Chapter Text
Canada was greeted by a piercing, biting wind, but in the Edwards ancestral mansion, the weather always remained an ordinary backdrop behind bulletproof glass. This house had never been a place one wanted to return to-rather, a marble cage where generations of the dynasty honed their callousness. The Edwards family had long been known as nothing less than shadow kings. Their business empire stretched from the skyscrapers of Toronto to the financial quarters of Seoul, and their influence in political and social circles left their competitors no chance.
The eldest son of the house, Martin Edwards, was the living embodiment of the concept of a "golden" alpha. Tall, with sharp cheekbones, a piercing gaze of brown eyes, and the manners of a born predator that made any interlocutor feel like a worthless piece of trash. He grew up in an atmosphere of absolute impunity, where other people's pain and broken lives were merely a side effect of family greatness. If anyone crossed his path, Martin destroyed them without a shadow of doubt‐coldly, calculatedly, and ruthlessly, grinding their reputation and business to dust.
His life consisted of closed parties where the air melted from the scent of expensive alcohol and excited pheromones, and an endless parade of faces in his bed. He changed omegas like gloves; each of them hung on his every word, knowing his fierce and merciless temper, and dreamed of lasting longer than a single night. Martin considered them nothing more than expensive toys: flawless, obedient, and, most importantly, temporary. Should any of them show even a drop of extra willpower or try to assert their rights, Martin would kick them out without a single cent, reveling in their tears and despair. What would happen to them after dawn never bothered him. The emptiness behind the bedroom curtains did not concern him.
Midnight had long since claimed its rights when his low-slung sports car flew into the estate grounds with a screech of tires. The powerful engine fell silent, but adrenaline was still churning in his veins, demanding continuation.
He had driven this road hundreds of times. Every detail of the nighttime landscape seemed familiar and predictable, soothing after a long day filled with fake smiles from business partners and suffocating negotiations.
Martin anticipated how he would now take his office, pour a glass of twenty-year-old whiskey, turn on jazz, and abstract himself from the whole world for at least a couple of hours. He had no idea that this evening would be the last island of his familiar, unburdened freedom.
Scarcely had Martin crossed the threshold of the massive oak doors, throwing his keys and leather gloves onto the marble console, when a heavy silhouette emerged in the dimness of the spacious hall.
His father was waiting for him. The head of the family sat in a deep armchair by the dead fireplace, even though the house had central heating. This gesture was demonstrative -a silent reminder of who was the master here, even in the middle of the night. The heavy air of the hall seemed to thicken from his presence alone.
"Martin, sit down. We need to talk" sounded not like a request, but like a verdict. The father's tone brooked no objection.
Martin froze halfway to the stairs, feeling a stupid, burning irritation rise inside him instantly. He hadn't been a boy for many years, but the moment his father spoke in this mentor's tone, stubbornness awoke in him. The elder Edwards didn't even turn his head as his son approached. The man slowly set aside a porcelain cup of cold tea on the low table, raised a heavy, age-faded gaze, and uttered:
"You're getting married."
The words fell into the silence of the hall like leaden drops. Martin froze, digesting what he had heard, and the corners of his mouth twitched in an incredulous, almost mocking smirk. He thought he had misheard. Getting married? Him? A man for whom the very word "family ties" sounded like a curse.
"Sorry, what?" Martin sneered, leaning against the back of the neighboring armchair and looking down at his father from above. A dangerous spark of cruelty flashed in his brown eyes.
"I think the engine in my car was too loud. Say that again."
His father didn't even flinch. His face remained an impenetrable mask of a man accustomed to settling the fates of entire continents with chess moves.
"You heard me perfectly" the head of the family continued coldly and evenly, without raising his voice.
"You are getting married. And it's not up for discussion. We need to strengthen our positions in South Korea, and for this, a secret agreement has been concluded between our house and the South Korean Kim family. Your husband will be the youngest son of this dynasty."
The silence that hung in the hall after these words became ringing. The massive grandfather clock in the corner ticked off the seconds with a heavy, measured beat. Martin blinked, as if trying to chase away a bad dream, and exhaled noisily, feeling fury boil under his skin, burning away the remnants of feigned calm.
"Have you lost your mind? I'm not going to ruin my life for the sake of your contracts" Martin squeezed out every word, sharply lifting his chin. A dangerous, threatening alpha metal broke through in his voice, characteristic of someone used to destroying any opponents.
"This is not a subject for discussion" the father interrupted with an iron, blood-chilling voice that left not a single chance for objection.
"The deal of the century has already been signed at the highest level. This is a contract marriage for exactly three years. What you do after that doesn't concern me"
The father paused, blasting his son with a heavy stream of pressure, and continued to hammer out conditions that would make any normal person's hair stand on end:
"The conditions are simple: you live under the same roof, periodically appear in public, attend official events, and no loud scandals in the press. You can fuck your whores every day if you want, but make sure reporters don't find out about it. My assistant has already sent you his dossier by email and left a copy on the desk in the office. Read everything carefully by morning"
Martin clenched his hands so hard that his knuckles turned white and his nails painfully dug into his palms, leaving red crescents. Everything inside was churning with fury.
Marriage. Of convenience. With an omega from the Kim clan.
Three years like an isolated cage for a tiger accustomed to tearing prey to pieces rather than sitting on a leash of someone else's conditions. His head couldn't comprehend how a man who had always valued independence and freedom of choice could so simply dispose of his life for the sake of another line in the corporation's annual report.
"You have no right to decide for me" Martin hissed, taking a predatory step forward and dangerously looming over his father's armchair, but at the end he broke into a dull hoarse whisper, encountering for the first time an irresistible wall of paternal will that could not be broken by money or threats.
His father merely lazily raised a grey eyebrow - a gesture Martin hated most in the world. That's how one looks at a guilty puppy, knowing in advance that it will tuck its tail.
"Your toys can wait" the old man heavily rose from the armchair, leaning on a massive cane with a silver pommel. His joints cricked quietly in the silence.
"But the reputation of the Edwards house and our partnership with Kim cannot. Read the dossier. In the morning, you will personally meet your husband at the airport. I advise you to behave decently, otherwise I will freeze all your accounts. And believe me, these are not empty threats."
Without waiting for a reply, the father turned around and slowly but surely headed down the long corridor toward his quarters, leaving Martin alone in the hollow, oppressive darkness of the hall.
Martin flew up the stairs, skipping two steps at a time, pushed open the door to his study, and slammed it shut with such force that a fine tremor ran along the walls and the heavy velvet curtains swayed. The air in the room felt stuffy and hot. He rushed around the study like a cornered beast, sweeping stacks of papers and report folders off the desk and flinging them into the corner with frantic force. Expensive gold pens scattered across the parquet with a ringing ricochet. Only a thick kraft envelope remained lying on the table.
His fingers trembled unpleasantly from accumulated fury, his breathing went awry, turning into heavy, ragged gasps. He ripped open the paper with such force that he tore the edge of the envelope and pulled out a glossy photograph.
Eyes the color of deep dark amber looked at him from the card-surprisingly soft, calm, and astonishingly clear. A face that truly was angelic: delicate, refined features, a soft line of lips, and an elusive, almost fragile tenderness in the entire appearance, as if this omega was woven from light, morning fog, and silence.
Kim Juhoon. Twenty-three years old.
The younger son of the Korean business empire, carrying a huge burden of responsibility on his shoulders, yet looking madly fragile for this cruel world. Juhoon's gaze did not hurl lightning bolts, did not challenge, and did not try to seem strong. It reflected only quiet, humble submission to his fate and a hidden, bright sadness that made everything inside Martin tighten into a tight knot.
Martin noisily drew in air through his nose, feeling contradictory, burning emotions overwhelm him, and heavily sank into the leather armchair, pressing his back into the upholstery. He read greedily into every detail of the dossier, running his eyes over the dry lines. Brilliant education in closed European boarding schools, a passion for classical art, complete avoidance of noisy social events, a quiet life in the shadow of older brothers. No icy armor. Only pure, unprotected vulnerability.
"He's too soft for this shit," flashed through Martin's head, and at that moment a dark, destructive wave boiled in his veins.
Martin was used to breaking those who tried to fight him, those who bared their teeth and pushed forward. But how do you destroy someone who doesn't even try to resist, who looks at you with such defenseless, quiet submission? This thought was driving him crazy. The darkest, possessive instinct of a predator awoke in him. If this omega thinks he can sit it out in his gentle world, hiding behind contract conditions and an angelic appearance, he is deeply mistaken. Martin will show him the underside of this marriage. He will trample this quiet naivety in the very first weeks, make these amber eyes tremble with fear and tears, turning his carefree existence into a real nightmare. Since fate tied him to this porcelain boy, he would smash him to smithereens.
Martin roughly leaned back into the armchair, studying every feature of this face on the card down to the smallest detail. His slender fingers gripped the gloss tighter. The graceful line of the neck in the photograph beckoned and irritated at the same time-it would be so easy to squeeze it in a burst of sudden fury to see if red marks would remain on the white skin.
He abruptly threw the photograph back onto the table, rose from the armchair, and walked over to the panoramic window. The night outside the glass seemed impenetrably black. Tomorrow morning would come. Tomorrow, in that very airport where airplanes buzz and crowds of people hustle, he would see him alive for the first time. A cruel game without rules would begin, where the stakes were immeasurably higher than any of his fleeting night pleasures.
But this night, steeped in the scent of expensive tobacco, anger, and blood humming in his veins, still belonged to him.