hint of hesitation, a crack in the calm exterior, anything that could give him a chance to stop it.
“Tu…” Wenlang’s voice softened, a rare vulnerability bleeding through, “you’re not thinking clearly. This… this doesn’t have to be final. We can… we can work it out. ”
Before he could finish, the cabin door slammed open. Sheng Shaoyou stormed in, a storm in human form, eyes ablaze, alpha dominance radiating like heat. “Wenlang! Where is Hua Yong? Don’t lie—I know you’ve hidden him!” His voice cracked through the office, sharp enough to make the glass partitions shiver.
Wenlang froze mid-step, shock rooting him in place. Sheng? Here? Now? The punch of adrenaline hit him just as sharply as the physical blow that followed: a fist swung with precise force, connecting with Wenlang’s jaw. Pain exploded across his face, hot and immediate, but Wenlang’s mind didn’t register it—only the chaos that had just entered his carefully controlled world.
Gao Tu’s eyes narrowed. His hands, long trained for poise and efficiency, moved instinctively, professional and measured. He stepped forward, positioning himself between the two alphas. “Stop. Both of you—enough!”
The room went still for a heartbeat—then reality hit. The combined alpha pheromones of Sheng and Wenlang crashed against him like a tidal wave. Gao Tu’s inhibitors, already stressed, faltered under the intensity. His chest tightened violently, heartbeat spiking, body trembling despite the carefully maintained composure that had defined him for years.
Wenlang, still reeling from Sheng’s attack, froze as he noticed the subtle tremor in Gao Tu’s stance, the faint sheen of strain on his perfect posture. Panic surged through him in a rush he hadn’t felt in years—raw, unfiltered, terrifying. “Tu?!” His voice broke, urgency cutting through the alpha dominance that normally cloaked him.
Gao Tu’s knees wobbled; his professional mask began to crack. “I… can’t… breathe…” he whispered, voice tight, barely audible, the words dripping with the surrender he never allowed himself to show.
Wenlang reacted instantly, heart hammering, adrenaline surging. He lunged, wrapping his arms around Gao Tu, steadying him against his chest. “No! Tu, stay with me! Don’t you dare collapse on me—Tu!”
Sheng, caught off guard by the sudden turn, froze mid-step, eyes widening as he realized the gravity of the situation. For the first time, even his alpha confidence faltered in the face of Gao Tu’s distress, amplified by the presence of another S-tier alpha.
Gao Tu’s body sagged into Wenlang’s hold, the rigid composure of years dissolving under the weight of physical and emotional stress. Even in unconsciousness, his professional exterior held—his posture, subtle and restrained, betrayed the faintest trace of trust, a silent acknowledgment that Wenlang was the only one who mattered right now.
Wenlang’s hands shook as he cradled him, forehead pressed to Gao Tu’s, inhaling the faint scent that had haunted him for a decade. His chest ached, mind spinning with fear, regret, and the sharp edge of realization: Gao Tu was leaving him. And I… I can’t let him go—not now, not ever.
He pressed closer, voice cracking. “Tu… don’t you dare leave me. Don’t you dare.” Every word was a blade of emotion, fierce, desperate, and impossibly raw. The office, Sheng’s anger, the resignation form that lay like a silent accusation—all faded. There was only Gao Tu, fragile, human, and utterly irreplaceable in Wenlang’s arms.
The silence that followed was thick, oppressive, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. Gao Tu’s chest rose and fell, shallow but steady, as Wenlang’s hands shook around him. Each faint breath was a reminder of how close he had come to losing everything he had silently loved for ten years.
For the first time, the pretense, the pride, the games—all of it shattered. There was only the raw truth: Wenlang’s desperate need to hold onto Gao Tu, and Gao Tu’s quiet surrender to a safety he had never admitted he craved.
Wenlang’s hands were still trembling as he carried Gao Tu through the hospital doors. The world outside—the chaos of the office, Sheng’s fury, the resignation—seemed to blur into insignificance. Every step he took echoed in his mind, every shallow breath from Gao Tu cutting into him like a blade.
“Stay with me, Tu,” Wenlang murmured, voice low and raw. “You’re not leaving—not today. Not like this.”
They reached the doctor’s office, and Wenlang gently laid Gao Tu on the examination table. The man had always been precise, controlled, professional… and now, in the sterile light of the hospital room, Wenlang could see just how fragile he truly was.
The doctor, a calm, methodical presence, started reviewing Gao Tu’s history aloud. “Mr. Gao Tu has been using inhibitors for over seven years. Chronic use, combined with his pheromone disorder, has severely compromised his gland function. If he continues at this rate, the damage will be irreversible within months.”
Wenlang froze. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. He had always noticed the faint, subtle smells, the occasional strain in Gao Tu’s health—but he had never imagined the full gravity.
The doctor continued, carefully, as though reading from a ledger of someone else’s life. “He is a rare case. A high-functioning omega with an unstable pheromone output. Without a stable alpha partner to balance the pheromones and regulate stress responses, his condition will deteriorate further. Emotional stability is not optional—it is a medical necessity.”
Wenlang felt as if someone had pulled the floor from under him. His mind reeled. Alpha partner… The words cut through him. Gao Tu… his perfect, professional, restrained Tu… was not only an omega, but he had been lying about his identity all this time, hiding it from Wenlang because he knew—he knew—that Wenlang hated omegas.
The weight of the realization crashed into Wenlang in waves of regret and guilt. I hated omegas… and he lied to protect himself—from me. The years of unspoken feelings, of masked affection, of pretending he didn’t care—it all rushed back, now intertwined with the terrifying thought that he might have pushed the man he loved to the brink of ruin.
Wenlang’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “He… he lied… he knew I hated omegas… and he still stayed… all these years…” His voice trembled. “I—God, I—”
The doctor glanced at him, calm but firm. “Mr. Shen, his condition is critical, but treatable—but only if he has stability. He needs a partner who can provide emotional and physiological balance. An alpha partner who is constant, protective, and supportive. Otherwise, we’re looking at permanent failure of the gland.”
Wenlang’s chest tightened painfully. Every beat of his heart screamed the truth he had buried for a decade. Gao Tu had trusted him, silently endured his alpha arrogance, and protected himself because he knew Wenlang’s aversion.
He knelt beside Gao Tu’s bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, voice low and raw. “Tu… I—I should have known. I should have seen you, not what I wanted to see… not the role I forced you into.” His hands shook as he gripped the edge of the table. “I… I can fix this. I will fix this. I—”
Gao Tu, still unconscious, remained calm in his stillness. But Wenlang could see the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the faint pulse of vulnerability beneath the perfection. For the first time, Wenlang’s pride, his aversion, his years of unspoken fear—all of it collided with one raw, undeniable truth: he couldn’t just love Gao Tu from afar anymore. He had to be the alpha Tu needed—not just for work, not just for appearances—but to save him.
And in that sterile hospital room, amid the monitors and medical charts, Wenlang made a silent vow: he would be the stability Gao Tu needed. No excuses. No hiding. No running. For the first time in ten years, Wenlang confronted not just his feelings, but the responsibility they carried.
Gao Tu’s eyes blinked open, adjusting to the harsh, sterile light of the hospital room. For a moment, he simply stared at the ceiling, the white panels a reminder of the fragility of his carefully controlled world. Every muscle in his body still ached from the collapse, yet his mind was clear, razor-sharp, as if the near-fainting had stripped away the last layers of pretense.
The first thing he noticed was Wenlang, seated rigidly beside the bed. The alpha’s posture was tense, hands clenched slightly at his sides, eyes dark with worry. For a heartbeat, Gao Tu allowed himself a fleeting thought: Even now… even after everything… he’s here.
Then reality hit. He swallowed hard, his voice low, steady—but each word carried the weight of a decade of love, restraint, and self-denial.
“Wenlang…” His tone was measured, almost professional, the edge of vulnerability carefully hidden behind its calm. “I… I need to apologize. For everything. For hiding the truth… for lying to you all these years.”
He paused, eyes drifting to the sterile ceiling as though finding courage in the blank expanse above. “I thought… if you knew I was an omega… if you saw the real me… you would hate me. And I couldn’t risk that. So I stayed. I worked. I smiled. I pretended. And I deceived you,....”
His gaze finally dropped to Wenlang. “And now… I’ve already submitted my resignation. I will leave. I can’t… I can’t ask you to see me differently, or to change anything for me. After today… you’ll never see me again.”
Wenlang’s chest tightened, a sharp, suffocating weight pressing down. His mind stumbled to catch up with the words—never see him again…? But before he could respond, his own chest constricted, and a strange, bitter panic bubbled up. He’s leaving. Tu… my Tu… he’s leaving me.
For a long moment, Wenlang didn’t speak, just watched him—the poised, professional man who had carried himself with unwavering strength for a decade—now standing, figuratively and emotionally, at the edge of departure. His mind raced, trying to find a way to stop this, but the words died in his throat.
Finally, Wenlang’s voice broke through, low, hesitant, almost desperate: “The doctor… said you need an alpha partner, Tu. Someone steady. Someone who can… stabilize your condition. I… I’ll support you. I’ll help you with your therapy. Whatever it takes.”
Gao Tu’s eyes flicked to him, and Wenlang felt the weight of that gaze like a physical blow. It was calm, unwavering, and yet unbearably sad. A quiet dignity radiated from him, as if every ounce of emotion was measured, controlled—until that one statement made it all unbearable.
“No,” Gao Tu said softly, shaking his head, the words deliberate, almost painful. “I have… some dignity left. I cannot… I cannot ask you to betray yourself. To betray… Hua Yong. Just to stabilize me, to save myself. I know very well… there is no place in your heart expect for Hua Yong… he has you. And I cannot, will not, interfere.”
The restraint in his voice was absolute, but beneath it simmered a storm of longing, sacrifice, and heartbreak that Wenlang could feel radiating in waves. Every inch of Gao Tu’s calm professionalism was now laced with the raw ache of unspoken love—a love that had waited, silently, for ten long years.
“I’ll leave,” Gao Tu continued, his voice barely above a whisper now, strained with emotion he could no longer fully contain.
Wenlang took a shaky breath, chest tight. “Do you… remember high school? That day… I had a bouquet in my hands. I was going to tell you… I was going to confess. I had rehearsed it a thousand times. But then… I saw you. Another alpha was confessing to you.”
His voice faltered, thick with emotion. “I… I thought… I thought you might like him. That maybe… maybe you’d return my feelings in some way. But I heard you tell him… you weren’t interested in alphas. That you didn’t want him. And…” He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat almost suffocating him. “…and I took it as my own rejection, even before I spoke. I walked away that day, Tu, and I never… I never had the courage to tell you how I felt after that. I thought… I thought you’d never… want me.”
Gao Tu’s breath caught. His chest ached seeing Wenlang’s torment, hearing the truth of the heartbreak Wenlang had carried silently all these years. He had never known the depth of the alpha’s pain, never realized that Wenlang had been hiding, watching, suffering, holding back, just as he had.
Wenlang’s voice broke, tears threatening to spill. “I’ve watched you all these years… I’ve watched you work, smile, protect me, and I… I hated myself for thinking I couldn’t have you. I hated myself for letting pride and fear decide for me. And now… now I see you leaving… and I—”
His words choked off, replaced by the raw sound of grief, a sound that Gao Tu had never heard from the man who always seemed untouchable, invincible, sharp-tongued. Wenlang’s hands shook as he gripped the bed’s edge, eyes glistening. “I can’t… I can’t lose you, Tu. I never stopped… I never stopped loving you. I’ve loved you every day, for ten years. And now… I’m begging you… don’t go.”
Gao Tu felt his chest tighten painfully. He had always carried his own love silently, restrained, professional, controlled—but hearing Wenlang’s confession broke through every wall he had built. Every moment of restraint, every act of propriety, every quiet observation of Wenlang’s life and moods—all of it now screamed back at him.
For the first time, Gao Tu let himself fully acknowledge the truth he had buried for years. His voice was soft, nearly trembling, almost unrecognizable to himself: “Wenlang… I… I loved you too. From the first day I realized… I realized I could feel more than just respect for you. I… I wanted you. I have wanted you for ten years. But I… I never confessed, because I thought… I knew… I knew you hated omegas. I didn’t want… I didn’t want to be despised by you. I didn’t want to risk what little place I had in your life.”
Wenlang froze, a fresh wave of pain and guilt crashing over him. The alpha’s mind reeled at the revelation—ten years of mutual, hidden love, lost to fear and misunderstanding. He could feel the weight of every year, every unspoken glance, every restrained smile, every moment they had been near each other yet separated by invisible walls.
Gao Tu’s voice broke again, quieter now, fragile: “And now… I was ready to leave. To disappear from your life, because I thought it was the only way to survive. But I… I can’t bear to see you like this. Seeing you in pain… it’s worse than leaving myself. I… I want you, Wenlang. I’ve always wanted you. But I… I cannot demand you, I cannot ask you to betray yourself. I thought… I thought it would never be possible.”
Wenlang’s knees weakened, and he sank to the side of the bed, his forehead pressing against Gao Tu’s hand as his voice became raw, almost inaudible. “Tu… I… I am so sorry. I should have seen you… I should have told you. I should have… been brave for both of us. But I… I was too afraid. And now… I can’t lose you either. Not like this. Not ever.”
Gao Tu’s composure finally cracked. A single tear escaped, rolling down his cheek, and he reached to touch Wenlang’s face, trembling with emotion. “Wenlang… I… I thought… I thought I had to protect myself. But I can’t protect myself from you anymore. I can’t protect myself from… from loving you.”
“You’re mine, Tu,” Wenlang murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper, but charged with all the intensity he had kept buried for a decade. “And I’m yours. Only yours.”
Gao Tu’s hand found Wenlang’s cheek, thumb brushing over the tension and worry that had marked his face. “Only yours,” he repeated softly, his voice steady now, carrying the weight of all the years he had kept his love restrained.
For a long moment, they simply stayed like that—foreheads touching, hands intertwined, hearts finally aligned after ten years of longing and pain. There was no need for words; the silence itself was a language they had both spent a lifetime learning.
Wenlang leaned just a fraction closer, pressing his lips gently against Gao Tu’s temple—a soft, reverent kiss that carried years of apologies, confessions, and love. Gao Tu shivered slightly, leaning into the touch, finally allowing himself to rest, to feel safe, and to be loved in return.
And for the first time in ten years, they were free—free from fear, free from misunderstanding, free to simply be with each other.
In that quiet hospital room, amidst the faint antiseptic and the steady hum of life-saving machines, Wenlang and Gao Tu held each other, letting the weight of the past dissolve into something pure: the certainty of a love finally shared.