Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Charles Leclerc truly, truly laid eyes on his newest housekeeper — really looked at him, not just in passing glances or through the detached approval of a well-checked resume — it was through the blurred prism of a half-empty crystal tumbler and the slow, honey-thick glow of firelight licking up the dark corners of his living room. His body was loose with the familiar warmth of his favorite whiskey, his mind swimming somewhere between sharp awareness and the heavy haze that only deep stress and good alcohol could conjure. News of Ferrari’s latest breakthrough had started to seep out through the cracks like blood from a wound, spilling into rival organizations and making its way into the wrong mouths. It was only a matter of time — of course it was — before the inevitable rumors and desperate actions followed: spies slipping between his men like shadows, warehouses ransacked, old alliances tested and strained.

He knew better than to panic — the formula was safe, tucked away inside a vault of trust that only a handful of his most loyal could access — but still, the endless gnawing pressure clawed at him, whispering that even if the secret itself was safe, his empire’s walls were never entirely bulletproof.

And so, a night to himself, a good drink, and the comforting crackle of the fireplace at his side, was not just permitted — it was necessary . A rare indulgence in a world where letting your guard down often came at the sharp edge of a knife.

It was during this rare pocket of solitude that his gaze, idly sweeping over the polished expanse of his too-large house, landed — and lingered — on him .

The new housekeeper.

Max.

Charles had, admittedly, left the hiring process to his assistant, overwhelmed by the logistics of maintaining an estate this sprawling while balancing the demands of an empire constantly under siege. A new cleaner, a private chef, two gardeners — all thoroughly vetted, all seemingly clean. Seemingly being the operative word.

He had learned, quickly, that appearances were worth less than ash in his line of work.

The first gardener — Lando, if memory served — had cracked like cheap porcelain under the pressure of discovery, his betrayal evident in the tiny listening devices he had so clumsily installed behind potted plants and in light fixtures. The message Ferrari sent back to McLaren, once they were done with their little spy, was brutal and unambiguous: stop snooping.

The cleaner after that had fared little better, a would-be mole dispatched by Mercedes, trembling and begging when Charles confronted him with the evidence. Charles had been in a generous mood then — the latest round of clinical trials for the drug had come back promising — so he'd let him live. Barely.

He hadn't bothered to replace the gardener. There was no need, one would suffice. But the housekeeper — that was a role he couldn’t simply leave empty.

And so Max had arrived.

And now — now, through the golden haze of his drink, Charles wondered if maybe, just maybe, they had finally gotten it right.

Maybe it was the alcohol blurring the edges of his usually razor-sharp instincts, or maybe it was the quiet euphoria of another successful step forward, but when Charles looked at Max — saw him bent slightly over the kitchen counter, showing off his assets and methodically wiping down the marble with smooth, efficient motions — he could swear the man glowed .

There had been nothing suspicious in Max’s file. If anything, he had seemed too perfect: fluent in English, Dutch, and passable French, thanks to his tangled Belgian-Dutch heritage — but crucially, not Italian, meaning he wouldn’t pick up on sensitive conversations passed in hushed tones. An ex-karter, oddly enough, meaning casual conversation would come naturally between them. A beta, too, which was ideal — no suffocating alpha scent to invade his home, no unpredictable heats to manage like with an omega.

Perfect.

And yet… Charles found himself wishing — traitorously, hungrily — that Max wasn’t a beta at all.

That he was something softer, something more claimable .

Max, as if sensing Charles’s gaze, looked up and caught him staring. A soft, bashful smile curved his lips, and for a moment — a split, electrifying second — Charles could have sworn he saw the faintest flush bloom high on his cheeks.

Maybe, Charles thought, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, maybe I’ve found the perfect test subject for our little miracle.

He would be patient. He had waited this long, after all. He could afford to wait a little longer.

He would get to know his Max a little better first.

When Christian Horner had first summoned Max into his office, laying out the contours of the mission with sharp-edged words and grim expectations, Max hadn't known quite how to feel. Excited, maybe. Apprehensive. Caged, definitely.

His task was simple in theory: infiltrate Charles Leclerc’s household, gain his trust, and uncover the secret Ferrari was so desperate to protect before they could unleash it on the market.

Easy.

Or it should have been.

Except Red Bull’s preliminary intelligence was troubling — two operatives already dispatched and returned barely clinging to life, brutalized for their failures. Another two, from rival gangs, who had already managed to worm their way into Charles’s home were met with the same fate.

Max wasn’t like them, though. He was better. Smarter. Patient enough to play the long game, weaving himself into the very fabric of Charles’s life until the man would never think to suspect him. He would become indispensable , invisible.

No mistakes.

He was ready.

At least, that’s what he told himself — until he actually met Charles Leclerc.

Because holy fuck .

The moment those deep-green eyes pinned him in place across the polished marble of the entryway, Max forgot everything — his mission, his training, even his own name for a heartbeat.

All he wanted, for one delirious moment, was to fall into the arms of the man he was meant to betray.

He shook it off — he had to — but the ache lodged itself stubbornly in his chest, a quiet, treacherous longing he couldn’t fully extinguish.

In the beginning, Charles barely paid him any mind, which was exactly what Max needed. He moved quietly through the house, careful to avoid suspicion, feigning clumsy ignorance of the forbidden areas. Particularly the first floor — off-limits by explicit instruction, and undoubtedly where the secrets he sought were buried.

He would be careful. He would be patient.

He was not going to end up like the others.

When the chef disappeared under mysterious circumstances — a fate Max didn’t dare inquire too closely into — he stepped up without complaint, slicing vegetables and scrubbing dishes with quiet competence. No clumsy, reckless transmitter placements for him. Max hid his device behind a section of the laundry room wall, tucked out of sight where the cameras never reached. 

After the second month of working under Charles's watchful eye, they have grown quite close. The walls fell, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first — in long conversations about karting and Formula One, in shared jokes and easy silences. Charles’s laughter became a familiar sound, something Max found himself craving without even meaning to.

He wasn’t sure when the mission blurred into something more.

One evening, when he was packing to go to the staff house for the night (because of course there was a special house for the staff, Charles was filthy rich and this was an over 200 years old French château) he heard someone coming up behind him. He pretended that he didn’t notice when suddenly there were two strong hands on his waist and a low, teasing voice in his ear. 

"Boo."

Max knew it was coming — he knew — but the gasp that escaped him was still real, still too honest, a visceral reaction to the way Charles’s touch fit him so perfectly, like a lock clicking into place. He wished those hands could stay there forever.

"Oh my god, Mr. Leclerc! You scared me half to death," he laughed, breathless, falling into the easy, practiced rhythm of play-acting.

Charles chuckled, the sound rich and affectionate. "Max, mon cœur , how many times do I have to tell you to call me Charles? We're past the formalities, non ?" 

He spoke with that attractive French accent which Max simply couldn’t get enough of and with cheeks burning hotter than he dared admit, barely managed a nod.

And when Charles — grinning, hopeful, so damn charming — asked him to stay a bit longer, to watch the Monaco Grand Prix with him, Max couldn’t have said no even if his life had depended on it.

Later, sprawled side-by-side on the couch, a gin and tonic in his hand and Charles’s whiskey glass clinking softly against his own, Max realized he was in deeper than he had ever intended to be.

He had forgotten how good it felt to laugh like this — really laugh — to lose himself in the roar of engines and the heat of someone else’s presence. Forgotten how dangerous it was to want like this.

And when the night dragged on, when the alcohol loosened Charles’s tongue and he spoke — in quiet, yearning tones — about dreams of escaping, of settling down, of starting a family someday... Max felt something inside him splinter.

Because he wanted that too.

Not with just anyone.

With Charles.

But he could never have it. Not with the blood on his hands. Not with the lies sitting heavy between them. And certainly not when Charles, someday, would want pups of his own — something Max, a beta, could never give.

So he listened, nodding at the right moments, letting Charles pour all his secret hopes into the space between them.

Pretending it didn’t hurt.

Pretending he wasn’t already hopelessly, irredeemably lost.

But there was nothing to do about it. He could never be with Charles anyway, he was an enemy and Max could not betray Redbull. 

Somewhere along the way, Charles disappeared briefly, murmuring something about grabbing another bottle. Max, left to his own devices and still a little too buzzed, checked his phone for updates — a habit he couldn’t quite shake. He logged into his secure account but there was nothing urgent from Horner. As he scanned through the mails a football update popped up. He smiled faintly and let his mind drift, heavy with drink and affection he didn’t dare name. 

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, because the next time Max drifted awake, it was slow, the kind of waking that felt like rising through warm water, reluctant and heavy, as if the universe itself was trying to coax him back into the safety of sleep. His body ached pleasantly from the alcohol, from the couch digging into his side, from something he couldn’t quite name.

For a long, long moment, he didn’t move.

He just lay there, bundled under the too-soft blanket someone — Charles — had laid over him. The fabric smelled faintly of the house, of wood polish and faint spices, and somewhere underneath all of that, something distinctly Charles — warm and salty, a scent that was all too easy to bury his face into if he let himself.

Stupid, he thought, but the word lacked heat.

Outside the tall windows, the sky was shifting — that slow, aching color between night and morning, when the world was quiet and raw and honest.

He should get up. He should find his phone, check for updates, slip out before Charles came back and caught him sprawled out like a cat in the sun.

He should be thinking about the mission, about his purpose, about how dangerously close he was flying to the flame.

Instead, he lay there and breathed.

The blanket was heavy over his chest, grounding him, and the gentle ticking of the ancient grandfather clock in the hallway was the only sound that accompanied his heartbeat — loud in his ears, too loud.

He shifted slightly, the motion sending a dull pulse through his head, and that’s when he noticed it — the faint sting on his arm. He turned it lazily, squinting, and caught sight of the tiny red dot near the inside of his elbow.

Insect bite, maybe.

Nothing worth worrying about.

The rational part of him — the part still sober enough to think — flagged it immediately as suspicious. He wasn’t stupid. In this house, even the smallest thing could be the harbinger of something worse.

But the rest of him — the exhausted, half-drunk, dangerously sentimental part — didn’t care.

Not right now.

He let himself fall back into sleep, the faint scent of Charles — whiskey, leather, something warm and sharp and utterly him — wrapping around him like a second blanket.

Not as a spy. Not as a soldier. Not as a pawn in someone else's game.

Just Max.

Just Charles’s Max.

He imagined Charles finding him still curled up here in the morning, crouching down, brushing the hair off his forehead with those warm, capable hands. Whispering something soft in French, something he couldn’t understand but would want to.

He imagined staying for breakfast. Sitting at that ridiculous sprawling table, nursing a headache and a coffee while Charles read the paper across from him, shooting him sleepy little smiles.

He imagined belonging here.

Max squeezed his eyes shut, hating himself for it — for the want, the hope, the helpless, aching need threading itself tighter around his ribs every single day he spent in this house.

You can’t have this, he reminded himself viciously. You’re a fucking spy. You’re a traitor.

Worst of all you’re a beta, you’ll never satisfy Charles.

But it was so easy, here, under the blanket the Monegasque had tucked around him, to forget.

The ticking clock counted out the seconds, slow and merciless.

Max pulled the blanket up over his head like a shield and let himself sink back into sleep, clinging to the dream for just a little longer.

Chapter Text

Max wasn’t sure what had changed, but he could feel it—something was different. It gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

He told himself it was probably just Charles asking him to move into the main house. That was strange, sure. But not unreasonable . He had found Max asleep on the living room couch, curled in on himself like a cat, his hoodie pulled over his face to block out the morning sun. When Max blinked awake, Charles had been there, standing too close, a strange expression carved into his face like he’d found something rare and couldn’t look away.

But what really threw him was the room Charles had given him.

The room on the first floor. The floor that had previously been off-limits to him, the one the assistant who hired him said was too important for someone like him to be near. He’d never even set foot on that floor before, much less considered staying there.

But here he was, settling into it like it was no big deal.

And it was a beautiful room. Too beautiful, maybe. Larger than any room a housekeeper had a right to, but Charles had simply shrugged it off. He didn’t have guests anyway, so why waste such a gorgeous space? It had huge windows, a queen-sized bed, a small walk-in closet, and a private bathroom. Hell, it was even better than his old place.

It made him feel strange. Indulgent. Watched.

And he was being watched.

He’d noticed the cameras on the second night. One disguised in the carved wooden frame of a painting, angled to see the entire room. Another directly above the bed. He’d stared up at it for a long time, feeling something knot in his stomach. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. More like... pressure. Like the weight of someone else’s eyes, someone else's breath in the air he was breathing.

He couldn’t find any cameras in the bathroom, which was somehow more unsettling than reassuring.

He tried to settle in anyway. He brought his favorite blanket, the one he swore he’d toss eventually but always found himself reaching for. He even brought his travel-sized sim rig. When Charles saw it, his expression flickered with something Max couldn’t place—before it shifted into what Max could only describe as eagerness . 

Charles asked if he could have a go. It felt strange, but Max shrugged it off. It made sense, considering Charles’s background in karting and the fact that his cars were probably more demanding than anything Max had ever driven.

The strange thing was, nothing really changed. Not outwardly. The routine remained: cleaning, cooking, avoiding the more powerful men who sometimes came through the house. But Charles— Charles —had become something else.

He hovered now.

Max would be cooking and Charles would just be there , at his elbow, asking questions he already knew the answers to, leaning in close enough that Max could feel his breath against his skin. The kind of closeness that wasn't necessary. That felt deliberate.

He was touchier now too—his fingers always brushing, guiding, adjusting. Once, as Max reached to dust a top shelf, a hand slipped around his waist like it belonged there. Max had startled, almost dropped the glassware, and Charles had just smiled.

Max didn’t know what to make of it. He told himself not to overthink it. Charles was just being friendly. Attentive. Generous. He lived here now. It made sense.

It didn’t explain why Max felt so hot every time Charles was near. Why his chest got tight, or why his skin felt too sensitive. Or why he found himself listening for Charles’s footsteps when he wasn’t around, counting seconds in the silence like a stupid, lovesick teenager.

It was ridiculous. He was here on a mission. He had to stay focused. He had to get into that damn office. The one Charles vanished into for hours at a time, behind thick, locked doors. That’s where the real answers were. That’s where the mafia’s plans lived.

But Charles—Charles was too focused on him. His attention felt suffocating at times, like the walls were closing in. Max didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending he didn’t notice. He really wished he was here under different circumstances.

Not in the way Charles’s fingers lingered on him. Not in the way Max’s stomach fluttered when they brushed shoulders. Not in the way Charles had started calling him mon beau in a low, velvet voice.

But even focus couldn’t stop the creeping feeling that something was wrong.

After a week, Max noticed a weird smell.

It was driving him insane.

Not in the dramatic, theatrical sense—but in the slow, creeping way that begins with a whisper of confusion and builds into something that haunts your every breath. Max had tried to ignore it. At first, he chalked it up to a new detergent, maybe something in the wood polish. But by the end of the week, it was everywhere— woven into the fabric of the house itself. Like it had always been there. Like the walls breathed it.

And it was beautiful.

He couldn’t describe it, not exactly. It clung to the back of his throat like a memory he couldn’t place. Salty, warm, a little sharp at the edges. Amber, maybe, or some ancient cologne, softened by time. It felt intimate somehow—like skin warmed by sunlight, like the ocean during a summer he barely remembered. He caught it in his sheets. In his clothes. In his hair .

And worst of all, it got stronger when he was near Charles.

Which was why, after another day of fruitless searching—checking vents, drawers, behind furniture like a madman—he gave up pretending this wasn’t slowly unraveling his sanity.

He padded into the lounge with his question clutched awkwardly in his chest. Charles was seated by the fireplace, the late afternoon light casting golden slants across his shoulders, a newspaper open in his lap. He looked up immediately, and Max stumbled a bit over his own feet.

“Mr. Lec— I mean, Charles,” Max corrected quickly, cheeks coloring. He still wasn’t used to saying his name like that. Like they were equals. Like he belonged in this house.

Charles folded the paper slowly, giving Max his full attention. “Yes?” His voice was low, a little amused, but patient. He always sounded like he had all the time in the world when it came to Max.

Max scratched the back of his neck. “I—uh. I have a question. It’s kind of weird. Sorry.”

Charles tilted his head, eyes narrowing with something like curiosity. Or amusement. Or... something darker. “Go on.”

“It’s just—there’s this smell.” Max winced, already regretting bringing it up. “It started about a week ago. It’s not bad! It’s... actually kind of beautiful? But I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.”

Charles didn’t move, but the air around him felt heavier, suddenly. Like the silence had thickened.

Max pressed on, words tumbling faster. “I’ve searched the whole house. Every room, every vent, every goddamn drawer. There’s nothing. No candles, no sprays, not even one of those plug-in things. But it’s everywhere. And it’s been getting stronger.”

Especially now. Right now , standing just a few feet from Charles, it was almost dizzying. It clung to the Max like a second skin. Not like perfume, though. Too primal for that. It wasn’t applied. It was part of him.

Charles finally blinked, slow and deliberate, setting the newspaper aside. “What does it smell like?” he asked, with the kind of calm that wasn’t really calm at all.

Max hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. “Kind of... salty? Like amber, maybe? It reminds me of being near the ocean. Like... family vacations when I was a kid. I don’t know.” He rubbed his neck. “It’s not important. Just—I thought maybe something was leaking or—like, a pipe or—”

Charles stood up.

It was unhurried, almost lazy, but Max still froze when he did it. Charles’s presence filled the space like water in a glass—inevitable. Max swore the scent got stronger again, pooling around him as Charles walked over with slow, perfectly measured steps.

“You’re not going crazy, Max,” he said softly. There was something in his eyes now—gleaming, hungry. “The house has always smelled like that. Maybe you just hadn’t noticed before.”

Max opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His brain caught up to the rest of him two seconds too late when Charles’s hand lifted, fingers ghosting over his collar bone like he was brushing off dust. Max’s breath hitched.

“I’m glad you like it,” Charles said, voice dipped in silk. “You’ll be smelling it more and more. It’s something you’ll come to associate with comfort. With belonging.”

Max blinked rapidly, too flustered to register all of it. He could feel the heat rising in his face, and it was so stupid, how easily Charles could reduce him to this—warm and stammering and aching for something he didn’t dare name.

“I—um, yeah. Okay,” Max managed, finally.

Charles smiled. Just a twitch of lips, but it cut deep. “Good.”

And just like that, he stepped back.

But the scent lingered. Around Max. In Max. Like invisible fingers tracing the outline of his body. Wrapping. Binding. Claiming . It was inescapable, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to escape it at all.

He took a breath in.

Charles grinned wider.

It was getting harder to think straight.

The scent—that subtle, intimate fog—never left him now. It clung to the sheets, to the hem of his shirt, to the inside of his mouth like a taste he couldn’t rinse out. He started waking up with his face buried in the pillow, inhaling deep like he was chasing something in his dreams. And worse— worse —was the way his thoughts would drift. When he was scrubbing the kitchen tiles. When he was folding laundry. When he was meant to be planning.

The office was still locked. Of course it was.

Charles didn’t even pretend to leave it open anymore. He just vanished behind the heavy walnut door, key turning in the lock with a smooth click. Max had tried to peek once. Just once. He’d crept down the hall during a night when Charles had gone out for dinner with some of the other men—silent, barefoot, ghostlike.

But the door was shut. Locked from the inside.

The handle was cold beneath his palm.

It made his jaw clench. He was getting nowhere . He was supposed to be clever. Useful. But instead, he was… drifting . Day by day, the mission felt fuzzier. Like it was happening to someone else. Like all that mattered now was this house, and that scent, and—

Charles.

He didn’t know when that started either. Or maybe he did, but he didn’t want to admit it. The infatuation was there—low, simmering, like the warm pull of wine behind the eyes. He tried not to look too long. Tried not to stare . But it was impossible.

Charles was so precise . Everything he did was deliberate. The way he rolled up the sleeves of his shirts just below the elbow. The way he never rushed, not even when walking across the room. The way his eyes lingered.

And Max was starting to feel like a moth pinned to velvet under his gaze.

“Tu as bien dormi, mon cœur? ” Charles asked one morning, casually—like the question was just a greeting.

Max nodded, half-awake, fingers curled around a mug of coffee he’d forgotten he poured. “Yeah. Slept great.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. He had slept. But it had been full of strange dreams. Dreams where Charles’s hands were everywhere, warm and patient and knowing . Where he whispered in a language Max didn’t understand but felt anyway. Where he woke up flushed and aching and too ashamed to tell anyone.

Charles always watched him over the rim of his coffee cup when Max stumbled in, sleep-rumpled and blinking against the light. The kind of stare that made Max feel like he was still dreaming.

“Good,” Charles said that morning, voice low and steady, like the calm after a storm. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I worry about you, you know.”

It shouldn’t have made Max’s chest twist the way it did—shouldn’t have sent a rush of heat crawling up the back of his neck like he’d just been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. He tried to smile, maybe say something casual in return, but Charles had already started walking toward him.

Slow steps. Deliberate. Measured. Like every movement had a purpose—like Charles had mapped it out ahead of time.

Max stood frozen in the kitchen, one hand still resting on the counter, knuckles pale from the grip he hadn’t realized had tightened. Charles’s gaze didn’t leave him, and Max’s breath hitched slightly when the older man reached forward with impossible gentleness, fingers brushing against his collarbone, then his throat, as he plucked something invisible from his shirt.

His fingertips dragged—just a fraction too long—over the soft skin where his pulse beat rapidly beneath the surface.

Max flinched.

Not from fear.

From something heavier. Thicker. Like the air had changed, gotten heavier, denser—drenched in something he couldn’t name. The scent clung to him now, more than ever. It felt intentional .

“I think you’re finally starting to settle in,” Charles murmured, his hand still so close Max could feel the heat of it against his skin. His voice was quiet but firm, like a verdict. His breath ghosted just past Max’s cheek.

That scent. That overwhelming scent was everywhere again—on Charles’s clothes, in his hair, embedded in the walls of this goddamn house. It wasn’t coming from candles or diffusers. Max knew that now. It was him .

“I’m glad we’re making progress,” Charles added, and it was impossible to tell what he meant by progress . It sounded loaded. Mysterious. Like he knew something Max didn’t.

Max almost said something—almost asked what the hell he meant, or why he was always so close , or why his presence filled the room like a storm about to break. He almost said, “I’ve been dreaming about you.” Almost asked, “Why does it feel like you’re watching me even when you’re not here?”

But he didn’t.

His tongue sat heavy in his mouth, thick with hesitation. There was something fragile about this moment, some invisible thread pulling taut between them. If he said the wrong thing, breathed the wrong way, it might snap—and he didn’t want to know what would happen if it did.

So Max just nodded, throat dry, gaze flicking to the side to avoid being scorched by the heat in Charles’s eyes.

And Charles just smiled.

Like he knew.

Like he knew Max was already lost.

Chapter Text

After some time, Max finally adjusted to the smell. It was almost as if he was beginning to crave it now. That heady, amber-drenched scent used to choke him when he first started smelling it—now, with Charles disappearing from the house more frequently, the absence gnawed at him.

Lately the house felt sterile. Flat. It was like a burnt out candle, a body without breath. The scent lingered, yes, but fainter. Like the house itself was reluctantly letting go of him. Every room became a tomb to absence of the Alpha.

Except the laundry room.

Clothing held the smell. Clothing kept him.

Since Max had—against his will and without official job description—become the de facto caretaker of the estate—aside from the weird gardener who seemed to materialize out of hedges like a specter—it fell on him to handle the laundry. He didn’t mind. Folding, sorting, ironing; it was peaceful, almost meditative.

But it was never really about the laundry, was it?

It was the scent. Heavy, overwhelming, too-wild. Alpha.

Max told himself he just liked the order of things, the domestic rhythm. But the truth was he would touch Charles’s shirts like they were artifacts. Reverent. Careful. Fingertips ghosting over linen and cotton and silk like they might dissolve under too much pressure. 

And then—God, he’d press them to his face. Breathe in. Deep, dizzying lungfuls. Sweat, skin, something deeper—some musk that curled low in his gut and made his fingers tighten involuntarily in the fabric.

He’d moan sometimes. Quietly. Ashamed.

He didn’t know what was happening to him.

He didn’t understand how he could even smell it now. Charles had fed him that story—smiling with those soft eyes, that too-kind mouth—that the house had always smelled like this. Like him. But Max wasn’t stupid. He’d been here for months before the scent started seeping into his awareness. Slowly, at first. Then it was all he could smell.

And it couldn’t be cologne. He’d checked. He’d searched the master bathroom when Charles was away. Nothing. No amber, no sandalwood, no bergamot. Just expensive, minimalist skincare. No explanation.

The only thing he could think—the only explanation that made his chest tighten and his throat dry—was that he was smelling Charles.

Him. His actual scent.

Which didn’t make sense. He shouldn’t be able to smell Charles like this. Betas weren’t wired for scent the way Alphas and Omegas were. Their biology didn’t allow them. Not unless something was—

No. That was insane.

Right?

But something in him was changing.

He saw it in the mirror. The way his abs had softened, the fine new sheen to his skin, the faint swell at his hips. The way he flushed so easily now. He felt fragile, lit from the inside out, like something in his biology was being rewritten and no one had warned him. He felt—fuck, he felt delicate .

Charles noticed. 

Of course he had.

He touched more. Always touching. Fingers brushing Max’s wrist while handing him a glass. Adjusting his collar, trailing fingertips down the back of his neck while pretending to look over his shoulder. Those little moments were more violent than any kiss would have been. Worse. They crawled under Max’s skin and stayed there.

And when Charles stopped touching him—when he was gone for hours, for days—Max would find himself curled around a shirt that hadn’t been washed yet. Eyes closed. Breathing like he was trying to survive.

It happened on a Wednesday.

Almost midnight.

The house was silent in that particular way it only got when the rest of the world had long since gone to sleep—no more doors closing, no more staff footsteps tapping against the old marble floors. Just the low hum of distant appliances, and the gentle rush of late spring air through the open kitchen windows.

Max stood barefoot on the cool tile, sautéing onions in a heavy cast iron pan. The faint crackle and hiss filled the otherwise still room. The rhythm of it helped. Focused him. Calmed him.

He needed that right now.

Max was alone—or at least he thought he was. Charles had left earlier that evening in a suit that looked like it cost more than Max’s entire degree, off to some gala or party or power-play masquerade.

Until arms slid around his waist and a chest pressed into his back, hard and steady and unmistakably there. Max nearly sent the spatula flying as he jolted upright with a sharp inhale.

“Shhh, Maxie,” came the voice—slurred, low, soaked in warmth and expensive wine. “Just me, mon ange.”

Charles.

The breath against his neck made Max shudder. He hadn’t even heard the front door open.

“You—Charles—you scared the shit out of me,” Max stammered, pulse hammering, grip tightening on the handle of the pan as if that might anchor him.

But Charles didn’t move. His weight was too solid, too unbothered, hands splayed over Max’s stomach now, fingers creeping just beneath the hem of his t-shirt like he had every right to be there. Like he lived there already.

“You’re so soft now,” Charles murmured, voice low and velvet-thick, his lips brushing the fragile skin just behind Max’s ear. “So delicate. I could peel you open and taste every inch.”

Max flinched, breath stuttering, hands flying to Charles’s wrists—but his grip faltered. His fingers didn’t push hard enough. And his back—traitorous, hungry—arched into the body pressed against him.

“You're—God, Charles, you're drunk ,” Max hissed, trying again to untangle himself, but even he could hear the wobble in his voice. “You shouldn’t be here like this—”

“I missed you.” The words slurred like silk, laced with something molten, something possessive. Charles buried his nose in the crook of Max’s neck, inhaling so deeply it was obscene. “You smell like you’ve been waiting for me. Like you need me. You know I can fix that, Maxie. You don’t have to ache anymore.”

And then—mouth. Heat. Wet, open kisses pressed to Max’s throat, unhurried but desperate, like he was trying to devour him one inch at a time. The sounds were soft but vulgar, lips dragging up along the tendon of his neck, toward the hinge of his jaw.

Max let out a strangled sound, half-whimper, half-moan, and gripped the counter like it might keep him upright. His other hand hovered uselessly in the air—shaking, indecisive, caught between the instinct to shove and the sick need to pull.

“Charles…” Max gasped, hips pinned, shirt riding up as fingers ghosted over the bare skin beneath. “No. Seriously—you’re drunk. You’re not thinking straight. This is—this is fucking insane—”

“You’re shaking,” Charles whispered, like it was proof of something holy. His palm flattened against Max’s stomach, fingers curling possessively. “You feel so right . Like you were made to be touched like this. And you don’t really want me to stop, do you?”

Max’s head spun. His skin was flushed, slick with sweat despite the cool night air filtering in through the windows. Every nerve screamed, confused and alight. Somewhere buried beneath the fog, the rational part of him shrieked— Stop this. Don’t let him win. Don’t give in. He’s the enemy for fuck’s sake. You can't betray RedBull because of some stupid feelings.

But Charles’s hand was drifting higher, grazing ribs, his voice a drug poured straight into Max’s veins. He wanted to let go. He really did. But now was not the time.

It took everything Max had left.

With a burst of effort that felt like tearing something out of himself, he wrenched free of Charles’s arms and turned to face him.

Charles blinked at the sudden distance, pupils blown wide and gleaming, cheeks flushed with wine and that ever-present undercurrent of biological madness. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run miles. His mouth was parted. Hungry.

“Come on,” Max said, voice hoarse but firm. “Couch. Now.”

“But—”

“Couch, Charles.”

A pout. An actual pout.

Still, Charles let himself be steered gently out of the kitchen, mumbling sleepy nothings and pawing at Max’s hand the whole way. Max settled him down on the absurdly large velvet sofa, draped a blanket over him, and crouched to meet his eyes.

“Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow once you’re thinking more clearly.”

Charles stared at him. Then, after a long pause, he smiled. Dreamy. Feral.

“You’re changing,” he whispered, already half-asleep. “And soon, you won’t want to fight me anymore.”

Max stood, heart hammering in his chest, and walked out of the room without looking back.

Whatever that meant. Yeah.

He pretended to be asleep long after Max left the room.

The warmth of the blanket Max had wrapped around him still clung to his body, but that wasn’t what kept him still. It was the scent. The closeness. The feel of Max’s hands on him—even if it was just to push him down, to tuck him in like some unruly child.

Max arched into him. Max actually enjoyed it.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

Charles’s fingers curled into the edge of the blanket. He breathed in, slow and deep, nose ghosting along the fabric that now held a whisper of Max’s scent. One that the Dutchman was not aware of as of yet. Sweet. Unsettled. Laced with adrenaline and something else. Something changing.

It was working.

He had noticed it the second it began. The shift. The way Max’s scent had started to soften around the edges, the way it clung to the halls, lingered on dishes, soaked into his own shirts with something so dizzyingly familiar it made Charles lightheaded.

Beta, sure. For now.

But bodies were flexible things. Malleable. Especially when nurtured. Especially when exposed to the right environment. Charles had studied every file, every footnote in the research his scientists were providing him with.

He knew the possibilities. He’d always known.

And Max—Max was responding better than he’d hoped.

Sure, he was still skittish. He flinched when Charles got too close, still tried to pretend the touches didn’t affect him. But Charles saw the flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his lips when he thought Charles wasn’t looking. He knew Max went into the laundry room and spent far too long in there. He had cameras everywhere , except there.

And that was by design.

He didn’t need to see Max bury his face in his shirts to know it was happening. He could smell it on him later. That needy, almost delirious tension. The scent that told Charles Max was finally being unraveled.

He would never hurt him. Not really.

He just wanted him close. Kept. Shaped. Loved.

True, unconditional love would come, he was sure of it.

If Max stopped fighting it—if he just gave in—it could be beautiful. Peaceful. The two of them together, perfectly synchronized. Charles could provide everything. Security. Affection. Purpose. Max wouldn’t have to think anymore, wouldn’t have to be anything other than his.

But not yet. No. Max still needed time to burn through his resistance.

Tonight he had been reckless. Charles knew that. The wine, the party, the sight of Max’s thighs in those shorts that framed his buttocks just right—it had short-circuited something in him. He couldn’t help himself. Had to taste . Just a little. Just enough to see if Max would break.

He hadn’t. Not completely.

But his voice had trembled.

And that was enough .

Charles exhaled through his nose, body finally relaxing into the couch. He could still feel Max's warmth on his hands. Still hear the soft, desperate way he’d said his name. Charles, you’re drunk. Said like a warning. Said like a prayer.

Soon, he wouldn't be asking Charles to stop.

Soon, he’d beg him not to leave.

And when that day came, Charles would never have to pretend to sleep again.

He smiled.

Everything was going according to plan.

When Max finally locked the door to his room, it felt like it clicked shut inside his chest, too. He stood there for a moment, hand still on the doorknob, breath caught like a thread between his teeth.

His body wasn’t his own. It was buzzing, tight with some wired electricity that wouldn’t stop singing through his nerves. His skin still burned—everywhere Charles had touched, grazed, held. It was like the heat of the Alpha’s hands had branded him. He could feel the shape of Charles’s palm like a phantom heat across his stomach.

And the worst part? He wanted it back.

His legs gave out faster than he expected, and he stumbled backward until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat down hard, staring blankly at the opposite wall. His heart was still racing—high and fast like he was the one drunk, not Charles. Like the scent, that thick, cloying amber that always came with Charles, had bled into his bloodstream and rewired everything. 

He could still smell it. 

Still feel it, curling under his skin like smoke. It made his mouth go dry and his head light and everything below his navel ache.

Get a grip, he told himself. But there was no grip left to get. He was unraveling.

Charles had been drunk . Staggering, slurring, all wine and sugared arrogance. Max had done the right thing. He hadn’t let it happen. He’d pushed those hands away, ignored the heat of those lips dragging up his throat. He’d said no.

But it hadn’t felt like a victory. It felt like grief.

Charles had let him go so easily. Sleepily. Like it didn’t even matter. Like he’d forget. But Max wouldn’t. His body certainly wouldn’t. Every inch of him still felt wound tight, like he was going to combust if he didn’t do something— anything —to release it.

He stood, trembling, stripped off his clothes like they were suffocating him. The second the shirt left his skin, he was reaching—without even thinking—for the drawer beside the bed. It opened too easily. He’d never used the travel-sized lube bottle before, but it was there, waiting. Like he’d known this was coming.

And he had known, hadn’t he? Not this exact moment, maybe, but the shape of it. The inevitable breaking point. He’d been walking toward it since the scent first started haunting him.

But memory wasn’t enough. Not tonight.

As his hand hesitated over the bottle, his other reached under the bed—into the narrow crack between the floorboards and frame, where he’d hidden it. A secret. A sin. A red scrap of cotton: Charles’s underwear. The one that had never made it to the wash, because the scent of it made Max dizzy every time he touched it.

He had stolen it.

There was no use pretending otherwise. No accidental excuse, no forgetful slip between laundry baskets. He had pressed it to his face once—and that had been the end. He couldn’t give it up. Couldn’t clean it. Couldn’t let it go .

He buried his face in it now and nearly sobbed. The scent was overwhelming—rich, dark, ripe with some primal chemical that short-circuited his brain. Charles. It was Charles. In his mouth, in his lungs, in his blood. The smell soaked into his thoughts until he was panting, rutting into the mattress like an animal.

There was no shame anymore. Just need .

He slicked his hand with lube and began stroking his cock, rough and clumsy, the way Charles might—if Charles ever took him apart like that. Max’s hips jerked helplessly, breath caught high in his throat. The scent made it worse, no—made it better. His mind was a blur of fantasy: Charles behind him, whispering filth into his ear, hand locked around his throat, teeth at his nape.

But that wasn’t enough either. He needed more .

The scent guided his hand further down, showing him where he could relieve the fire that was burning inside him.

He slid a pillow under his hips, legs spread, and pushed slick fingers inside himself. His whole body arched with the intrusion. The burn was sharp, greedy. His knees shook. He rocked into it, gasping as he brushed that one desperate spot deep inside, over and over, each time seeing Charles in his mind’s eye—drunk or not, it didn’t matter—pressing into him, low and solid, claiming .. 

His face was brushing against the underwear with every move, he was only being held up by the pillow, ass up, face down—fuck it was almost as if he was presenting . 

“F–fuck, Charlie,” he whimpered, grinding against the bed, lips moving against red cotton soaked in scent. “Please… please, I need it—need you —” His voice was a wreck, a prayer, a confession.

His fingers thrust harder. He wanted to sob from it. He wanted to scream. “W-wanna be yours, get wet for you, want you to fuck me through a heat—make me feel it, make me—fuck—” He was panting now, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. “Want you to knot me. Knot me so deep it takes .”

He gripped his cock with his other hand, leaking and painfully hard, fingers trembling.

“Make me yours, Charles,” he choked. “Brand me—fuck me full. M-make it real. Make me change. ”

And then he shattered. Came with a cry he barely recognized, twitching violently around his own fingers, pleasure tearing through him like lightning. He bit the boxers to muffle the sobs, still grinding desperately even as the orgasm tore through his body. He didn’t want it to stop. Didn’t want it to end.

But it did.

Eventually.

The silence after was cruel. He’d never needed to get off as badly as today. Never had this need to be filled, to be owned. Never felt so… desperate .

The incident from half an hour ago still hasn't left his mind. Charles kissed him like a starved man. Like all he wanted was Max. What if he hadn’t stopped him? Maybe something other than fingers would be in him right—

Before his thought could be finished something suddenly caught his eye. 

He looked up.

And froze.

The camera.

The fucking camera.

One right above the bed.

“Oh fuck,” Max whispered, his voice cracking as if it had to crawl over broken glass to escape his throat.

How the fuck had he forgotten it?

Had he lost his mind completely?

His chest caved in. The air felt suddenly too sharp, his lungs refusing to expand. Cold panic surged through him, erasing every ounce of heat that had moments ago threatened to consume him. His body, still slick and open, still clenching around the last ghost of pleasure—now felt exposed , vulgar, violated .

Max’s mind raced, clumsy and jagged. Why would Charles even check the footage? He’d have to rewind to just the right moment, pause at just the right frame. And he was probably passed out by now anyway—snoring into a throw pillow, the alcohol wiping everything from memory. Tomorrow he’d probably wake up with a hangover and no recollection of the heat simmering between them.

No reason to panic.

No reason at all.

And yet Max couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away from that little blinking eye above him.

God, he thought, please let it be off. Let it be fake. Let it be forgotten.

But even as he lay back down, pulling the sheets around his still-trembling body, the dread remained—coiled in his gut, whispering:

You should worry.

Chapter Text

When Max finally woke up, it was like surfacing from a swamp—muddy, slow, disoriented, and cold. His skin was clammy, sheets twisted around his legs like a trap, and his stomach roiled with nausea. Not from sickness. From dread.

From Charles .

Just the thought of facing him again made Max curl tighter into himself, one arm over his eyes, trying to breathe through the ache twisting in his gut. His mouth tasted like regret and anxiety.

He reached blindly for his phone. 9:58 AM.

Charles should still be asleep. That man could command a global empire and still refuse to function without ten uninterrupted hours of his ‘beauty sleep’. Criminal mastermind or not, he was terrifyingly committed to skincare and REM cycles.

Max dragged himself up with a groan and opened his secret inbox, half-dreading, half-hoping nothing had exploded.

No such luck.

A wave of emails hit him immediately, most filled with reports and vague updates from field contacts, but one message in bold red font stood out like a death sentence.

New message. From: CH Subject line: In-person debrief - 9 days

Max blinked at the screen, nausea returning full force.

What the fuck was he supposed to tell them?

"Sorry, haven’t found out what Ferrari's cooking—but I have discovered that Charles Leclerc has really pretty eyelashes and smells like sin and amber"?

He turned his phone off and tossed it to the other end of the bed. “Fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

He rolled out of bed, each step toward the door heavier than the last. But before he could leave, his eyes snagged on it.

The camera.

The fucking camera. Still mounted, blinking innocently down at him like it hadn’t seen everything.

Max felt the shame hit him like a punch to the chest. Heat bloomed across his face and down his neck.

God. The things he did last night.

The way he moved. The sounds. The fucking needy desperation he let show with Charles just downstairs, passed out like some kind of royal corpse on the couch.

Why had he forgotten about it? Was he really that far gone?

He wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Dragging himself downstairs felt like walking into a trap. The house was quiet . Not the usual, peaceful kind of quiet. No. This was the kind of quiet that echoed. That screamed. That made the hair on your arms stand up.

And then he noticed it.

The scent. Charles’s scent.

It lingered, rich and comforting and almost addictive—but it was fading , thinning in the air like smoke slipping through fingers.

Max’s breath caught. Something wasn’t right.

He creeped into the living room where he had left charles yesterday and froze in place.

The sofa was empty, only a blanket from last night crumpled on the side and a tie flung carelessly over the armrest. But no Charles. No sound. No movement.

Max's heart rate picked up. His eyes were too watery for his liking.

He padded through the house, barefoot, following that vanishing trail of Charles’s scent like a bloodhound. It led him to the garage—a temple of machinery, wealth and speed.

Daytona SP3. SF90 XX Stradale. P1. LaFerrari. Valhalla. Few vintage cars. A literal Formula 1 car. Who the hell casually owned a Formula 1 car?

But one was missing.

The 918 Spyder.

And so was Charles.

Panic slammed into him like a truck.

Max spent the next two hours losing his goddamn mind.

He scrubbed countertops that didn’t need cleaning. He rearranged bookshelves alphabetically and by color. He found a hoodie Charles had left in the laundry room and clutched it like a lifeline, burying his face in it and breathing deep. 

It didn’t help. The ache only deepened. The silence got louder.

What if Charles saw the camera feed and couldn’t look at him anymore? What if he found out who Max really was—what he was here for—and this was the silent goodbye before the hit? What if someone was already in place to kill him?

His head was spinning. He was seconds from screaming. From crying. Why was he so emotional today??

And then he heard a loud sound—

A car.

No. Two cars .

Max darted to the nearest window and peeked out.

Charles. Pristine, infuriatingly perfect Charles, stepping out of his Porsche like he’d just walked off a runway. And beside him, a loading truck. Two men unloading heavy boxes like they were building a bunker.

Max pressed his forehead to the glass. What the fuck was going on?

He heard the raised voices—French, fast, clipped—and Charles sounded pissed . Max couldn’t catch more than a few sharp phrases, but the tone alone said enough. Something had gone wrong.

He didn’t want to know what.

He was about to crawl back into bed and pretend none of this happened when—

Knock knock knock.

Max jumped, heart in his throat.

“Max?”

Charles’s voice. Soft. Gentle in a way that made Max’s knees wobble. “I have a little something for you downstairs. Come when you're ready, please.”

Max waited until he heard Charles walk away before he moved. He was shaking.

He changed—same shorts as yesterday, a fresh shirt, ran his fingers through his unruly hair and prayed he didn’t look like a ghost. He took one step onto the main floor and was hit by a smell . Warm. Buttery. Vanilla and syrup and—

Pancakes?

He entered the kitchen, and there he was.

Charles. In a fucking apron , flipping pancakes like a domestic guru.

“Max!” The smile he gave him was blinding. “Good morning, mon amour. I hope you slept well.”

Max froze. He felt short-circuited.

“I—uh. Morning. You’re… up early. You were… like, totally wasted last night. Do you remember anything?”

Charles flipped the last pancake onto a plate and set the spatula down with uncharacteristic care. “Bits and pieces. Rude people at the party. Too much wine. A long ride home. And… you.” He turned, solemn. “Max, I owe you an apology. I crossed a line last night. I touched you without your consent, and I will regret it for a very long time.”

Max swallowed. “Charles—no—it’s… I mean, you were drunk, and I—” 

“No. Don’t excuse me.” His tone was firm now. “It wasn’t okay. And I want to make it up to you in a way that you’ll understand. Come. Please.”

Max followed him, every step feeling like a countdown to his own execution.

They entered the living room and—

Max stopped breathing.

There, gleaming under the sunlight from the skylight windows, stood a brand-new, top-tier, triple-screen sim racing rig. Fully accessorized. Custom chair. Wheel. Pedals. Huge computer. Was that an RX 7900??

Max’s brain rebooted.

“What… the fuck ?” Had Charles bought it all for… him ? He slowly felt emotions creeping up his spine in a way they had never done before.

“I thought your travel sim needed an upgrade.” Charles stepped closer, placed a gentle hand on his waist and guided the Dutchman towards the set up. “Since you’ll be staying here for a long time , I want you to be comfortable. You deserve this.”

Max couldn’t speak. The words caught somewhere deep in his chest, tangled in the wreckage of something that had just—snapped. Quietly. Irrevocably.

Something inside him cracked open, like a dam finally giving way, and the world rushed in too fast, too sharp. Every sensation surged—too much. The lights felt brighter, too golden, like they were humming against his skin. There was a scent in the air—amber and spice, warm and heady—and he couldn’t tell if it was around him or inside him, curling through his veins like smoke.

His knees nearly gave out.

It was like something had shifted on a cellular level. Like gravity had realigned.

And it was all because of him .

“I did a bit of research,” Charles continued, voice suddenly nervous. “Tried to find the best specs. Some are still not here so I had to make few changes, but if anything’s wrong—if you’d prefer another brand or configuration, I can—”

He broke off.

Because Max was crying.

Not loud, not sobbing—just silent tears, spilling one after the other, slipping down his cheeks unchecked. His mouth trembled, his whole expression collapsing in on itself as he looked between the sim rig and Charles like he couldn’t quite process that either of them were real.

“Max—oh god, Max, are you okay?”

Charles surged forward without thinking, hands curling around Max’s shoulders, grounding and desperate, trying to tilt his face up, to catch his gaze. His voice was low, almost frantic now. “Talk to me, mon cœur. Please.”

And Max did. Eventually.

Their eyes met. And Max smiled .

“I—I don’t know what the fuck is happening,” he choked out, his voice trembling like a fault line. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I feel insane. But—” He blinked quickly, more tears tracking down as he shook his head, overwhelmed. “Thank you. Seriously. Charles, thank you. This is—this is the best present I’ve ever gotten. Like—ever.”

His breath hitched on the last word, and he laughed softly, watery and disbelieving. “You’re completely insane. How do I even repay you for something like this?”

Charles cupped his face so gently it hurt. “Having you here is worth more than any amount of money.”

He launched himself into Charles’s arms, clutching him so tightly it nearly knocked the wind out of both of them.

And for a while, they just stood there, wrapped around each other, like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Max refused to let go.

It started with a hug, the sim rig still gleaming in the background like some ridiculous dream. Charles had chuckled and tried to pull back gently, only for Max to tighten his arms, pressing his face into the crook of Charles’s neck like he might vanish if he let go. 

He felt so safe there. Like every worry had disappeared and it was just him and the Alpha.

"Max," Charles murmured softly, hands rubbing soothing circles along his back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Max wasn’t supposed to be feeling this way. He was supposed to betray the man at the end of the day, not fall in love with him.

But something inside him had cracked open today and now it wouldn’t close. The longer he held on, the worse it got—like the vulnerability was eating him alive. But he still couldn’t pull away. It was as if his body was not his own, holding onto Charles like he was a lifeline and breathing in that dizzying scent. 

Charles eventually coaxed him to the couch, where they sat in a heap, limbs tangled, Max half-limp against his chest, too tired to explain the war in his head.

He didn’t speak for a long time. Charles didn’t push. Just pet his hair, slow and repetitive, and rested his chin on top of Max’s head. And somewhere between the warmth of that gesture and the smell that clung to Charles’s neck, Max started spiraling again .

Because it was too much.

The kindness. The apology. The sim rig. The way Charles looked at him like he mattered . It was all digging under his skin, leaving him raw and buzzing.

He didn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t want the moment to end. He felt that if Charles let go of him he would crumble like a statue made of sand.

So he said the first thing that came to mind.

“Can we… do something tonight?” Max mumbled, voice muffled against Charles’s shirt, eyes shut tightly—as if dreading the answer. But he felt so light, so very safe in the Alpha's embrace.

Charles asked curiously, flashing a smirk that wasn’t destined for Max’s eyes. “What kind of something?”

“I don’t know. Just… something stupid. Chill. Easy.”

Charles pulled back slightly to look at him. “Like a movie?”

Max’s ears went red. He nodded.

“A movie night,” Charles said, soft and pleased, like Max had just offered to build a blanket fort instead of trying not to emotionally combust. “That sounds perfect, mon amour .”

Max suddenly remembered that Charles did in fact have a job.

“I mean—we don’t have to. If you’re busy, or if you have, like, some business to attend to or whatever. I just. I don’t know. I’ve been weird all day. I’m probably being weird now. I just…” He didn’t know how to say it without making a fool of himself or crying again.

I want to hold you like we have forever—like I’m not meant to bury a knife between your ribs the moment you look away.

Charles cupped Max’s cheek with a kind of reverence, his thumb brushing just beneath his eye — right where the tears had dried, but where fresh ones were already pooling again, shimmering like guilt he couldn’t voice. Max leaned into the touch like he didn’t know whether to flinch or melt.

“You’re not weird,” he said firmly. “You’re just overwhelmed. And I get it. But I’m right here.”

Max's expression wobbled. His eyes were glossy again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Charles murmured, pulling him close again — not forceful, but firm, like he was anchoring Max before he could drift too far into his own storm. His voice was low, steady, the kind of calm that made Max ache. “You’re exactly the way you’re supposed to be. Open. Honest.”

A beat passed, thick with all the things he didn’t say —

Vulnerable. Delicate. Breakable.

His lips brushed Max’s temple, and the final word wasn’t spoken so much as breathed, barely there and yet thunderous in Max’s ears:

Le mien.

“We’ll pick a movie. Something terrible and comforting. You’ll fall asleep halfway through it and I’ll pretend not to notice. And tomorrow we’ll do it all over again if you want.”

Max closed his eyes, breathing slow, like the words had finally pressed pause on the storm in his chest.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“Okay,” Charles echoed, smiling into Max’s hair. But it wasn’t just affection that curled at the edge of his lips — it was something quieter. Smoother. A smile like a blade sheathed in silk.

Control.

Not cruel, no. Not overt. Charles didn’t need to force anything. He never had to. It was in the way he held Max — steady, grounding, sure. Like he already knew how the night would unfold. Like Max, trembling and small in his arms, had already given up the fight.

And maybe he had.

Because Max didn’t pull away. Didn’t question the way Charles’s fingers threaded through his curls or the way his hand lingered on his nape a bit too tightly. He just pressed closer, eyes fluttering shut, cheek resting over the steady drum of Charles’s heart.

The walls were closing in, but they were velvet-lined and warm. He wasn’t really fighting it, at least for those few soft moments. 

Because Charles never asked for surrender. He never had to.

He just waited — patient, knowing — until Max handed it to him himself.

And Charles would take it. Quietly. Completely.

Like he always did.

Because this ending? It had already been decided.

It was going to happen his way.

When Charles came back to the kitchen, the crepes had long gone cold. Not that it mattered—he hadn’t made them for warmth. He found Max already settled into the new rig, legs folded comfortably, hands fiddling with the setup like he owned it. Like he belonged there.

It was disarming, how natural Max looked in his space. Focused, completely absorbed, brows furrowed and lower lip slightly caught between his teeth. He didn’t even glance up when Charles walked in.

God, he was adorable . If Charles weren’t already so deeply, dangerously fond of him, this would’ve been the perfect time to cut his losses. To get rid of the little spy, just like he had the others. Neat, simple, clean. Easy.

But no. Max was different.

Charles set the plate of crepes gently on the desk next to the sim rig and pulled a chair close—closer than he needed to. Close enough that his knee brushed Max’s.

Max looked up, surprised but delighted. “Thank you, Charles,” he said, eyes lighting up, a soft grin blooming across his face.

That smile—so open, so genuine—it made Charles’s chest ache. His heart, traitorous thing that it was, thudded too hard against his ribs. Stupid , he thought. Stupid to fall for a boy who might be the knife aimed at your back.

But still. He smiled back.

“Holy shit, these are so good,” Max said, around a mouthful of crepe. “You’re gonna have to teach me how to make them.”

Charles leaned in slightly, letting the words slip out softer. “It’s my maman’s recipe. I’ll teach you. One day. We’ve got all the time in the world, don’t we?”

There it was—that flicker in Max’s eyes. Hesitation. Guilt, maybe. Sadness. As if the words touched something too raw beneath his skin.

Charles tilted his head. My poor Maxie. Always caught between the things he wants and the things he’s supposed to do.

Not that it mattered. Max wouldn’t be making any decisions. Not really. Not when Charles could make them for him.

Max blinked the moment away with a crooked smile. “Yeah… one day.” He turned his attention back to the rig. “Off topic, but—this setup? It’s amazing already. I haven’t even driven yet, and it’s so comfortable. Almost like home. You picked a great chair, Charles.”

Charles smiled tightly. Great chair, my ass. He’d scented the seat before Max came in—subtle, but noticeable. Territorial. He wanted Max to associate that comfort, that ease, with him . And it was working.

“I’m glad you like it, Max. Go on—try it out.”

Max didn’t need to be told twice. He launched iRacing with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t slept in days and finally got coffee. And God—he was good . Shockingly so. He took the corners like he’d memorized the track blind, breaking late and hard and dancing on the edge of disaster like it was second nature.

Charles watched, enthralled. It made something primal rise in him, watching Max excel like that. It made him want to press his hands against the sides of his face and say mine out loud, over and over again until Max believed it.

“Max,” Charles said slowly, “you’re, like… super good. I’m honestly in awe. Have you ever thought about taking one of the cars for a real spin? Just for fun.”

Max turned to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief and boyish excitement. “You’d trust me with one of those ? Like—your actual babies?”

Charles tilted his head, eyes narrowing in playful challenge. “I trust you.” His voice dipped a little lower. “Whenever I offer something, I mean it.”

Max hesitated, then grinned. “Well in that case… whenever you’re free.”

“I’m free now. Still a couple hours before sunset. Movie night can wait.”

Max was on his feet instantly, practically vibrating with energy. Adorable, Charles thought again. He didn’t say it. He just led him to the garage.

He knew exactly which car to pick. The SF90 was already unlocked, just like Charles had planned.

“No way you’re letting me drive an SF90,” Max gaped, jaw slack as he stared at the sleek, low beast of a car. “Charles, this is insane .”

“You showed me what you can do. I’d be stupid not to let you.” He softened the words with a smile, but the edge of command still lingered. Edge of the Alpha voice . “Get in.”

And Max did. Without a word. Like he was on auto-pilot.

Good.

This seat had been pre-scented, too. Everything in this car was primed to make Max feel held. Comfortable. Like he belonged here. With Charles.

The engine roared to life, and Charles watched as Max relaxed behind the wheel, almost like he was slipping into another skin. He belonged there, too.

As they pulled onto the road, Charles tapped the screen of his phone and brought up Maps.

Max flicked a glance at him. “Where are we going?”

“There’s something we need to pick up,” Charles said calmly, eyes focused on the road. “We’re not in a rush. Drive however you want… as long as we get there.”

And just like that, Max nodded and pressed the throttle down a little harder.

Charles let his hand rest lightly on the center console, fingers curled in just a little. Close enough that, if Max reached for it, he’d find it waiting. Not touching. Not quite. Just there.

The way it always would be.

Just like Charles.

Waiting. Watching.

Claiming.

Max hadn’t expected to end up in Monaco today.

Hell, he hadn’t even expected to leave the house. But here he was—surrounded by gleaming marble, gold accents, and the kind of atmosphere that made him acutely aware of every wrinkle in his t-shirt and every scuff on his Adidas. The city glittered, endless and dazzling, and Max couldn’t stop the way his steps drew him closer to Charles, instinctive, like a planet tugged toward a stronger gravity.

The Cartier boutique was impossibly sleek. Cool air-conditioning swept over them as they stepped inside, and the security guards greeted Charles like he was some kind of royal. Their eyes barely flicked to Max, who trailed behind in silence, the outsider clearly tagged as not one of them .

Charles slipped into easy French with the sales associate, the language melting off his tongue like velvet. Max stood awkwardly, arms crossed, trying not to fidget under the staff’s subtle, assessing looks. He felt like a walking stain in this immaculate world.

When the associate disappeared through a back door, Max leaned in, voice low. “You could’ve warned me we were coming here. I would've… worn something less homeless.”

Charles turned to him, eyes fond. “Why? You look perfect, mon amour .”

He brushed a thumb across Max’s forehead, tucking a curl away like it was second nature. It made something clench in Max’s chest.

Max laughed, weak. “Security definitely doesn’t think so. That guy over there keeps watching me like I’ve got a crowbar tucked in my pocket.”

“Which one?” Charles asked, voice darkening slightly, and somehow his hand had ended up at Max’s waist. Possessive. Protective. Anchoring.

“Black hair. Standing near that giant green necklace thing.”

Charles didn’t look right away. He didn’t have to. His fingers tightened just a little. “Don’t worry, bébé . I’ll handle it.”

Max wasn’t sure what that meant, but he didn’t ask. Especially not when the associate returned with a smile and gestured them toward a private showroom. Charles’s hand never left his waist.

The room was opulent, quiet, scented faintly like roses and money. Champagne was poured. Charles murmured something too low for Max to catch, and the woman’s face shifted—apologetic, almost alarmed—before she left them alone again.

“Sooo…” Max swirled the champagne in his flute, pretending to be casual. “What are you getting? I always figured you were more of a Richard Mille guy. You don’t really wear Cartier, do you?”

Charles chuckled, and Max immediately regretted the question. There was something too smug in that smile. “No, I don’t. This isn’t for me.”

Max blinked. “Oh. So… a girl, then?”

He winced the second the words left his mouth. That came out way more jealous than he intended.

Charles arched a brow, clearly amused. “You could say that.”

Before Max could press him—before he could untangle the weird tight feeling in his stomach—the associate returned with a small, elegant box. She placed it gently on the velvet-covered table and slipped out without a word.

“She’s not staying?” Max asked.

“I asked for privacy,” Charles said simply. He slid the box closer. “Open it.”

Max stared at it. “Wait, me ?”

“Yes, you . Go on, ma vie . Don’t be shy.”

Still blinking in confusion, Max hesitated before tugging at the ribbon, undoing it with unsure fingers. The box gave a soft click as he lifted the lid, and nestled inside—resting against velvet—was a slender, gleaming gold bracelet. Solid. Heavy-looking. Unmistakably expensive.

He recognized it, vaguely. A Cartier something bracelet. He didn’t really know much about jewelry—didn’t care to—but he remembered his sister sighing over it once, dramatically lamenting that it was the bracelet, the one she’d “literally sell a kidney for.”

And now one was just… sitting here. In a box. Right in front of him.

“It’s beautiful,” Max whispered. “Really beautiful.”

Charles’s eyes gleamed. “Give me your hand.”

“You—what? It’s… it’s for me ?” His voice cracked a little. This had to be a joke. This thing cost more than his entire wardrobe combined.

“It’s exactly for you,” Charles said. “A final apology for last night.”

Last night. Oh God. That wasn’t even a bad memory. Max would relive it a hundred times over if Charles asked him to. If he let him.

Still overwhelmed, Max slowly offered him his wrist, hesitating only for a breath before giving in. The moment Charles's fingers wrapped gently around it, something inside him stuttered—too much, too tender, too fucking real .

His eyes burned again, that all-too-familiar sting rising uninvited. He blinked rapidly, jaw clenched tight. No. Not now. Not again .

What the hell was wrong with him today? He wasn’t like this. He didn’t get teary over gold bracelets and soft voices and being seen like this.

Get a grip, man. Hold it together.

Charles’s touch was tender as he worked the bracelet on, turning the tiny screwdriver with precision. Max’s breath caught when he noticed something etched inside the gold.

Property of C—

But before he could read the rest, the bracelet clicked into place.

“You don’t have to take it off,” Charles murmured, catching Max’s stunned look. “It’s waterproof. You’ll forget you’re even wearing it. I chose gold because it’ll match that necklace of yours. Is that alright?”

“Charles,” Max breathed, “I’ve literally never been more alright in my entire life. This is—this is insane. This is the best day ever. Thank you.”

He surged forward before he could stop himself, wrapping his arms around Charles and burying his face into his neck, breathing him in. Charles smelled like love, home and the exact kind of comfort Max hadn’t known he craved until now.

Charles held him there, arms snug around him, one hand cradling the back of his head, whispering in soft, low French: Good boy. Mine. You’re mine now.

By the time they left the room, Max noticed the black-haired security guard was gone. The other employees were all smiles now, bowing slightly when Charles passed, and looking at Max with something closer to respect. Or fear.

Whatever Charles had said, it worked .

They returned to the SF90 parked out front like it had been plucked from a dream. Max hesitated by the passenger door, unsure.

But Charles just walked around to the other side and opened the driver’s door. “You drive.”

Max’s heart thudded as he slid in. Tourists snapped pictures from across the street, flashes bouncing off the hood.

Charles didn’t seem to care.

Max glanced at him, bracelet still gleaming on his wrist, golden and permanent.

He’s never going to take it off now, is he?

The movie night was... uneventful. Strangely so, especially considering the rest of the day had felt like a fever dream of gold bracelets, roaring engines, and Charles's hands on his skin.

Max had brought blankets down from their rooms—his and Charles’s—because the guest ones were too stiff, too clean, too impersonal. Theirs smelled like fabric softener and sleep and something deeper he didn’t want to name. He caught Charles watching him while he fluffed the pillows and adjusted the blankets, that same unreadable smirk tugging at his lips, dark eyes following every move like Max was something precious he was barely keeping himself from devouring.

“Something funny?” Max asked, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

Charles just tilted his head, lounging lazily on the couch like he owned the world. “No, amour . Just enjoying the view.”

Max rolled his eyes, but the heat rising up his neck betrayed him. He tried to focus on the movie. Or at least pretend to.

But by the time the second act had rolled around, they’d migrated closer. Naturally. Inevitably. Charles was warm and solid at his side, his arm draped around Max like it had always belonged there. Max leaned into him, cheek resting against Charles’s shoulder, heart beating just a little too fast to be casual.

He was half-expecting—maybe even hoping—that Charles would tilt his chin up and kiss him. Just like that. Take control of the night the same way he had taken control of everything else. But the kiss never came. Just a steady hand, resting possessively on his hip, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against the soft cotton of his shirt. Charles didn’t press. Didn’t push. Just held him.

Max could feel the hum of Charles’s breath against his temple, the heat of him soaking into his skin.

Safe. Cared for. Watched over like he was something worth guarding.

It was everything. And it terrified him.

Because nothing this good lasted. Not for him. And certainly not with someone like Charles—someone who had darkness behind his smile and knives hidden behind soft hands.

So he let himself drift off, tucked into the curve of Charles’s body, with a single traitorous thought echoing through the soft quiet:

This is going to end in disaster. And I’m going to let it.

Chapter Text

When Max told Charles he needed to go back home for a week, he braced for a storm. A cold look. A guilt trip. Maybe even a clipped "no."

Instead, Charles just tilted his head, unreadable, before quietly nodding. “Of course, mon cœur . But you’ll come back, yes?”

Something in his voice made Max pause — low, smooth, and too gentle, like silk wrapping around a blade. Max nodded, suddenly unsure who was in control of this goodbye.

Before he left, Charles handed him a small bottle — no brand, no label, just thick glass and a silver cap. “ Pour toi ,” he murmured, pressing it into Max’s palm.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Are you giving me a mystery perfume now?”

Charles’s smile was unreadable. “Not quite a perfume. It’s… calming. Something to make you feel safe. At ease. I had it made, but it’s not for sale. Just for you. You’ve been a bit stressed lately.”

He said it like that wasn’t the full truth. Well no need to worry about that now, Horner is much more of a problem.

And when Max got in the car, driving away from the estate, the perfume already clinging to his collar bone like a memory, he realized what it really was: a leash. Invisible. Beautiful. And entirely his.

Back at HQ, Max had barely stepped into the lobby before the strange looks started. Not malicious — more like confusion wrapped in unease. Familiar faces turned to watch him pass, and he caught whispers trailing after him.

Okay. Weird.

As he turned the corner, someone lunged from behind and grabbed him in a chokehold-hug.

“MAXXXX! You’re alive!” Daniel’s voice was way too loud. “Jesus, you were gone for so long I thought Leclerc had you killed and fed to his koi fish!”

“Fucking hell, Danny—” Max wheezed, laughing despite himself. “You trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Thought you ghosted us forever. Living in a castle change you that much?”

They started walking toward Horner’s office, Daniel bouncing beside him like a golden retriever on a sugar high.

“Not really,” Max said, smiling. “Actually… it was kinda nice. Quiet. Relaxing.”

Daniel shot him a side-eye. “Relaxing? You were literally at Charles Leclerc’s private estate. The man’s got blood money and dead-eyed security. What part of that is relaxing?”

Max shrugged. “You’d be surprised.”

“Oh, I’m sure I would. So, how is he?” Daniel bumped his shoulder. “Come on, babe. Is he really the cold-hearted bastard everyone says he is?”

Max frowned, immediately defensive. “Heartless? No. He’s… intense, yeah, but not heartless. He’s actually kind. Thoughtful. He cooks, Danny. He made me crepes . Let me fall asleep on him, kind of.”

Daniel blinked. “Okay what—he let you do what now?”

Max looked away, cheeks heating. “I mean it kind of happened? Just… shut up. He also let me drive his SF90. It was amazing .”

Daniel shot him a wild grin. “Oh yeah, I saw that. Everyone saw that. It’s been the topic around here all week.”

Ah. So that’s why everyone kept staring. His face flushed even deeper.

Daniel leaned in, voice dropping to something conspiratorial. “Even Seb joined the gossip train. You know with his history with Leclerc, he couldn’t believe you actually got behind the wheel of one of his cars. How the hell did you pull that off?”

“I don’t know. He suggested it himself. He trusts me.”

“Trusts you enough to let you drive that ? Dude, I don’t know what kind of spell you’ve cast, but it’s working.”

Max chuckled, trying to brush it off. “He got me a sim rig too. Said it was an apology.”

Daniel stopped walking. “Hold up. He bought you a sim rig?”

Max’s smile flickered, fading at the edges. “Yeah… well, it was after something happened. Kind of a misunderstanding.”

A misunderstanding he kept reliving every night like muscle memory, worn in and impossible to shake.

Daniel’s expression shifted, going suddenly serious. “Did he hurt you?”

“What? No! No, it wasn’t like that.” Max’s gaze darted to the hallway ahead, desperate for a change in subject. “It just… got intense. But not in a bad way. Not really.”

Daniel didn’t look remotely convinced. “If he laid a finger on you in a way you didn’t agree to, I swear to god I’ll personally shove that overpriced Richard Mille of his down his throat. He thinks you’re just the housekeeper—don’t let him take advantage of that. Don’t let him overstep.”

Max bit the inside of his cheek. Overstep didn’t even begin to cover it. The lines between them weren’t just crossed—they’d been rewritten entirely, blurred into something unrecognizable.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I won’t.”

Daniel still looked wary, but finally sighed. “Fine. Go, deal with Horner. But if that Leclerc guy so much as raises his voice at you, I’ll be waiting outside with a bat.”

Max gave him a fond smile. “Thanks. I missed you too.”

With one last deep breath, he knocked on the door, dreading what was to come.

The door clicked shut behind Max, soft but final.

Christian Horner didn’t look up right away — just kept scribbling something onto a document spread across his desk, pen moving with clipped, sharp strokes. The office smelled like leather and mint tea. Like control. Like Red Bull.

“Sit,” Horner said eventually, voice flat.

Max did. The chair felt stiffer than he remembered.

There was a long pause before Horner set the pen down and finally met his eyes. It wasn’t warm. It never was.

“Well?”

Max swallowed, sat a little straighter. “I’ve mapped out some of their export routes. A lot of the high-volume traffic runs through their Modena warehouse, but they’ve got smaller, scattered locations across southern France — Grasse, Nice, even a shell property near Avignon.”

Horner nodded once. “And?”

“They’re pushing out through the private docks. Mostly night shipments. I couldn’t get full schedules, but I’ve tagged some plate numbers. Could be useful if we intercept.”

Another nod. Still impassive. Max exhaled, just a little. Maybe this wouldn’t go terribly.

“And the thing?” Horner asked suddenly, eyes narrowing. 

Max swallowed. “The… thing ?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. The formula,” Horner said, his voice low and cutting. “The one they’re developing in-house. Experimental, untested, and from what I’ve heard—permanent. This isn’t just another suppressor. It’s something new. Something dangerous.”

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Did you find anything?”

Max swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “No. Nothing solid. I—I think the labs are off-site. Hidden. I’ve heard whispers, conversations about trials, something about biological manipulation, but nothing I can prove—”

“You’ve been embedded there for months , Max.” Horner’s voice didn’t rise, but the chill in it could’ve frozen bone. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting around playing house while they are about to put us out of business.”

“No! I’ve been working—” Max sat forward, pulse skittering. “I’ve got locations, routes, code names, I’ve earned Leclerc’s trust—”

“His trust ?” Horner cut in, and there it was. The bite behind the smile. “That wasn’t the mission brief.”

Max’s mouth opened, closed. “I—It’s not like that.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Horner leaned back, steepling his fingers. “So tell me, Max. What exactly have you been doing over there? Besides driving his cars. Sleeping in his bed? Wearing his bracelet?” Instinctively Max pulled his sleeve further down. “I have to admit, it’s a nice one. Leclerc always had taste. A Cartier Love Bracelet is quite a gift for a housekeeper.”

So that was the name. Well .

Max’s hand curled into a fist on his thigh. “You told me to get close. I got close. Closer than anyone else ever managed. And he still hasn’t figured out who I really am.”

“And you have nothing on the formula?” Horner pressed. “No files, no samples, no whispers? Not even a hint?”

Max’s silence answered for him.

The look Horner gave him then was something between disappointment and suspicion. “You're slipping. Don’t forget who you work for. And don’t forget—I know exactly where your little sister lives.”

“I haven’t,” Max said too quickly, panic skimming just beneath the surface. “I haven’t .”

Not the first time Horner had dangled that threat. He knew Victoria was the only thing Max had left, and he weaponized that knowledge every chance he got.

Christian sighed, like the burden of Max’s failure had become a personal inconvenience. “You’ve got one month. That’s it. If you can’t bring me something actionable by then…”

He leaned back, the smile on his face anything but kind.

“I’ll have to reconsider your value. Maybe pay Victoria a visit—leave an impression she won’t forget.”

Max’s stomach turned. “Understood.”

“Good.” Horner picked the pen back up, already finished with him. “You’re dismissed.”

Max stood, legs slightly shaky, and turned toward the door.

“Oh, and Max?” Horner called just as his hand reached the doorknob.

He turned, heart crawling up his throat. “Yeah?”

“Remember where your loyalty lies.”

Max didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The perfumes Charles gave him still lingered faintly on his skin, soft and soothing. Like peace. Like home.

Like an escape from it all.

Max stared into his drink like it might hold some kind of escape hatch. The low hum of the bar wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket — too warm, too close. Daniel’s voice blended into the music. Sebastian’s questions felt like tiny, dull knives pressed against his temple.

“How is Charles?”
“Did he really let you drive that car?”
“Was Alonso there at any point?”

Max set his glass down harder than he meant to. “Do you guys ever stop?”

Daniel blinked. “Mate, we’re just—”

“I’m tired,” Max snapped. “Tired of all the questions. Tired of everyone asking me what he’s like, what he’s thinking, what he’s planning . He barely even tells me half the time. And I live in his fucking house.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, wine untouched, expression unreadable.

“I just…” Max sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t get how he does it. How everyone either ends up worshipping him or walking away like they’ve just survived a war. What the fuck is that?”

There was a pause. Daniel looked at Seb.

And then, quietly, Seb said, “That’s what I wanted to ask him too. Back then.”

Max glanced at him. “You and him. You were close, weren’t you? Friends?”

“For a time.” Sebastian’s smile was tired. “Until I wasn’t anymore.”

Max frowned. “What happened?”

Seb looked down at his glass. Tilted it. Didn’t drink. “Charles happened.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Seb chuckled softly. “No. But it’s the truth.”

He shifted in his seat, hands folded loosely in front of him. “He started off as my assistant. Young, smart, polite. Obsessed with structure. With perfection. He’d fix things before I even noticed they were broken. Knew what I needed before I did. Made himself indispensable.”

Max stayed silent. He knew this pattern. Too well.

“But then the lines started to blur,” Seb continued. “He stopped asking what I wanted and started deciding for me. Cancelled meetings without telling me. Changed shipment dates. Turned down offers I hadn’t even read yet. When I asked why, he’d say something like, ‘It wasn’t good enough for you.’ Or worse: ‘I knew you’d say yes, so I didn’t want to let you settle.’”

Max’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Seb’s gaze met his, sharp and heavy. “He wasn’t trying to hurt me. Not really. He thought he was helping. That’s the dangerous part. Charles doesn’t manipulate just because he wants control. He manipulates because he genuinely believes he knows better .”

“He does that,” Max whispered, more to himself than to them. “He makes you feel like… like trusting him is the only logical thing to do.”

Seb nodded. “And the moment you don’t, he looks at you like you’re the betrayal. Like he’s disappointed. Like you failed him.”

Daniel stayed quiet, unusually so. Maybe even he felt it — the gravity of what Seb was saying. Of what it could mean for his best friend.

Max leaned back, the weight of it all pressing down on his chest. “You regret walking away?”

Seb didn't answer right away. Then, softly, “No. I regret letting it go that far.”

Max rubbed his thumb over the edge of his glass, thinking of the way Charles touched his wrist when he fastened the bracelet. The way he said mine in that unshakable voice, like it was fact, not claim.

“He doesn’t mean to,” Max said, voice small. “But it still happens.”

Seb looked at him gently. “And it’ll keep happening. Until someone tells him no.”

Max snorted bitterly. “Good luck with that.”

Seb didn’t laugh. Just looked at him, gaze full of something sad and too knowing.

“Just make sure it’s not too late when you finally do.”

By the third day away from Charles, something inside Max fractured — quiet at first, like the soft snapping of a thread. But it didn’t stay quiet for long.

The scent was gone.

That warm, amber-rich scent that had clung to his skin, lingered on his collarbones, soaked into his shirt seams like a secret—gone. He’d tried everything. Sprayed the mystery bottle until the air felt thick with it, until it dripped off his wrists like rain. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t the same. It didn’t calm him the way the amber did. It wasn’t him .

Charles’s scent wasn’t something you could bottle. Max was starting to think it was a spell.

And now it was broken.

He hadn't slept properly in two nights. There were dark circles under his eyes, and every time someone passed too close to him in the hall, he had to force himself not to turn and check, just in case—like Charles had followed him, like the scent might return on a phantom breeze.

God, he missed him. It hurt.

Daniel had started poking around after their bar talk.

Max dodged questions, played stupid. Gave clipped little responses like, “He’s not that bad” and “Yeah, the place is nice, I guess.”

But Daniel was annoyingly perceptive. And loud.

The bracelet was not helping.

“ THE love bracelet?” Daniel shrieked when he finally noticed it — a flash of solid gold against Max’s wrist as he reached for a coffee mug in the break room.

Max tried to tuck his hand away too late. He’d stopped hiding it. Why bother?

“Jesus Christ, Max,” Daniel gasped, grabbing his arm. “That’s the Cartier one, right? You’re telling me this man you’re spying on gifted you a bracelet that costs what — five grand?!”

Max coughed. “Actually… it was like eight, I think. Something about a custom order.” He shrugged, eyes dropping to the bracelet as his fingers slid gently along its curve, almost tender. “It’s the most expensive thing I own.”

“You think?” Daniel echoed, half laughing, half horrified. “Max, I googled it. That’s not just a bracelet. That’s the bracelet. The one people buy for soulmates , not servants. That shit locks , doesn’t it?”

Max’s cheeks flushed. He didn’t answer. He remembered all too well how it locked. How Charles had knelt in front of him, had fastened it with steady hands and a glint in his eye that made Max’s knees weak. How he hadn’t even questioned it.

Daniel leaned closer, voice suddenly softer, more serious. “You’re not just playing pretend anymore, are you?”

Max looked at him. At the worry there, buried beneath the teasing. He opened his mouth to lie, but his throat closed around the words.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. Quiet. Raw.

Daniel sighed. “You need to get your head straight before this blows up in your face, mate. Remember what Seb said. And if Horner finds out you’re not just gathering intel but catching feelings —”

“I know ,” Max snapped, sharper than he meant to. Then softer, “I know.”

He pressed his thumb against the bracelet like it could ground him. It didn’t.

On the fourth day Max didn’t even remember calling the taxi to the airport.

One minute he was staring blankly at his apartment ceiling, the shadows shaped like Charles’s hands across his chest, the next he was hurtling down winding roads, watching the familiar countryside blur past the windows. He didn’t tell Daniel. He didn’t tell anyone.

He had to see him. Had to breathe him in. Otherwise he'd go insane.

It was pathetic, honestly. Embarrassing.

But he didn’t care.

The cab dropped him off at the edge of the estate, just before the heavy gates. The driver gave him a strange look when he said “It’s fine, I’ll walk from here” , but Max didn’t offer an explanation. His legs felt twitchy, anxious. Like if he didn’t move, he’d combust.

The walk up the long driveway was quiet. Still. Like the world was holding its breath.

He half expected the guards to come out of the hedges and drag him off. But no one saw him. No one stopped him. The estate felt… unguarded .

As he rounded the last bend, the house appeared — sun-drenched and imposing. The glass shimmered like it had missed him too. Max took the steps two at a time, heart racing, and let himself in through the side entrance.

No one noticed.

He could hear voices. Faint and distant. Max followed the sound, soft steps across cold marble, pulse beating in his throat like a war drum.

And then he saw him.

Charles.

Standing in the grand salon, back partially to Max, gesturing lightly with a glass in one hand as he spoke to someone Max didn’t recognize. Brunette. Smiling. Cleanly dressed in a pressed white shirt and fitted slacks, his hands folded politely in front of him.

Max stopped in his tracks.

Charles laughed at something the man said. Not one of those cold, calculated laughs he used in public — this one was warm, amused. Intimate .

Something in Max’s chest pulled painfully tight.

He stepped into the room without meaning to.

Charles looked up instantly — eyes locking on Max like they had been trained to find him in every room, in every world. There was a beat of silence so loud it drowned everything else.

“Max?” Charles blinked, stunned. “What are you—?”

The stranger turned, curious. Charles caught the shift and cleared his throat.

“Pierre,” he said quickly, “this is Max. Max, this is Pierre — the new housekeeper.”

Max blinked. “Housekeeper?”

“Just temporary,” Pierre said, still smiling, unaware of the way Max’s posture had turned stiff, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Charles mentioned there’s a banquet next week, and he thought he might need an extra hand around here.”

Max’s eyes darted to Charles. “You’re having a banquet?”

“I was going to tell you,” Charles said slowly, moving toward him now. He set his glass down. “I didn’t know you’d be back so soon. Weren’t you supposed to be gone for what… three more days?”

Max hated how relieved he felt, just from the fact Charles had closed the space between them. Hated the warmth that bloomed when Charles reached out and tucked a curl behind his ear like it hadn’t been days, like it hadn’t been hell .

“I got things done quicker than I thought I would.” Max’s voice was tight. “So, you hired someone to help me?”

“I didn’t want you to be overwhelmed,” Charles said gently. “You have been so stressed lately. I notice these things.”

Pierre chuckled awkwardly. “If I’m intruding, I can—”

“You’re fine,” Charles said without looking at him.

Max was glaring at him.

Pierre excused himself a moment later, and Max didn’t look away until he was gone.

“You didn’t need to replace me,” Max said under his breath. “I wasn’t gone forever.”

Charles’s hand came to rest on his hip, grounding, possessive. “I would never replace you, mon amour ,” he murmured. “But I will make sure you're taken care of. Even when you're being reckless and running off to punish me.”

“I didn’t—” Max started, but Charles leaned in, inhaled deeply against his neck.

“You smell like nothing , Maxie,” he whispered. “Like the city. Like distance. I hate it.”

Max shivered.

“I missed you,” he breathed, almost ashamed to say it.

“I know,” Charles said, tilting Max’s face toward him, his eyes darker than they had any right to be in the afternoon sun. “So don’t leave me again.”

“I won’t,” Max whispered. “I swear.”

When Charles had told Max he didn’t smell like anything, he hadn’t been exaggerating. The spray was working, exactly as it was designed to. If Max had gone back to Red Bull reeking of blueberries and instinctual longing, Horner would have known something was off. They would’ve torn him apart, tested his blood, maybe locked him down.

Thank god for the scent-blocker. Without it, Charles would’ve chained Max to the bed before letting him step foot outside the estate.

Letting him leave had already been a calculated risk. One he hated. But the scientist—his lead developer—had insisted that separation was necessary. That in order for Max’s body to finish the shift, he needed emotional stress. Intensity. Being away from his alpha was just the fist part of the final trigger. And Charles, though possessive to the point of madness, had enough discipline to play the long game. Even if it gutted him.

Pierre had been a convenient coincidence at first. New staff were needed with the banquet coming up, and Pierre was well-trained, obedient, quiet . But once Max started unraveling Charles had seen the opportunity. The jealousy in Max’s eyes when he walked in on Charles and Pierre talking was like a live wire straight to his spine.

It was working.

Even the sim rig gift had triggered more emotion than expected. Max had teared up, blinking fast and trying to hide it with a weak smile, biting his lip like the gesture had touched something too raw inside him. Charles had stood in front of him, gentle hands on his shoulders, pretending not to notice the way Max shook beneath his touch. Pretending not to feel how right it was to have him like that. 

He’d looked so small like that. So perfectly his .

Charles also hadn’t meant to leave a mark that night. Truly. But Max had fallen asleep on his shoulder like he belonged there, and Charles’s control only extended so far. A soft kiss had turned into a nip, and by morning, a faint reddish bloom lingered at the back of Max’s neck. Charles had spent the rest of the day fighting the possessive curl of satisfaction in his chest every time Max scratched at it in confusion.

Now, with Max away and so clearly fraying at the edges, Charles was done pretending patience. Done pretending restraint.

Charles stared out the window, fingers curled tightly around the crystal tumbler in his hand. The scent of Max had faded from the blankets. The house felt colder. Emptier. 

He was running out of patience.

Soon, Max would finally be his. Charles was certain of it. And when he will be, there won’t be any more hesitation. No more half-measures. Just Charles, Max, and the inevitable path they were already walking.

Together.

Pierre was starting to piss him off.

No— infuriate him. The kind of quiet, simmering rage that clung to Max’s skin like static. It crept up slowly, like smoke through the cracks, until every little thing the man did grated at his nerves.

The way he hovered around Charles like a moth drawn to golden flame. The way he seized every opportunity to start conversations, always in French—soft, elegant, exclusionary French—as if Max wasn’t standing barely five feet away, eyes flicking between them like he could will himself into comprehension.

Max didn’t speak French. Pierre knew that. Charles knew that. And yet they went on, day after day, like he was invisible.

At first, Max told himself he was imagining it. That he was tired. That he was just missing Charles after the week apart and still adjusting to being back. But three days out from the banquet, it was undeniable: Pierre was always there. Always within arm’s reach of Charles. Laughing. Touching his shoulder casually. Pouring his wine like he owned the fucking estate.

What made it worse—what broke something in Max—was how Charles responded.

He smiled at him.

Not the smile Max had come to crave, the one that was private and crooked and soft at the edges. No, this was the open, charming kind—the one Charles used with guests, with diplomats, with people he wanted something from. But it was frequent. Too frequent. Charles would laugh at something Pierre said and Max would feel it, sharp and cold and wrong , slicing through his chest.

They weren’t spending time alone the same way anymore.

Charles still made time for him, sure. Still touched him when they passed in the hallway. Still brushed fingers against his back when they watched movies or brought him his favorite coffee without asking.

But it wasn’t the same.

He didn’t curl up beside Max on the couch anymore, didn’t whisper stupid things into his neck until he fell asleep smiling. He didn’t linger near the sim at night, pretending to read while clearly watching Max drive. Now, Charles was often elsewhere—talking in hushed tones with Pierre outside the library, heads bent close together, voices muffled but intimate.

Max stared down at his hands, curled into fists in his lap. The bracelet Charles gave him—solid gold, still gleaming under the soft light—felt heavier tonight.

And maybe that was what pushed him over the edge.

He found them on the terrace.

The door was cracked just enough to let in the cool evening breeze—and just enough for Max to hear the soft cadence of French, careful and low. Pierre’s voice. That same gentle, coaxing tone he always used when he was trying to seem effortless, harmless. Like he wasn’t clearly inserting himself where he didn’t belong.

Max froze in the shadow of the hallway, every nerve in his body on edge, heart pounding hard against his ribs. He couldn’t see much—just the silhouettes framed by moonlight. Charles was leaning in, close, head tilted slightly as Pierre murmured something with a laugh that made Max’s stomach twist. And then—

Charles’s hand moved, brushing a strand of hair from Pierre’s forehead with a tenderness that made Max’s vision white out for a second. The Frenchman smiled and leaned in as if he was about to—

No.

He didn’t even think. He just moved.

The door flew open with a loud crack, slamming against the wall hard enough to rattle the glass panes. Both men jolted—Pierre startled visibly, stepping back, while Charles turned sharply, expression already darkening.

“Wow,” he said dryly, crossing his arms. “Didn’t know you were holding a private comedy show out here. Should I grab tickets next time?”

Charles looked up, blinking in surprise. “Max, mon cœur . I didn’t know you were still awake.”

“Oh, I am. Wide awake. Hard to sleep when the house is echoing with French I don’t understand and laughter that used to be mine.”

The words came out sharper than intended. Or maybe exactly as sharp as he needed them to be.

Pierre shifted uncomfortably. “I was just going over the guest list—”

Max cut him off. “Yeah? That takes three days of conversation?”

Charles’s gaze narrowed. “Max.”

“No, seriously,” Max stepped closer, heat in his chest rising fast. “It’s impressive. I’ve never seen anyone manage to be this involved in planning. You’re practically his shadow.”

Charles’s voice dropped into something colder. Warning. “ Max . Enough.”

That hurt.

Max’s chest rose and fell too quickly. “Right. Sorry. I forgot my place.” He turned to leave, but Charles caught his wrist—fingers firm around the bracelet.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

“I’m not. I’m just—” Max shook his head, eyes glassy. “I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore. You’ve got him now, right?”

Charles’s grip tightened just enough to make Max look at him.

“I always had you,” Charles said, voice low, possessive. “And I don’t share .”

Max stared up at him, breath catching.

Pierre cleared his throat awkwardly. “I… I’ll leave you two alone.”

Charles didn’t even glance at him as he left. His focus was solely on Max, eyes dark with something dangerous, hungry, furious .

“I hired him to help you,” Charles said tightly. “Because I thought this week would overwhelm you. Because I thought you deserved support, not stress. Seems like I was wrong.”

Max swallowed hard, his throat thick with something he couldn’t name. His neck ached — a low, pulsing burn just beneath the skin. He didn’t understand why. But the pain made it harder to speak, harder to think.

His voice cracked when he finally forced the words out. “Then why does it feel like you’re replacing me?”

Charles’s gaze sharpened. He tilted his head, eyes raking over Max like he was reading the full measure of his vulnerability — and not feeling particularly kind about it.

“Because you’re jealous,” Charles said coolly. His tone wasn’t cruel — not exactly. Just matter-of-fact, like he was diagnosing a fever. Then, a beat later, sharper: 

“And maybe you should be. Maybe that’s what you need right now.”

Max blinked. Charles never talked to him like that. “What the hell does that mean?”

Charles stepped closer—so close Max could feel the heat of him, smell the faintest trace of that intoxicating alpha scent that clung to his skin like smoke. It wrapped around him, pulled at something deep in his chest. That ache. That hollow space that never stopped screaming when Charles was too far away.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Charles murmured, voice like velvet drawn over a blade.

Max blinked. “What?” The words didn’t land right. They fell crooked in his mind, too vague, too final. He tilted his chin up, trying to read something— anything —in those eyes that used to look at him like he hung the stars. Now they bordered on disappointment. 

“Could you be any more cryptic?” He said sarcastically. Control was slipping further and further away from him.

Charles didn’t answer. Just stared, unreadable. And that silence was somehow worse than if he had screamed.

Max’s chest tightened painfully. “Seriously, what the hell is going on with you lately? You’ve been—distant. Cold. I don’t… I don’t get it. Did I do something?”

Charles didn’t blink. “Not everything is about you, Max.”

The words hit like a slap. Sharp. Dismissive.

Max recoiled slightly, mouth falling open before he could catch himself. “Wow. Okay. So this is where we’re at now? You treat me like I’m made of glass for weeks, act like I’m something precious, and now suddenly I’m just—what? A nuisance ?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re acting like it!” Max snapped, voice cracking under the pressure of all the shit he had been trying so hard not to say. “You don’t even look at me the same way anymore. You spend all your time whispering with him. Laughing with him. Like I’m not even fucking here!”

Charles exhaled, slow and measured. “Pierre has nothing to do with this.”

Max scoffed, eyes suddenly burning. “Right. Of course not. He just happened to show up the moment I left. Just happened to get glued to your side the second I came back. You think I’m stupid?”

Charles’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t respond fast enough.

“You’ve barely touched me in days,” Max went on, bitterness bleeding into every syllable. “You used to act like you couldn’t stand being away from me for five minutes. And now I can’t even finish a sentence without you glancing at him. What did he say to you, huh? Is he telling you shit behind my back?”

“Max—”

“No. No, you don’t get to ‘Max’ me right now,” he bit out. “You don't get to look at me like that after ignoring me for days and then drop cryptic bullshit like ‘you’ll find out soon enough.’ What am I supposed to do with that?”

Charles’s expression flickered—just briefly—but Max caught it. The hesitation. The guilt. And for the first time, real fear pooled in Max’s stomach.

“You’re planning something,” he said, the words falling out quieter than he meant them to. “You’re hiding something from me.”

Charles stepped forward again, slow, predatory. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh really?” Max laughed bitterly, taking a step back. “Because it feels exactly like what I think.”

His hands were shaking.

He couldn’t tell if it was adrenaline, the lingering haze of Charles’s scent, or just the sheer emotional whiplash of being tossed aside like some meaningless object. His collarbone burned. His stomach churned with something raw, acidic. Shame? Hurt? Fury? 

“You brought Pierre in,” Max spat, voice tight and cracking at the edges, “and suddenly I’m this… this afterthought.”

Charles didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t shift. If anything, it hardened—eyes narrowing just enough to make Max feel like a child throwing a tantrum, not someone desperate for clarity. For reassurance.

“You’re being dramatic,” Charles said coolly. Like he was bored. Like none of this mattered.

Max’s chest caved in a little.

“Dramatic?” he echoed, incredulous. “I’ve been standing on the sidelines for days watching him hang off you like some fucking accessory, while you pretend like I’m invisible.”

Charles didn’t rise to the bait. His arms crossed slowly over his chest, his stance composed, almost clinical. “Pierre is here to help with the banquet. You know that.”

“Don’t insult me,” Max hissed, stepping forward. “This isn’t about the goddamn banquet.”

A flicker of something passed over Charles’s face—annoyance, maybe. Or disappointment.

“You think he means something to me?” he asked, his voice flat, devoid of heat or affection. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

Max clenched his jaw, pulse hammering at his temples. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Charles. You’re not talking to me. You barely look at me. You don’t even… you don’t care. Not like before.”

Charles tilted his head slightly, almost like he was studying him from a distance. “You’re imagining things.”

That hit harder than it should have. Max’s breath caught in his throat.

“Then prove I’m wrong,” he whispered, voice thin and trembling. “Prove I’m not just some toy you’re bored of. Prove it’s still me.”

Charles didn’t move.

For a moment, Max let himself hope— beg —that the other man would touch him, grab him, kiss him, do something . Something to make him feel wanted again. But the seconds stretched into silence, cold and suffocating.

Finally, Charles spoke.

“I don’t need to prove anything,” he said quietly. Not cruel, not kind—just detached. As though Max were no longer worth the effort. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Max’s heart thudded once. Twice. Then dropped like a stone.

“That’s it?” he asked, almost choking on it. “You’re just going to walk away?”

Charles looked at him. Looked, like he was assessing damage on a car that wasn’t worth fixing. Then he turned.

And walked out.

No backward glance. No apology. Not even a sliver of emotion in his step.

Max stood there alone in the hall, fists curled and useless at his sides. His throat burned. The scent Charles always left behind—it used to feel like comfort, like safety. Now it just made him nauseous.

He didn’t cry. Not yet. But he felt the heat behind his eyes, the pressure in his skull, the ache on his neck, the shift in his guts .

Maybe Pierre really was a replacement .

A replacement he needed to get rid of .

Chapter Text

They didn’t speak for the next two days.

Not a glance, not a word. Just silence thick enough to suffocate, bitter enough to choke on. And it was killing Max.

The amber scent that once grounded him—warm, earthy, addictive—now made his skin crawl. It clung to the sheets, to the air in every hallway of the house, and most of all to him. The scent that had once lulled him into sleep now curled in his lungs like smoke, sharp and heavy and wrong.

He felt like he was unraveling.

Every minute that passed without Charles looking at him made the anger coil tighter in his guts. It was constant now—this simmering, biting thing just beneath the surface. It wasn’t rational, it wasn’t fair, but it was real. Max had never been like this before. He used to be sharp, focused, calculated. Emotions used to be a thing he could set aside when they got in the way. Now they were the way. All the time. And he hated it.

He hated Pierre’s voice down the hall. He hated the soft thrum of Charles’s laugh that wasn’t meant for him. He hated the way they spoke in French—low and private—and the way it made him feel like a fucking outsider in the place that used to feel like home.

He especially hated how, despite everything, his body refused to get the memo.

Every time the tension spiked—every time he saw Charles brush past him without a word—his body would betray him. Heat bloomed low in his belly, the kind that left him aching and half-hunched over in pain—at the same time full of lust, burning and desperate without knowing what for.  

And the anger only made it worse. He’d snap, storm off, and twenty minutes later he’d be hissing through gritted teeth with his hand wrapped around his cock like it was some kind of curse.

Because even angry , even furious , he still wanted him. Needed him. That primal urge within him ached for the Monegasque.

“Fucking disgusting ,” he muttered to himself one night, wiping his wrist across his sweaty forehead after yet another shamefully fast, fevered jerk-off session in the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, heart still pounding, his reflection half-blurred by steam.

And then there was that smell again.

Blueberries.

Faint, but undeniably there. Like spring rain and sugared fruit, wrapped around him like a second skin.

“What the fuck,” he whispered, leaning in. He sniffed the air. And it wasn’t the cologne Charles gave him either— that bottle lay untouched on the bathroom shelf, dusty and forgotten, its calming effect long gone.

He hadn’t changed anything. Same detergent. Same deodorant.

And still—blueberries.

Everything felt so wrong lately. 

Max gripped the edge of the sink, his stomach twisting. Was he sick? Was it stress? Or… was this something else?

Something Charles hadn’t told him?

He slammed the cabinet shut with more force than necessary, breathing hard, trying to push the thought away. But it lingered—like the scent. Sweet and cloying and inescapable.

Down the hall, he heard Charles laugh again—low and soft—and Pierre murmuring something in reply.

Max’s vision went red for a second.

He wanted to scream. Or cry. Or march down the hall and shove Pierre against the nearest wall just to make space again. Just to remind Charles what was his.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and pressed his forehead to the mirror, cold glass against flushed skin.

He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

Maybe things were starting to spiral.

Charles had anticipated resistance—some confusion, stress, maybe a sharp word or two—but not like this. Not the way Max had broken in front of him, voice raised and hands trembling, pain written across every inch of his face like a wound split wide open.

He hadn't expected it to hurt .

Because this was the plan. Stress him, push him, edge him closer to the shift. Max needed high-emotion states, spikes of distress and vulnerability—at least that’s what the science said. That’s what they’d all agreed. The chemical cues, the psychological markers. It would speed everything up.

Charles was good at following plans.

But that night… that night had shattered something delicate and unspoken between them.

He still saw it when he closed his eyes—the way Max had stood there, barely keeping himself together, tears unshed but bright in his eyes, his voice wrecked with something far worse than anger. Betrayal.

"You're not even looking at me anymore."

"Prove I’m not just some toy you’re bored of."

And Charles had stood there. Said nothing. Because what could he say? Yes, I’m doing this to you on purpose? Yes, I want to break you down so you fall into me like you were always meant to?

He was supposed to be cold. Strategic. The one in control.

But watching Max snap like that—watching him unravel and bare his teeth—it had cracked something open in Charles, something ugly and fragile.

He hadn’t known Max could yell like that. Hadn’t known he could speak with such raw fury in his voice. It wasn’t just rage—it was devastation. It was heartbreak in real time, and it made Charles feel monstrous .

Of course he’d known Max would come to the terrace that night. Of course he knew Max would see the way he tucked Pierre’s hair behind his ear, hear the soft laugh, the gentle touch.

It was orchestrated. It was necessary.

But Max wasn’t supposed to bleed like that.

He thought Max would shut down, maybe sulk in his room, avoid him for a while—retreat into that quiet stubbornness Charles had grown to crave. Not yell. Not look at him like that .

God. That look.

Like Charles had reached into his chest and torn something out. Like he wasn’t the man Max trusted anymore.

And maybe he wasn’t.

Maybe Charles had gone too far.

But wasn’t this what he wanted? Max undone. Dependent. Craving his attention like air.

Then why did he feel like the ground was falling out from under him?

Why did he feel like he’d just made the worst mistake of his life?

He stood now in the dim hallway outside Max’s bedroom door, staring at the blank wood like it might offer him clarity. But there was nothing. No movement. No sound.

The same emptiness he’d felt in the echo of Max’s words ever since the fight.

And still—he didn’t knock. Didn’t enter. He couldn’t afford softness. Not yet.

Not when Max was so close to breaking.

Charles exhaled slowly, pressing his palm flat to the cool wall beside him, trying to bury the ache in his chest beneath logic, beneath the mission. But it clung to him like a ghost.

He wanted to go in there. To touch. To explain.

But instead he turned away. Because this wasn’t about want. This was about need .

And Max?

Max would come crawling back the moment his body betrayed him. The moment instinct took over. When the pressure peaked and his fragile composure cracked.

He had noticed how different Max looked now than the first time they met. Everything about him was softer now, his hips have gotten ever so little bit wider, chest a bit plumper. 

Charles wanted to take a bite.

He had also seen how Max was acting when he thought no one was looking. He didn’t install those cameras for nothing. Charles wasn’t paranoid—he was prepared. Curiosity may have sparked the first one, but obsession maintained the rest.

He turned on his office computer and opened the camera files. They only kept the last month of footage and recorded when they detected movement, so he didn’t need to search blindly. Charles appreciated efficiency. And control.

He scrolled through this week’s feed. Max staring. Again. And again. Especially when Charles was talking to Pierre. And the look he gave Pierre—if eyes could kill, the Frenchman would be buried six feet under by now. Charles smirked.

Jealous much?

He rewatched the fight. That one. Halfway through, he turned it off. God , why does it still hurt so much? The rage in Max’s voice, the desperation in his movements—it lingered under Charles’s skin, made his chest tight. 

But no, it would all be worth it. In the long run, Max would understand. 

He would see .

Charles queued the footage from the week Max had disappeared. One clip stood out: the meeting with Räikkönen. Cold-blooded genius, emotionally unavailable—he was exactly the kind of weapon Charles needed now. Kimi had debriefed him, sparing few words but delivering more than enough. Max was changing. Evolving. The shift in his behavior was sharp enough that even Kimi, ever unreadable, had looked mildly impressed. That alone said everything.

That had been the day Kimi handed him the box.

Small. Velvet. Red. A glint of gold on the side, initials pressed into the metal like a secret branded into flesh: M.V. Charles hadn’t opened it. He didn’t need to. He knew what lay inside. He remembered Kimi’s voice—calm, cutting, final. Don’t rush it. Wait. One more month, minimum. Longer, if you can stomach it. 

If done too soon it could leave scars neither of them would recover from.

He glanced at the lower drawer of his desk—the one that held the box. And everything else. All the documentation surrounding Morphyra . The client list. Every scrap of data. And Max. Especially Max. 

Charles clicked back into the recordings.

Max crying when Charles showed him the rig.

Max asleep in his arms, fragile and warm.

Max squirming under his mouth, skin flushing under each kiss.

God, that night. He hadn’t moved on. How could he? The way Max arched into him, trembling on the edge of resistance and surrender. The moment he pushed Charles away… maybe it had been necessary. But the look in Max’s eyes, once Charles reviewed the footage, said more than his body had: hunger. Confusion. Need .

He let the recording play. Max tucking him in. Lingering. Hesitating. And that look . Fuck. Charles could drown in it. Thank god he’d splurged on high-res cameras. Watching in 4K had never felt so worth it.

The video kept going. Charles, fixated on the sway of Max’s hips, almost missed it when the Dutchman pulled his shirt off.

Oh?

A wicked grin played on Charles's lips as he recalled the camera he had installed above the bed. 

It wasn't planned, not really. When the bed arrived, there was no other place to put it except right under the little device.

Charles silently congratulated his own interior design instincts.

Charles's breath hitched as Max's fingers hooked into the waistband of his pants, slowly dragging them down his thighs. 

His heart pounded in his chest like a drumbeat, echoing the throbbing desire that was already building inside him (or his pants). 

Max reached for the bedside drawer. Lube.

This was getting… very interesting. Why the hell hadn’t he seen this recording before? He needed to check these files more often.

Suddenly Max stopped. He seemed to ponder something and reached under the bed. He took out something small and red, it looked like—wait.

Is that his fucking underwear??

Charles blinked, then froze as Max buried his face in it.

Oh. My. God.

He was already half hard from watching those strong thighs flex, biceps curl and now—

The sound that escaped Charles's lips was pure lust, a primal growl that echoed Max’s own moan.

Charles watched him rut into the mattress, face buried in red. He began stroking himself. 

He matched the rhythm automatically, his mind filled with images of Max’s body under his hands, his lips, his—

Was Max thinking about what just happened earlier that night? Still aching, inside and out? The thought sent a shiver down Charles's spine, his cock throbbing with need.

Suddenly there was a lot of movement, pillow slid under hips, legs spread apart, back arched, lube squirted. 

And Max pushed fingers into himself. 

Charles was enamoured. The body on screen arched and trembled, fingers disappearing inside. Drool slowly spilling onto the underwear under his face. Suddenly he arched even more — ass high, back bowed, face flushed against the sheets

He looked like he was presenting . 

Charles was on the edge. Fast. He imagined it was him Max was squeezing around, not his own fingers. The thought sent a wave of pleasure crashing through him, his hand moving faster, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

And then:

“F-fuck, Charlie…” Max whimpered. Barely audible, but unmistakable. “Please... I need you.”

If it wouldn’t unravel the entire plan, Charles would be sprinting down the hall to his room this very second. Max needed him. Begged for him. But no. Not yet. He had to hold the line.

“W-wanna be yours. Get wet for you.”

Oh, he would. In less than a month. Fully. Irrevocably.

“Want you to fuck me through a heat—make me feel it.”

Charles bit down hard on his hand in order to quiet the noises that were slipping out. The taste of skin and the sharp sting barely dulled the rush. He was so close. His hand sped up, his mind filled with images of Max beneath him, writhing and moaning.

“Want you to knot me. Knot me so deep it takes .” Max choked out, one hand pulling at the sheets, the other working the fingers in like his life depended on it.

That did it. He came with a guttural moan, biting into his skin to muffle the sound. Did Max just really—?

The video wasn’t over.

“Make me yours, Charles. Brand me—fuck me full.”

Charles shivered, still experiencing aftershocks. Branding had already begun—subtle, soft, disguised in the bracelet on Max’s wrist. But Max wanted it. All of it.

“M–make it real. Make me change .”

Max came with a sound that burned itself into Charles’s memory. Loud, filthy, honest. Muffling it against the boxers clenched in his teeth. He looked like a work of art, a masterpiece of desire and need.

Charles wished he could put him on display in a museum, one for his eyes only.

And maybe the drug was already affecting Max’s subconscious more than Kimi or Charles had anticipated. Even if Max wasn’t fully aware of everything going on inside, his primal senses sure as hell were.

Good. That was very, very good news. Max’s brain would stop fighting soon enough. No more outbursts, no more fightbacks. He’ll submit eventually. 

Submit to Morphyra. 

Submit to Charles.

The intensity of the entire session—his private show, really—had bordered on a semi-heat. No wonder Max’s scent had finally started bleeding through. The pressure worked. The stress pushed him forward. Charles filed that information away. He’d use it. When the time came.

Cum soaked through Charles’s shirt and pants, but he barely noticed. The screen still showed Max—so soft now, limbs loose, breath slowing. He looked… exhausted. And—wait. Petrified?

That’s when Charles noticed it: eye contact.

Max was looking directly at the camera .

Fuck.

He knew. Max realized what he had just done. And what Charles had seen.

Charles didn’t move. Waited. Observed. Max didn’t move either.

He just lay there. Pale. Stiff. Silent.

Then, after nearly two minutes, Max grabbed the blanket, pulled it over himself, and buried his face in the pillow.

The footage ended. No more movement. No more Max.

But Charles didn’t move either. Not for a while.

He just sat there, chest still heaving, the ghost of Max’s voice echoing in his head.

“Make me yours.”

He would.

Soon.

That night, the house was quiet.

Too quiet — like it was holding its breath.

Max waited until the lights were low and the staff movements stilled. He’d memorized the rhythm of the house by now. Knew when Charles usually took his final glass of wine and vanished into his rooms like a shadow. Knew when Pierre would come back from the late night cigarette.

He wasn’t proud of it. But pride had long since lost its voice.

Anger, however — that still lived in him.

Bitter. Hot. Loud.

Anger at Charles, for so many things he couldn’t even name properly. For lying. For charming him. For making him feel . For forcing him to care, when caring had never been part of the mission. For keeping secrets and playing god. For abandoning him.

And anger at himself, most of all — because despite everything, a part of him still craved Charles’s gaze like sunlight. 

But tonight… tonight wasn’t about craving.

It was about survival.

His sister’s life was still hanging in the balance, Horner knowing just where his weak spot was. He didn’t have the luxury of guilt. Not anymore.

But if he does it right, does it quietly, then maybe Charles won’t even notice? Everything between them will eventually even out, his sister will be safe and Horner will get off his ass.

What could go wrong?

The hallway stretched in front of him like a vein through the darkened mansion. Shadows moved like ghosts across the polished floor, and the air smelled faintly of roses and smoke.

He moved with precision, silent in his socks, hugging the edges of the walls.

The security system here was good. Not perfect though.

He’d noticed a flaw early on. The first-floor camera had a blind spot directly beneath it — just a sliver of space where the view cut out. And the camera meant to compensate was angled slightly wrong — turned just a bit too far left.

Max had smiled when he saw it. Sloppy. Charles should’ve hired someone better.

He reached the blind spot with practiced ease, pulled a dining chair from the side hall, and climbed up. The camera lens gleamed faintly in the dark, a mechanical eye blind to what he was about to do.

From his pocket, he produced a sleek black device — one of GP’s newer models, a miniature patch that could generate fake footage and feed it to the system in real time. It was subtle. Clean. Dangerous.

He plugged it in.

Checked the mirrored feed on his phone.

Perfect loop. Seamless.

Nobody would see a thing.

No time to waste now. He set the chair aside and knelt by the office door, pulling out his lockpicking kit. Familiar, comforting — muscle memory guiding his fingers. But just as he leaned in—

A sound.

Barely audible.

He froze, breath caught in his throat.

He strained his ears.

Another sound. A soft gasp, muffled by thick doors and distance.

His brow furrowed. The lights inside were off. No flicker beneath the door. But someone was definitely in there.

Was Charles… still working?

Or—

A noise, sharper this time. A stifled groan.

Max pressed his ear against the door.

“—wet for you—”

His blood ran cold.

Or hot.

He couldn’t tell.

His brain stalled, body locked in place. That voice — he felt like he recognized it, couldn’t quite tell from where, though.

Another moan coming from the computer.

Max blinked, stunned.

Was Charles… watching porn?

That didn’t sound right. Or maybe it did. Max’s heart was thudding too loudly to think straight.

He should leave. Try another time.

But his knees wouldn’t move.

Another breath — ragged and ruined.

“F-fuck me—” then, quieter, broken: “—my heat—make me—”

A flush crept up Max’s neck. His thighs clenched. His mouth was dry. His pants — uncomfortably tight.

He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be listening.

But he couldn’t tear himself away.

“—knot me. Knot me so deep it—”

Then a strangled, guttural moan, followed by a quiet putain.

It punched straight through Max’s chest, knocking the air out of him. He flinched back like he’d been burned.

At the same time every nerve in his body was telling him to burst into that room.

Did Charles just… come?

Max stood up abruptly, heart in his throat, fingers trembling.

He forced himself to walk — one step, then another, legs too light, too shaky. He didn’t breathe until he reached the door. Didn’t think until he was locked safely in his room, stripping off his clothes like they were too tight, too wrong.

The shower water was scalding.

Max’s hand moved with desperate, punishing rhythm, every stroke soaked in something between need and self-loathing. Shame licked at his spine, coiled hot and unrelenting just beneath his skin, but he couldn’t stop — not when the pressure in his gut was building again, that strange, aching feeling curling deep in his belly like it had claws.

He pressed his forehead to the cold tile, breath fogging against it, hips twitching forward into the tight heat of his own grip. The slick sound of it echoed in the shower, obscene and private. His lips parted, a sound catching in his throat — half-formed, wrecked.

Charles.

The name slipped out before he could stop it, cracked and hoarse and horrifyingly honest.

It felt like betrayal. Like surrender.

The tension snapped, pleasure crashing over him like a wave breaking too hard, too fast. He came with a choked gasp, biting down on his knuckles to muffle the noise, his entire body going tight and then loose, trembling against the wall.

It hurt. Not just the aftershocks — the throbbing oversensitivity — but something deeper. A rawness under his skin. A fire that didn’t go out with release.

Max slumped down to his knees, still breathing hard, chest heaving like he’d just outrun something. The heat in his body didn’t fade. The pulse between his legs still throbbed. That pressure in his lower belly — it hadn’t gone away. It burned .

If anything, it was worse now.

Unspent. Unsatisfied.

Unnatural.

This isn’t normal, he thought, eyes squeezing shut.

This isn’t healthy.

But even as guilt twisted in his gut, even as his skin prickled with leftover arousal and self-disgust, he couldn’t deny the truth pressing against his ribs like a secret too big to hold.

He liked it.

He liked the burn .

Chapter Text

There was a soft knock against the door, barely more than a whisper of knuckles on old wood.

Max stared at it from where he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like a prayer he didn’t believe in. 

He wasn’t in the mood to see anyone —least of all Charles. Not right now. 

Not when the pressure of the banquet loomed like stormclouds, and Horner’s voice still echoed in the back of his skull like a gun shot. Three weeks left. He needed progress. Proof. Something. Anything. 

And maybe, he thought bitterly, the chaos of the event would be the perfect cover. A million moving parts. A million chances to slip away unnoticed.

But then the knock came again, followed by that familiar, grating voice—French-tinted, slightly too smug for its own good.

“Max,” came Pierre’s voice through the door, muffled but unmistakably exasperated. “Charles asked me to drop this off. It’s your suit for tonight. You don’t have to put it on now, just… check if it fits.”

Max rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle something didn’t snap in his skull. Of course Charles hadn’t come himself. Why bother, when he had Pierre—pristine, polished, ever-smiling Pierre—to run his errands. A perfectly groomed little messenger boy.

Whatever version of Charles this was lately, Max hated it. He’d bet good money that the video Charles had been watching last night probably starred a smug, blue-eyed brunette. What had he done to deserve it?.

Max didn’t respond. Didn’t move. The silence was deliberate.

“I’m leaving it on the chair,” Pierre added after a beat, his voice sugarcoated with pretend patience. “Also—Charles wants everyone downstairs by three to finalize the plan and wrap setup. He says not to be late.”

And then he was gone. Thank fuck.

Silence settled over the room again, heavier now, thicker. Max didn’t move for a long moment. Just stared at the closed door, jaw tight. Then, finally, he got up and walked toward the suit bag draped over the chair in front of the room.

The thing looked expensive before he even unzipped it. The garment bag was matte black with subtle embroidery, the kind of thing people kept for life. His fingers hesitated at the zipper, and then he pulled it down—and his breath caught.

Oh.

The suit inside shimmered like it had been woven from moonlight. A white silk masterpiece, soft as water under his fingertips, shifting like liquid silver. The jacket was clean-cut, tailored already, with sharp lapels and a faint sheen that caught the afternoon light like it was flirting with the sun. The pants matched perfectly—same silk, same barely-there weight, like they might dissolve if he breathed too hard.

He swallowed, fingertips lingering over the fabric. This wasn’t a uniform. This wasn’t something for a housekeeper. This was... divine. A statement.

His first thought: Did Pierre also get one like this?

Somehow, he doubted it.

As he slowly dressed, each movement deliberate, the questions came creeping in like fog through cracks in the window. Why something like this? Too luxurious. Too conspicuous. This was a guest’s suit, not a servant’s. Something for someone meant to be seen. To be admired. 

To be shown off.

The final button slid into place with a whisper. The golden clasp at the collar clicked shut with the finality of a trap.

And then he looked at himself in the mirror.

His breath hitched.

He looked—

Stunning.

The suit framed him perfectly, hugging the line of his waist and sculpting his chest like it had been made with him in mind from the first stitch. The silk caught light in all the right places, made him look unreal—like some haute couture specter walking straight off a Paris runway. His skin, usually too pale, seemed to glow against the white. His eyes looked sharper. His mouth softer.

And the shoes. White to match, minimal and sleek, like the final note of a well-composed symphony.

He looked like he was about to walk down the aisle.

The thought startled him enough that he laughed. Short. Bitter. He reached for his phone and snapped a picture anyway—just one. Something to remember, for after this all went to hell. When he’d be back in the dark with blood on his hands and dirt under his fingernails. He needed proof that, at least once, he looked like this.

The suit came off again with reverence, returned to the hanger with care. He showered quickly, scrubbing off the last of blueberry scent and the chill of Horner’s threats. By 14:30, he was already making his way downstairs.

And— chaos .

The entire lower floor was a hurricane of movement: staff rushing past with polished silver trays, decorators pinning fabric to archways, florists arguing over bouquet placements. Someone almost crashed into him, completely obscured by a massive, blindingly bright arrangement of white roses and eucalyptus.

It was frantic. Breathless. Uncontrolled.

And at the center of it all—Charles.

Max’s eyes found him instantly.

The Monegasque stood tall in the heart of the madness, tension radiating off him in waves. He looked infuriated, frustrated, issuing commands rapid-fire in French and clipped English, directing people like chess pieces on a battlefield. His suit jacket wasn’t on yet, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a bead of sweat on his brow. He looked like a prince on the verge of snapping his scepter in two.

And beside him, of course—Pierre. Scribbling into a notebook, nodding furiously, never once straying from Charles’s side.

Max felt the familiar rush of irritation, but it warred now with something else. Something darker. Something he couldn’t quite name.

Charles turned. Caught sight of him.

And instantly—his entire posture changed. The tension in his shoulders loosened, the harsh line of his mouth softened. His eyes, frantic only seconds ago, grew gentle.

Max didn’t look away.

And neither did Charles.

Charles didn’t approach right away. He stood there for a beat too long, just watching Max like he was still trying to read him — like the fight hadn’t happened, or maybe like it had, and he didn’t quite know what to do with that knowledge. The murmur of the staff faded a little under the weight of the look.

Then he moved. Casual, practiced. Like it didn’t matter. Like Max didn’t still have his fingerprints ghosting across his ribs, weeks after the inchident.

“Did it fit?” Charles asked, his voice light, almost bored.

Max blinked. “What?”

“The suit,” Charles said, stopping just in front of him now. Close, but not too close. “You tried it on, right?”

“Yeah,” Max said, voice clipped. “It fit.”

Charles tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering down Max’s body with a quick, assessing glance. Not leering. Not obvious. But definitely there .

Max felt his skin heat like a betrayal. Traitorous fucking skin.

“I thought it would,” Charles murmured. His tone was maddeningly neutral, like this wasn’t anything important. Like he hadn’t spent time and effort thinking about how Max’s body would move beneath the silk. “I had it taken in a bit. You have… extraordinary proportions.”

Max’s brows pulled together into a scowl. “Are you trying to insinuate anything?”

It came out sharper than he intended. Petty, defensive. He hated that it sounded like he cared . But he did. Because he knew he wasn’t as lean, as polished as he’d been when they first met. Months of long nights, stress, and minimal exercise had taken their toll. And Charles, with his perfect posture and perfectly measured words, didn’t miss things like that.

For a moment — just a breath — Charles faltered. His gaze softened. “No. I didn’t mean it like that, mon petit . I only meant…” He paused, jaw working slightly like he was choosing every syllable with care. “I’m the host. You’re my left hand tonight. Couldn’t let you show up looking like an afterthought.”

Max blinked. “Left hand?” he echoed, more startled than he wanted to admit. “Is that what I am now? Not a discarded tool? Not a plaything you got bored of last week?”

And there it was — the hit. He was still kind of pissed at how Charles was acting and he was not going to hide it. 

Charles’s polished veneer cracked, barely perceptible, but enough. His mouth opened like he might defend himself, explain something, anything — but then his mask fell back into place, like it had never slipped at all.

He took a breath in and locked eyes with Max, scanning his attitude. “Tonight,” Charles said quietly, carefully, “you are who I say you are.”

Heat bloomed in his stomach.

Fucking hell.

Max didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t trust himself to open his mouth without letting something real slip out. The noises from last night were still replaying in his head.

So he just stood there, fists tight at his sides. He could still smell Charles on himself, even if they were avoiding each other like fire ever since the fight. 

He didn’t want to be angry at him. God, he really didn’t. But it was like something inside him had snapped loose—some fuse that used to keep him steady, grounded, human . Now, when the feelings surged, they didn’t settle. They spiked. Multiplied. Burned hotter.

And instead of fading, they just kept climbing, like static under his skin that wouldn’t discharge.

He hated it. Hated the way his own body betrayed him. Hated how Charles could still make him feel like this—with a glance, with silence, with a fucking suit delivered by someone else’s hands.

Either way, the worst part was knowing he’d still trail after him all night like some perfectly trained shadow. Still stand precisely at Charles’s left side like it meant something. Like he hadn’t spent the past week being ignored, discarded, fucking humiliated . He’d smile when prompted. Nod at the right moments. Pretend like everything was fine — like he wasn’t burning from the inside out.

And all the while, Pierre would be there too. Standing smugly at Charles’s right, where Max never got to be. Laughing too loud at his jokes. Leaning in too close. Talking with that overfamiliar lilt, like they had some private joke Max wasn’t in on. Flirting so blatantly it made Max’s jaw ache with the effort not to react.

Because no matter how much he hated it — no matter how much he told himself he didn’t care — some traitorous part of him still wanted Charles to look at him like that. Still wanted to be the one who made him laugh. Still wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything before he left had meant something.

And that was the most pathetic thing of all.

Charles was about to have a breakdown.

Max could see it in the way he paced, sharp and restless, muttering in French too fast for Max to follow— inacceptable , l’image de la marque , something about lavender when it was supposed to be periwinkle . His hands kept running through his hair, wrecking the sleek, styled look he'd perfected earlier with surgeon-like precision. The suit, tailored within a millimeter of its life, clung to him like armor—but even that couldn’t disguise the static of panic rolling off him in waves.

Pierre was there, of course. Hovering with his stupid little notebook, voice light and falsely sweet: “You’re spiraling again, mon chou . Breathe. It’s a flower arrangement, not a diplomatic crisis.”

And then—he reached out. Like he was going to touch him.

Max didn’t think. He moved. Stepped in before Pierre’s fingers could make contact, slotting himself between them like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand found Charles’s elbow first—not hard, just enough to anchor.

“Charles,” Max said, voice low, steady, too calm to be real. “Seriously. Put the wrong-colored ones in the back. No one’s going to notice. They’ll be too busy kissing your ass to care.”

That earned him something small—half a smile, frayed and distracted, but honest. Max felt it like a gut punch.

“I know,” Charles murmured, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know. I just… it needs to be perfect. This night matters.”

“You made it perfect,” Pierre chimed in, smiling like he meant it. “As always.”

Max bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste copper.

Fucking ass-kisser.

They moved through the rest of the prep like that — the three of them orbiting each other in tense, unstable choreography.

Max handed out last-minute schedules. 

Pierre smoothed over catering mistakes with that fake-charming smile. 

Max pinned boutonnieres and fixed a collapsing arch of fairy lights. 

Pierre fetched water and made sure Charles actually drank it.

And Charles — fucking Charles — just kept thanking them the same way. The same tone, the same tired smile.

“Merci, Pierre. I’d be lost without you.”
“Max, perfect as always. Thank you.”

But Max heard it. The difference. Barely perceptible, but it was there.

With Pierre, it was warm, fond, familiar. Safe.

With Max… it was cautious. Like he was holding something back. Like the memory of that night was pressed up against the back of his throat, threatening to escape if he wasn’t careful.

And it drove Max mad .

Because he’d do anything for Charles. Had done everything. And yet, somehow, Pierre still got the easy affection. The mindless trust. The casual intimacy. Like he hadn’t missed a beat. Like Max wasn’t bleeding out under his fucking collar.

They were running through the final pre-event checklist in one of the smaller side halls when Max finally cracked.

Pierre leaned over Charles’s shoulder, pointing to some line item on the clipboard, and said, “Don’t worry, I triple-confirmed it. It’ll arrive exactly at 6:42.”

“Great,” Charles murmured. “You’re a lifesaver, really. Thank you.”

Max rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Jesus, do you want to kiss him while you’re at it?”

Both of them froze. Pierre blinked. Charles’s head snapped up.

Pierre, of course, recovered first. “Why?” he said, all fake sweetness. “ Jealous , Max?”

“I just think maybe we should focus ,” Max snapped, crossing his arms. “You know. On the actual event.”

Charles gave him a look — sharp, warning, but not unkind. Like he wasn’t sure if he should scold him or laugh.

“Children,” he said, with a long-suffering sigh. “You’re both impossible.”

And yet — his eyes lingered on Pierre for a second longer than they did on Max.

Just a second. Just a blink. But Max felt it like a punch straight to the chest.

Fuck.

That was it. That was the line in the sand. The shift in gravity. The split-second where Charles looked at someone else like that , and Max felt the ground tilt beneath him.

Pierre, with his notebook and his lazy charm and his fucking dimples. Pierre, who always said the right thing, who never raised his voice, who didn’t come with a goddamn war behind his eyes. Pierre, who Charles looked at like a solution instead of a problem.

Max’s jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

He had to do something. Now. Before Pierre slipped in deeper. Before Charles forgot why he ever looked at Max like he was more than just another pawn in his beautiful, sterile world.

He couldn’t let Pierre steal him .

He was still in the middle of fidgeting with the golden cuff clasp when the knock came.

Not Pierre this time, thank god. This one was lighter, quicker. Professional. Polite in a way that put Max instantly on edge.

He opened the door halfway, still buttoning the last bit of his waistcoat. A woman stood there holding a soft black kit bag and a clipboard with Charles’s insignia tucked into the corner. She gave him a practiced smile.

“Max Hermann?”

He blinked, caught off guard by the name like it had been pulled out of a dusty drawer.

His brow furrowed. “Uh…”

Hermann? That wasn’t—oh.

Ohhh . Right.

God, was this the first time in four months anyone had actually used the fake second name?

A huff of air escaped him — not quite a laugh, but close. It was almost absurd.

“Yes,” he said, lips quirking faintly. “That’s me.”

“I’ve been asked to assist with your styling. Hair and face touch-ups. Just the basics. Mr. Leclerc requested it personally.”

Of course he fucking did.

“I don’t need—” Max started, already bristling.

But she stepped in with the practiced ease of someone who’d wrangled more difficult men into high chairs before breakfast.

“Five minutes. That’s all I need. I won’t make you look like anyone but yourself,” she added, setting her bag on the desk without waiting for permission. “Just—slightly better rested. Slightly less homicidal.”

Max scowled, but didn’t throw her out. Mostly because she was already unpacking a brush set and tiny glass vials like she owned the place.

And maybe, he admitted privately, just maybe—he was a little curious what Charles thought he needed touching up for.

He sat on the edge of the bed as instructed, and she went to work with quiet efficiency. The first thing she did was run her hands through his hair, clicking her tongue under her breath.

“Too polished,” she murmured, fluffing the front up slightly, loosening the structure until his curls fell naturally, just the barest hint of chaos. “There. Less bodyguard, more... tragic heir.”

Max gave her a look. “Excuse me?”

She smirked. “Trust me. It plays better.”

Next came the concealer — barely a whisper of product, just a feather-light sweep beneath his eyes, over a shadowed bruise on his jaw that hadn’t faded all the way. Then she brushed something across his cheeks — warm, gentle.

“What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Blush. You’re pale and pissed off. Just softens the edges.”

“I am pissed off.”

“Exactly.” She leaned back, surveying her work. “There. Now you just look like you’re plotting something beautiful.”

He was already halfway to snapping something when she turned the mirror toward him.

Max blinked.

Stared.

Stared.

Because—Jesus. That wasn’t him . Not the way he was used to seeing himself, anyway. The Max in the mirror looked... impossibly sharp. Like he'd walked out of a magazine. His skin smooth and alive, hair perfectly tousled, like it had fallen that way naturally. Like art.

There was a softness to his expression that hadn’t been there in days. Warmth. A little color. Something that made his eyes stand out in a way he’d never noticed before.

He looked like something unreachably lovely.

He looked like someone Charles might look at.

The makeup artist smirked again, not unkind. “See? Dreamboat. Told you.”

Max swallowed. “Thanks,” he muttered. He didn’t mean to sound so shy about it.

She patted his shoulder lightly and packed up her kit. “Go knock ’em dead, Hermann. Or at least make ‘em sweat.”

It was twenty minutes later when the chaos started to reach a quiet crescendo downstairs — murmurs of guests arriving, champagne being poured, the faint clink of cutlery and crystal. The banquet was about to begin.

Charles had been everywhere at once — inspecting last-minute changes, whispering to sommeliers, correcting seat assignments with a frown.

And then he turned.

And saw him .

Max stood at the far edge of the staircase, white silk catching the golden chandelier light like it had been stitched from stars. Hair just tousled enough to look like someone had run fingers through it in the dark. Cheeks kissed with warmth. Collar clasped—a challenge in Charles’s eyes. Under the sleeve the golden bracelet peaked out, a reminder of the good times.

He looked like something that didn’t belong in this world. Like a ghost from a better life. Like every regret Charles had ever buried, wrapped in satin and walking toward him.

The reaction wasn’t subtle. Charles stilled. Eyes locked on Max like he couldn’t breathe. One of the waitstaff said something beside him — a question, maybe — and Charles didn’t respond. Didn’t blink.

Max’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t expected— that.

Pierre, still beside Charles, turned and gave Max a long, low whistle. “Well, fuck me,” he muttered. “Guess they do clean up Dutch trash well these days.”

Max flipped him off without looking away from Charles.

Because Charles still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t said a word.

Only looked at him like he was seeing something he’d never been brave enough to want.

Max didn’t smile. But he did walk closer.

Because if Pierre wanted a war, he’d get one.

And Max never walked away from a fight he knew he could win.

The ballroom sparkled.

There was no other word for it. Gold dripped from every chandelier, glass shimmered with the slightest movement of air, and soft music trickled from the string quartet like it had been imported from some gilded century long gone. Max didn’t belong here — that much he knew — but the white silk made it harder to tell.

People kept looking at him.

Not in the way he was used to — not with suspicion, not with that edge of disdain reserved for servants standing too tall. This was different. People smiled when they passed him. Nodded with quiet admiration. Someone — a senator’s wife, maybe — even touched his sleeve lightly and said, “That suit is... divine. Ralph Lauren, right? You wear it like it was made with you in mind.”

Max had barely managed a nod of thanks, cheeks warm, when the photographer arrived.

He was one of those wiry, eccentric types, all lenses and scarves and sudden gasps of aesthetic delight. He made a beeline for Charles, who was holding court near the main staircase in a suit so red it looked almost illegal.

Blood red.

Not wine, not burgundy — but something darker , deeper. Like a threat. It fit him like temptation itself. Crisp, flawless, the jacket nipped at the waist in a way that felt almost obscene.

Max didn’t notice how long he’d been staring until Charles looked up and caught him in it.

He didn’t look away.

“Photos, Mr. Leclerc,” the photographer chirped. “Just a few to commemorate the night — you and your business partners, yes?”

Charles nodded absently, but his eyes didn’t leave Max.

“I want one,” he said, softly, “with just him.”

The photographer blinked. “Ah. Of course. Yes. Yes, of course.”

Pierre, standing on Charles’s right in a smart but forgettable black suit, actually froze .

Max stepped forward cautiously. He could feel the heat of everyone’s eyes on them — like the crowd knew something they didn’t. Or worse, that they did .

He moved to Charles’s left, as always, hands loosely at his sides. Trying not to look too stiff. Too formal.

Charles shifted subtly — closer. A hand snuck its way behind Max’s back, and grabbed him by his waist. Pulled him toward the Alpha.

The photographer clicked rapidly, breath catching. “Stunning,” he said. “Perfect. The contrast—white and red. It’s cinematic .”

Max couldn’t hear anything else over the sudden hammering in his ears. Amber overtook his senses. He couldn’t feel anything except the pull of Charles at his side. The way they looked together. Like milk and blood. Like danger.

When it was done, Charles didn’t move away immediately. He turned toward Max just slightly and said, so low only he could hear:

“You wear it exactly how I imagined. An angel.”

Max swallowed, throat dry.

Being angry at Charles was a very difficult feat.

Pierre didn’t even try to hide his glare. The moment the photographer drifted off to find other subjects, Pierre moved in fast, interjecting himself physically between them with a sharp, forced laugh.

“Come on, Charles, Kimi and Alonso just arrived, we have to welcome them.”

Charles blinked like he hadn’t even noticed Pierre was still there.

But Pierre didn’t give him the chance to drift back. He launched into some story about the table arrangement disaster earlier, tone loud and charming, and Charles — with a polite glance at Max — finally let himself be dragged into it.

Max stayed standing right where he was.

The heat of Charles’s presence still clung to him, phantom weight pressing along his side, over the spot where the fingers curled, holding him. Claiming him.

More guests came over. More kind smiles. Compliments. Light touches and admiring looks. And Max? Max smiled. He thanked them. He looked like the picture of calm elegance.

But every time Charles laughed at something Pierre said, something inside him twisted.

Tighter.

Sharper.

He wanted to win.

And he was starting to realize Pierre had no intention of playing fair.

They were halfway through the second wave of guests by the time Max’s face started to ache from holding polite smiles. Charles stood poised at the center of it all, a glass of untouched champagne in one hand, the other frequently gesturing, guiding, brushing against Max’s back in subtle territorial claims. Pierre hovered just a half-step behind, always watching for an opening to steal attention.

It was an endless carousel of people—investors, board members, minor royals with expensive watches and too much perfume. Max shook hands, nodded when appropriate, ignored the way Charles's fingers kept ghosting over the small of his back whenever someone important lingered too long.

He was just beginning to settle into the rhythm when he heard the voice.

“Bit flashy for a private event, don’t you think?”

Max went still.

He knew that voice.

Charles turned toward the new arrival with a practiced smile, already shifting to greet whoever it was. Pierre straightened instinctively, and Max didn’t even have to look to know.

Daniel.

In a black velvet suit with a maroon pocket square and a grin too sharp to be harmless. His curls were a little longer than the last time Max had seen him—looser, almost unruly—but his eyes were the same. Bright. Quick. And trained entirely on Max.

Max stiffened. Just slightly. But not slightly enough.

Pierre noticed.

So did Charles.

Daniel barely glanced at Charles as he greeted him, the two exchanging the typical pleasantries. But his gaze kept sliding back, unrepentant, landing on Max like it was inevitable.

Like he knew something he wasn’t supposed to.

Charles didn’t miss it. His eyes narrowed just slightly—polite confusion with a steel edge. Then, in a gesture far too familiar to be anything but deliberate, he reached out and slid an arm around Max’s waist. Possessive. Undeniable.

“This is Max,” Charles said casually, turning them so that Max was now fully facing Daniel. “My left hand tonight.”

Max barely kept his expression neutral. Inside, something clawed up his throat.

Daniel blinked once, then smiled wider. “Of course,” he said, tone friendly. “I’ve been wondering who this angel in the white suit was. Nice to meet you.”

Max nodded stiffly. “Likewise.”

They both knew it was a lie. They knew too much . But they were playing a game now — and the stakes had never been higher. Why had no one told him that Daniel would come? Didn’t Horner think it would be nice to let him know?

“Ferrari seems to be doing well for itself,” Daniel added, turning back to Charles but still watching Max from the corner of his eye. “Can’t wait to see what you’re gonna show us tonight.”

Charles tilted his head slightly. “We’ll get to that part soon enough,” he said. “I’m happy that a representative of the Austrian government will also enjoy the show. Maybe I'll even manage to convince you to invest in us?”

So that’s what they went with. This isn’t going to go well. At least no one here should know Daniel, maybe they won’t ask too many questions.

“Of course,” Daniel said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass like he had all the time in the world. “An impressive event. Everyone’s dressed so beautifully. Even the staff looks… otherworldly.”

That last word landed with the weight of a trap, soft but unmistakably loaded.

Charles’s grip around Max’s waist tightened—just a hair, but enough. A subtle claim. A warning. Maybe both.

Max felt it like a live wire under his skin. Everything was too loud, too hot, too sharp . Daniel’s voice. Pierre’s sudden silence beside them. The soft press of Charles’s hand at his side, like he was something fragile and dangerous at once.

He should’ve known. Of course Daniel wouldn’t just let it go. Max had ghosted him—fully and completely—the moment he’d left Red Bull HQ that day. No texts. No calls. No explanations. Not because he didn’t care. But because he didn’t know how to explain it.

What was he supposed to say?

Hey, sorry I vanished, I think I’m unraveling and I don’t know what’s real anymore?

Sorry I disappeared, I haven’t slept properly in weeks and Charles keeps looking at me like he’s either going to kiss me or kill me and honestly, I’m not sure which would be worse?

Yeah. No. That wasn’t a conversation Max could survive.

So he hadn’t had it. He’d gone quiet. It had been easier—safer—not to talk at all.

But Daniel was standing in front of him now, real and charming and insufferably observant. Max could feel the weight of that smile, the one that meant I know you, and I know what you’re doing, and I’m not going to let you lose yourself, even if it means I’ll have to use force.

He should’ve known this night wasn’t going to stay clean.

Still, he couldn’t look away. Not from Daniel, eyes glinting with half-buried worry. Not from Charles, tense and silent and still impossibly close. Not even from Pierre, who hadn’t said a word but had definitely clocked every shift in the atmosphere.

And then—like clockwork—Pierre stepped forward. Sliding between Max and Daniel with all the charm of a polished blade.

“So,” he said, all brightness and feigned innocence. “Fernando mentioned we should come by later. Said he had a… request for you, Charles.”

The smile Daniel gave him could’ve cut glass. But the attention shifted — for now — and Max exhaled slowly, trying to pretend like his heart wasn’t thundering in his chest. 

He could already tell: this night was far from over.

Max found Daniel again in the hallway outside the ballroom — quiet, dimly lit, and mercifully empty save for a few trailing guests too tipsy to mind their own business. The music from the banquet was muffled now, replaced by the soft click of expensive shoes and champagne flutes clinking behind closed doors.

“You could’ve told me,” Max said quietly, leaning against the cool marble wall.

Daniel turned, half-caught in the middle of checking his phone, and looked up with that same unreadable smile. “Told you what?”

“That you were coming tonight.”

Daniel’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh, but something in Max’s face stopped him. “Well would you have read it anyway? Invite came last minute anyway — very hush-hush.”

“Did Horner handpick you?”

A pause. A beat too long.

Daniel shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Max crossed his arms, gaze fixed on a spot somewhere beyond Daniel’s shoulder. “Because I don’t know what the hell is happening anymore.” His voice was low, tight. Angry — not just at Daniel, but at the situation, at himself. “You’re not supposed to be here. This is Ferrari territory. You’re Red Bull. If anyone finds out—”

Daniel stepped closer. Not enough to threaten, not enough to comfort — just enough to lower his voice and slip under Max’s skin.

“You think borders mean anything in places like this?” Daniel said, voice infuriatingly calm. “As long as no one knows that you know, everything’s fine.” He paused, eyes flicking over Max like he was checking for cracks in the façade. “And I needed to see if you were really alive.”

He took a breath in—and grimaced.

Then he sniffed the air. Actually sniffed.

His brows knit, puzzled. “Did you buy new perfume?”

Max blinked at him, dumbfounded. “What the fuck are you—”

But Daniel didn’t wait. He reached out, grabbed Max by the collar like this was still 2018 and boundaries were just theoretical, and leaned in. Close. Too close. He sniffed at Max’s neck, then pulled back, expression wrinkling with something like suspicion. Or awe.

“Why do you smell so… sweet?”

Max swatted his hand away with more force than necessary, jaw tightening. “Daniel, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, voice hard, clipped. “Can we get back to the main topic?”

The tone wasn’t a suggestion. It was a warning.

Daniel, to his credit, backed off—physically, at least—but his eyes stayed locked on Max like he’d just uncovered something fragile and dangerous and still warm to the touch.

Max stared him down. “I think you shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice dropping into something colder, flatter. “It’ll be better for both of us.”

His posture shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Tension coiling through his shoulders. The soldier reasserting itself.

“I’ve got it covered. Cameras are already in place—angles, entry points, timing. It’s clean. We’ll get what we need.”

A beat.

“We don’t need to risk your life too.”

There was something in the way he said it—too measured, too exact. Like Max had already rehearsed this speech in his head a dozen times. Like maybe he’d been trying to convince himself just as much.

And Daniel?

Daniel didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

He tilted his head. He wasn’t smiling — not really — but there was a softness to his voice that cut deeper than a smirk ever could.

“I think you’re not worried about me.”

A pause.

“I think you’re scared of how Charles will react when he eventually finds out who you really are.” Daniel’s voice was quiet, but it cut like a scalpel. “Do you really think he’s going to stay in the dark forever? That he’ll never find out who his Max really is? That he’ll just keep loving you blindly for the rest of his life?”

He took a breath — not harsh, but aching.

“Mate… I love you,” Daniel said, quiet but unwavering. “With everything I’ve got. You’re my best friend. But you need to wake up . This fantasy you’re clinging to? It won’t protect you when it all comes crashing down.”

It landed like a gut punch. Max flinched, barely.

Because it was a fantasy, wasn’t it? This place. This version of Charles. The illusion that any of this could hold. But he’d clung to it anyway—white-knuckled, desperate—because letting go meant facing whatever waited beneath it. 

Even now, when all the beautiful moments they had spent together felt like a distant dream, he simply couldn’t let go. 

Daniel didn’t let up.

“So please, Max… by the end of tonight, we’ll have everything. We’ll be done. We’ll go back to Red Bull and pretend none of this ever happened. It will be for the best.”

Max opened his mouth—ready to argue, to deflect, to lash out, something —but the sound behind them shattered the moment like glass.

A soft shift. The whisper of expensive fabric. The echo of polished shoes on stone.

Max froze.

Then, slowly, he turned—like an animal caught in the crosshairs.

Pierre.

Down the corridor, too close. Half-shrouded in shadow, arms loose at his sides. He looked like he’d just happened to be walking past — casual, incidental. But that stillness wasn’t natural. That smile wasn’t real.

His eyes flicked from Max to Daniel, then back again.

Too calculating. Too calm.

He gave them a small, polite nod. Didn’t say a word.

Then turned and disappeared down the hall.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Max’s breath caught, his hand balling into a fist.

“Fuck.”

“Don’t worry,” Daniel murmured, eyes still fixed on where Pierre had vanished. “I’m sure he didn’t hear too much. And that’s just another reason to get the hell out of here as soon as we can.”

Max turned a glare on him, sharp enough to cut. But Daniel had already started walking away — slow and steady — like he’d just dropped a match and didn’t feel the need to look back to see what burned.

And Max — Max stood there, jaw clenched, stomach twisting with something cold and ugly.

He had just made everything worse.

Because Pierre… Pierre would not let this go.

By the time Max returned, the lights had dimmed. The orchestra in the corner had faded into silence, and a single spotlight now illuminated the stage erected in the center of the ballroom. Guests were crowding toward it, hushed and expectant — like this was the moment they’d really come for.

Max moved to the edge of the crowd, instinctively hovering near Charles’s left side, but the Monegasque didn’t glance at him. He was standing tall at the front, a dark silhouette against the flood of light. His blood-red suit caught the shine, gleaming like freshly spilled wine.

Then, movement.

Security personnel dragged someone onto the stage.

Max’s breath caught.

The chef that disappeared a few months ago.

Oscar.

He looked disheveled — shirt torn, lip split, hands bound behind his back. His head hung low, hair falling over his eyes, but Max could see the bruises blooming across his cheek. There was a muffled gasp from somewhere in the audience. Whispers began, speculative and excited.

Max took a step forward, confusion bleeding into dread.

“What the fuck is this?” he murmured under his breath.

And then Charles stepped forward, microphone in hand, voice smooth as velvet over glass.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, smiling like this was a show, “thank you for joining us for tonight’s real event.”

The crowd hushed completely.

Charles’s gaze swept the room, unreadable. “You all came here expecting refinement. A little indulgence. A little spectacle. But tonight, Ferrari would like to offer you something far more valuable.”

He turned — slow, theatrical — to where Oscar knelt now beneath the spotlight.

“A demonstration.”

There was a hush like held breath.

Max’s stomach dropped.

“We’ve developed something… new,” Charles continued, voice still calm, still coaxing. “A compound we’ve refined over the last eighteen months. Unlike anything else on the market.”

He looked out at the sea of guests.

“Tonight, you’ll witness its effects firsthand.”

Max felt rooted to the floor. Cold washing through him. His eyes flicked to Pierre — standing silent and composed at Charles’s right — and saw no surprise in his expression. Just readiness.

Max looked back at Oscar. Bruised. Silent. Still.

The ballroom was silent — breathless — as Charles raised the syringe into the light.

It caught like crystal. Sleek. Refined. Deadly.

“Kimi,” Charles said without looking back.

From the shadows, the elder Finn stepped forward without a word, placing the slender vial into Charles’s outstretched hand. The liquid inside shimmered — not quite gold, not quite silver — something other .

Max didn’t blink. He couldn’t. His whole body had gone taut, hands clenched, and yet his mind was refusing to understand .

Charles held the syringe up like a magician about to reveal his greatest trick.

“We call it Morphyra ,” he said, calm and casual as ever. “A neuro-hormonal re-coding and somatic induction agent. It reassigns a subject’s secondary gender — fully. Permanently. Not just a temporary disruption, not suppression — reassignment. ”

A murmur ran through the crowd, like excitement barely restrained. Max’s brain stuttered over the words.

Charles kept going, smooth as silk.

“It takes time — several months of progressive rebalancing — but the results are flawless. Predictable. We can take an alpha and make them a beta. Take a beta and make them an omega. Anything, really. Nature is no longer the limit.”

He turned now, eyes fixed on Oscar — who had managed to roll halfway across the stage, dragging himself with bound hands and legs, clothes ripped and sweat-drenched.

“This one,” Charles said with a mocking tilt of his head, “thought he could spy on us. He wore Ferrari red on his lapel, but McLaren dirt in his blood. Sloppy. Unimpressive.”

Oscar made a sound through the gag — desperate, broken — and tried again to crawl.

Charles followed.

Step by deliberate step, he walked across the stage. The spotlight made his blood-red suit glow like fire. The syringe gleamed at his side. 

Max watched, mouth dry, every muscle in his body screaming to move , to do something , but nothing happened.

Charles knelt beside Oscar like it was a mercy. Tucked a curl behind his ear with mock-gentleness.

“And now,” he said, “he’ll pay the price.”

Then — he pushed the needle into Oscar’s neck.

A hiss of breath from the crowd. A jolt of motion.

Oscar thrashed, back arching, eyes wide in disbelief. His body convulsed like something had ripped loose inside him. A second later, a sickly sweet scent bloomed in the air — cloying, rich, unmistakably omega.

Papaya.

It hit Max like a punch.

The crowd inhaled, delighted. Some even clapped.

“Take him away,” Charles said coolly, waving two guards forward.

They lifted Oscar’s twitching body and carried him off-stage — trashing, twisting, hurting . His scent still hung in the air like perfume in a burning house.

Charles turned back to the crowd, smiling.

“And now,” he said, “we wait. By the end of the night a brand new omega will emerge. Prepare your wallets.” He added with a smirk.

With that, he stepped off the stage, slipping through the applause like a king returning to his throne. Pierre joined him a moment later, smooth and composed as ever, murmuring something low by his ear.

Max didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His ears were ringing, the scent still clouding his senses, his thoughts stuck in a loop of no, no, no.

He didn’t understand.

Not really.

Couldn’t connect the dots between the show they’d just seen and the man he’d shared loving moments with — the Charles who’d kissed him like a secret, who’d looked at him like a man starving.

He stared at Charles’s retreating back, numb.

If Pierre tells him what he had heard earlier, he will end up like Oscar. Charles will know of his betrayal. 

He’ll never look at him again. 

Fuck.

Max kept to the edge of the crowd.

He stood half in shadow, posture small, like he was just another assistant, another servant — someone too low to matter. He folded his hands in front of himself so tightly the knuckles blanched, his shoulders angled inward. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe , if he could help it.

Just… listened.

Charles was speaking again, somewhere near the main lounge now, charming and sharp, surrounded by investors with heavy jewelry and heavier agendas. His voice floated through the din, smooth as honey, cold as glass.

“The compound works in stages,” he said, casually swirling something amber in a crystal glass. “First, there’s a rebalancing of hormonal regulation. Nothing visible at first. Then… it gets interesting.”

Max’s stomach twisted.

“Emotion regulation begins to shift,” Charles continued, “and then behavioral dependence. The subject becomes more responsive to certain stimuli. Certain people. Becomes emotional. More… impressionable. Easily unfocused. Easily devoted. That’s when you know it’s working. That’s when the potential becomes limitless. High stress situations make the process faster.”

There was laughter. Admiration. One woman clapped lightly. Someone asked about scalability.

Max didn’t hear the answer.

Because that — that — was what twisted around his spine like wire.

Emotional. Dependent. Unfocused. Obsessive.

Was that not exactly what he’d become?

The thought sank like a stone in his chest.

The storm inside him — that chaos of tangled feelings — it never stopped. It didn’t make sense .

The way his lungs stuttered when Charles so much as smiled at someone else.

The way rage could crack through his ribs, only to melt into a pitiful ache two seconds later.

The way he missed him — ached for him — even when they were in the same room, just not close enough.

It had to be the pressure. The constant strain. The web of secrets and expectations tightening around his throat.

Right?

He was being dramatic. Overworked. Sleep-deprived.That was all.

He was not some experiment.

Charles wouldn’t do that.

Charles — who spent sixty thousand euros just to apologize for a kiss Max hadn’t even known how to feel about at the time.

A man like that wouldn’t use him. Wouldn’t just flip his whole life upside down like that. Not without his consent.

…Right?

Before he spiraled further he noticed Pierre was watching him.

From across the room, half-hidden by a gilded column, Pierre had fixed him with a grin.

Not his usual smug one. Not the performative flirt he wore around Charles. No — this one was razor-sharp. Dark. Wicked.

Like he knew. 

He knew how much power he had over Max now.

Max’s heart skipped. He looked away too quickly. Swallowed thickly.

No. No no no.

He hadn’t done anything truly wrong. But his skin was crawling like he had. His hands were cold. His throat was tight.

His chest felt like it was going to collapse.

If Pierre told Charles anything—if Charles believed it—

Max’s breath hitched.

And then— worse —his mind betrayed him again.

What if it’s already too late?

What if that strange devotion clawing its way through his ribs wasn’t heartbreak or jealousy but programming ?

What if the man who touched him so gently just nights ago had already decided to change him, repurpose him, rewrite him—without Max ever knowing? Maybe that’s why he had been such a fucking mess ever since he first smelled that warm amber?

What if Charles had never stopped playing god?

Was he really just a toy to him?

His eyes stung. He blinked hard. Couldn’t fall apart here. Couldn’t show it. Not in front of Pierre. Not in front of him .

But something inside him was starting to crack, hairline-fine. Splintering under the weight of it all.

He just needed air. A second. Some kind of escape. Somewhere he could finally, finally let himself unravel.

Because if he didn’t soon—he was going to shatter right where he stood.

The garden shimmered under the soft breath of amber lanterns, warm light casting trembling shadows across the white marble paths. It should have been calming. Serene. But to Max, it felt wrong . Like standing in the center of a stage before the curtains opened, every spotlight trained on his chest.

The air pressed in around him — humid, too quiet, too still. The murmur of the ballroom flickered behind the hedges, but it felt oceans away. Distant. Meaningless.

Max stood beside the white stone fountain, fingers gripping the rim until his knuckles ached. The cool marble grounded him — barely. His breath came short and thin, chest rising too fast beneath the flawless drape of white silk. The suit clung to him now like a second skin, beautiful and suffocating. An illusion.

It wasn’t made for this. He wasn’t made for this.

The silk shimmered in the garden light. Spotless. Delicate. Untouched.

Just like Charles had wanted.

Max squeezed his eyes shut.

He could still hear Charles’s voice from earlier, soft and pleased — you look like an angel.

An angel.

But now Max felt like a lie wrapped in silk and gold. A traitor hiding under pearls. And every second he stood here alone, trembling, he feared the truth bleeding through his seams.

Then—

Click.

The sound of shoes.

Slow. Measured. Certain.

Pierre.

Of course it was Pierre.

“Running off like that,” Pierre said, tone lazy, amused. “You’ll stain the silk, standing near all this dirt. Shame. Charles had such hopes for that suit.”

Max turned his face away, jaw locked.

He could feel Pierre’s eyes on him — sliding over the fragile stitching, the sharp tailoring, the gleam of the golden clasp at his collarbone.

“You know,” Pierre continued, voice lower now, syrupy and cruel, “he really did think you’d look stunning in it. Like an angel, he said. Shame he’ll be heartbroken when he finds out who really is hiding under that silk.”

Max flinched.

Pierre stepped closer. “You know, I notice things, Maxie. I notice everything. Like how nervous you were when Daniel showed up. Like how you nearly broke down watching Charles inject that little spy.” A pause, then a grin in his voice. “Oh? Don’t tell me you recognized those symptoms?”

Max turned slowly, like his limbs were caught in molasses. He faced Pierre with glassy eyes, voice hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I do.” Pierre’s grin was all teeth. “You cling to him like he’s your lifeline. You’d die if he let you go. And you will, Maxie. You will, the second he finds out what you really are.”

Max’s hands shook at his sides. His heart pounded so loud it echoed in his skull.

Pierre leaned in — black suit brushing white, night touching snow. “What if you’re not his little angel? What if you’re a spy, a plant, a dirty little secret meant to destroy him? Hmm? How do you think he’ll react when he finds out?”

Max’s mouth dried.

Pierre leaned in, his breath brushing against Max’s cheek like smoke. “I could tell him, you know,” he murmured, voice soft as silk and just as cutting. “I should. But I’m feeling… generous tonight.”

Max’s shoulders stiffened.

“You have a choice, mon ange ,” Pierre went on, drawing the term out like a mockery. “Disappear. Quietly. Take your little Red Bull stray and vanish before anyone’s the wiser. Be smart for once. Or…” His smile deepened, eyes glittering with delight. “I tell Charles the truth. All of it. And then we both get to watch how fast that pristine white suit of yours becomes a burial shroud.”

He tilted his head, studying Max like he was already a ghost.

“He’ll cast you aside before the blood even dries. And me?” He exhaled, satisfied. “I’ll finally be able to act without him losing focus every time you so much as blink.”

Pierre stepped back, hands slipping casually into his pockets. As if this had all been a lighthearted chat between friends. He turned toward the rose-covered trellis, humming to himself — a quiet, tuneless melody that dripped with victory.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

Because in his mind, the game was already over. Already won.

Max stood frozen. The roses were luminous in the soft light — white and ghostly, swaying gently in the breeze. Innocent.

The thought of Charles looking at him with betrayal in his eyes — of that soft, secret tenderness in the dark turning to hate ? 

He could not live with that. Charles couldn’t find out. 

He could never find out. Max could not lose the only person in his life that mattered. 

Pierre wouldn’t be the one to destroy it all. Max won’t allow it.

And then something cracked .

Not a sound.

Something inside Max.

Broke into pieces beyond repair.

He moved without thinking.

The little gardening spade lay half-buried in the dirt nearby, next to the rose beds. Small, metal, sharp.

His hand closed around it.

It felt too natural. Like coming home.

His feet crunched over gravel and petals.

And Pierre — Pierre turned back just in time to see the blade coming.

It struck him in the shoulder with a sick, meaty thud. He staggered, stunned.

“What the—!?” Pierre screamed, grabbing for Max.

But Max wasn’t listening. He was gone. No longer Max — just emotion. Just panic. Just fear and grief and love twisted into violence.

He swung again.

This time into Pierre’s side.

Again.

Into his chest.

Pierre fought back, tried to grab his arm, but Max was no longer a person — he was panic in skin, he was heartbreak, he was a question that had never been answered. 

He finally came undone, weeks of stress, anger, the disappointed looks in Charles’s eyes.

The spade found flesh. Bone. A crack. A choke.

Blood sprayed in short, hot bursts — across Max’s arms, his hands, his chest, his face.

Onto the white silk.

Onto the golden clasp.

Onto the bracelet.

Onto the roses.

The nearest bloom turned red.

So did the next.

He saw Charles in his mind.

That soft smile. That rare, reverent look — like Max was something to be held gently, like he meant something. Like he was wanted.

But behind it now, creeping in like rot under skin — the fear.

The certainty that it would all be gone.

That Charles would look at him and see nothing but a monster. A dirty mole.

The spade hit bone. A wet crunch.

Max kept going.

Pierre’s breath came in broken, choking gasps, his knees buckling, his hands scrabbling for purchase that wasn’t there. 

Max loomed over him, panting, blood soaking through his sleeves, dotting the silver silk of his suit like diseased flowers. It clung to him — sticky, hot, ruinous. There was blood in his hair. In his lashes. In his mouth.

Still, he didn’t stop.

He collapsed onto Pierre’s chest, straddling him, fingers white around the hilt of the spade. He drove it into his throat with a trembling, brutal finality. Quick. Deep.

Pierre gurgled, eyes wide, staring straight at Max.

Max stared back until the light faded.

Then silence.

Finally silence.

He looked at himself.

A dream Charles had dressed in white silk.

Now a nightmare.

A ruined angel.

A monster in blood stained cloth.

And somewhere deep inside him, an ancient fear whispered:

What will Charles say?

What will he see when he looks at me now?

He no longer felt like himself.

Will he look at me with disgust?

Max dropped the spade with a clatter.

Would he hate me?

It landed in the dirt.

Would he flinch?

Would he turn away?

The roses were red now.

What the fuck was he thinking? 

Was he thinking?

He staggered back, wiping at his face with shaking hands. It only smeared the blood further.

Would Charles still touch him?

Would he still cup his jaw and kiss his temple?

Would he still call him ‘mon ange’?

Would he still—

No. No, no, no. He couldn’t lose him.

He won’t .

Not after everything. Not now.

This had to be the right thing. He was protecting him. That’s all he was doing. Charles didn’t see it yet, but he would. He had to. Pierre was dangerous. Pierre was going to tear them apart. This — this — was love. This was loyalty.

Charles would understand.

He had to.

He had to.

Pierre was gone.

And now no one could come between them.

No one.

Max sat there in the dark garden, painted in red, chest heaving. His eyes wide, unblinking, staring down at what used to be a threat and now was just… nothing.

Still, only one thought looped in his blood-soaked mind, over and over, a whisper and a scream at the same time:

Please, God. Please. 

Don’t let him hate me.

Chapter Text

A sudden flash exploded in the dark.

Max didn’t flinch — not exactly. His whole body jerked, a delayed, electric spasm of nerves firing too late to be useful. He lifted his head slowly, like a puppet tugged by strings, and turned toward the light.

He blinked.

There, not ten feet away, stood Charles, serene and glowing under the garden lanterns. A sleek, old-fashioned camera dangled from one hand.

His other hand — relaxed. At his side. Like this was all perfectly ordinary.

Click.

The camera flashed again.

Max blinked rapidly, lips parting soundlessly. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His breath hitched in his throat — shallow, sharp. His whole body trembled as if his bones might crack beneath his skin.

Pierre lay beneath him, silent now. Heavy. Cooling.

The blood that stained Max’s silk sleeves, soaked his thighs, and speckled his face, seemed to glow under the light, garish and unreal.

“I…” he tried to say something, but the words died halfway up his throat.

Charles stepped forward, slow and unhurried, like this was just another garden stroll. His shoes made no sound on the gravel path.

“I wanted to capture you like this,” he said softly, as if explaining the weather. “The rawness. The honesty. There’s something about you right now that’s... divine.”

Max stared at him. Wide-eyed. Lost.

“I know what you're thinking.” Charles crouched down just outside the pool of blood, camera still hanging loose. His voice lowered, almost a whisper. “That I’ll hate you. That I’ll punish you for this. Get rid of you.”

Max’s eyes filled, but no tears fell. He couldn’t move. He felt like he’d been caught in amber.

“I had to,” he said at last, the words breaking free on a thin, splintered breath. “He was going to take you away from me. He said you’d get rid of me. Do the same thing you did to Oscar.” His head hurt at the thought alone. “ Charles, I don’t want to end up like Oscar . Pierre told me I should just leave now.” His voice cracked, turning hoarse. “I can’t lose you, Charles. I can’t.”

Charles tilted his head, as if listening closely to the shape of Max’s fear.

“And would you have left me, Max?” he asked, voice gentle. “Even if I could do the things Pierre said?”

Max shook his head so violently it hurt.

“Never. Not for anything. I’d rather die at your hand, than suffer away from you.” 

Charles reached forward and touched Max’s cheek — thumb smearing blood across the soft curve of his face like it was paint, not guilt.

“I know,” he murmured. “I knew the moment I saw how you looked at me. You're mine. Through and through.”

Max’s breath hitched.

His hands were still on Pierre’s unmoving chest. Still sticky. Still trembling.

“I didn’t mean to— I mean, I didn’t plan to— He was saying all these awful things and— It was like someone else took control of me— It just happened, couldn’t stop it,” Max whispered, his voice fragile, like something folded too many times.

“And yet,” Charles said, brushing back a strand of Max’s hair, “it was always going to end this way. Wasn’t it?”

Max’s gaze dropped. To the red-soaked garden. To the crushed petals. To the way the white roses now dripped red at the edges like they, too, had bled for him.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he murmured.

“Oh, Max.” Charles’s voice was almost sweet. “I’d never be afraid of you, ma vie . You don’t have to worry.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to Max’s temple — right next to the blood-slicked hairline.

“You just have to stay close. Obey. Trust me. And never, ever try to leave again.”

Max let out a trembling breath, chest still heaving.

He didn’t know if he was comforted or caged. Loved or claimed.

But Charles’s arms were warm when they wrapped around him.

And for now—for just tonight—Max let himself believe it was love.

The kind of love that soothed sharp edges, that made his pulse steady, his body soften into the warmth of Charles beside him. He let it wash over him like static, like safety, like a lullaby sung in a language he barely remembered.

He exhaled. Let his eyes close. Let go, even if he stopped holding on five minutes ago.

Charles didn’t flinch at the mess Max has become. Blood was smeared down Max’s sleeves, splashed across his cheek, soaking through the once-white suit like ink bleeding through paper. But Charles held him tighter. Reverently. Like Max was something sacred, not something broken.

“ Mon cœur… mon ange ,” Charles whispered, voice low and fluid against the shell of Max’s ear. “You’re here. That’s all that matters. With me.”

Max trembled. He didn’t know if it’s shock or relief. All he knew is that he wants to collapse into that voice, into those hands, into the certainty of being wanted, even now— especially now.

Charles’s hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through damp, sticky curls with painstaking care. His touch is delicate, worshipful, his thumb brushing soothing circles as though Max is something fragile that might splinter under too much force. Max leaned into it instinctively, desperate to lose himself in it, in him . 

He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to feel anything that isn’t Charles’s touch.

“You were so brave,” Charles murmurs, switching to Italian now, low and affectionate. “ Così bello, così mio. My sweet boy. My brave, beautiful boy.”

A broken sound slips from Max’s throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, aching with the need to be consumed—to be nothing but Charles’s. To be held until the horror dissolves into something he doesn’t have to carry alone.

Then Charles takes his jaw, tilting Max’s face up with fingers both commanding and tender.

“ Maxie ,” he says softly, yet with unshakable weight. “ Guardami . Look at me.”

Max does. His lashes are heavy, his eyes wide and glossy, pupils blown. He’s still half-lost, still shaking, but Charles is an anchor—warm and endless and so sure . Max’s gaze drops to his lips, watching every word form like a prayer.

“You are everything,” Charles says, brushing his thumb under Max’s lip, smearing blood neither of them notice. “My heart. My home. No one could ever take your place. No one means what you do. You hear me?”

Max nods, barely. A quiver. His lips part slightly, like he’s trying to speak but can’t. There are too many feelings, too much pressure behind his ribs. He wants to say thank you , or I love you , or please don’t let go . But nothing makes it out.

Charles leans in closer, their foreheads almost touching now. His hands roam Max’s bloodied suit, slow and deliberate, fingertips pressing into the soaked fabric like he's grounding them both in this moment—this intimacy born from violence and obsession.

“You are perfect, mon ange ,” Charles whispers. “Even like this. Especially like this. Tainted for me. Marked by me. You did this for us.”

Max swallows hard, eyes locked on Charles’s mouth as it moves. He can feel his pulse stuttering beneath his skin. The scent between them is thicker now—amber and sweat and blood and that blueberry sweetness—all combining into one.

And Max just wants to fall . Into this moment, into Charles, into the promise that none of this was for nothing. He looks up into Charles’s eyes, heart in his throat, lips parting just slightly. His hunger is reflected in Charles’s gaze.

They begin to lean in—breath against breath, heat rising, blood between them.

And just before they touch—

Crack.

A sudden snap—a branch, maybe. Or a heel against stone. Loud in the hush of the night. Loud enough to fracture the moment like glass.

Max's head snaps to the side.

Behind Charles, just past the edge of the carefully manicured rose path, something moved. A blur at first, then shape. Then face.

Daniel.

He stood there like he’d wandered in from another story entirely. Frozen. His breath caught halfway up his throat, shoulders locked in place. His eyes were wide, too wide—not angry, not scared. But stunned. Raw. Like he’d walked in on something he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t unsee.

Like the sight of a bloodied Max wrapped in Charles’s arms had rewired something in his brain.

And Max—

Max couldn’t move.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Max…?” Daniel's voice cracked. “What the fuck—”

Max scrambled to his feet—tried to, at least. His knees buckled beneath him, slick with blood, and he nearly slipped on the polished stone. One hand caught on a thorned rose branch, tearing skin, but he didn’t even feel it.

“Daniel—wait—this isn’t—”

The words came out broken, splintered. His mouth opened and closed again, useless. His brain stuttered.

“It wasn’t supposed to—He—Pierre—he said—”

Daniel took a step forward, instinct overriding reason. One hand lifted halfway, like he didn’t know whether to comfort or restrain. His eyes flicked between the body—twisted, still, too much red—and Max’s trembling hands.

This wasn’t the first time Daniel had seen blood on Max’s hands.

But it was the first time he’d watched him tear someone apart with that kind of brutality.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Max, what did you do ?”

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—” Max’s voice cracked. “He was going to ruin everything, I—Daniel, please —he said he wouldn’t tell, but I couldn’t risk it, I—”

“ Back off. ”

The words cut through the chaos like a blade. Sharp. Final.

Charles.

No longer soft-spoken, no longer the warm, elegant center of Max’s world. His voice had hardened into command, every syllable precise and cold. His posture was military—calculated. Unyielding.

Daniel turned on him, jaw clenched, fury breaking through the shock. “Leclerc, what the fuck did you do to him?” His voice rose, ragged. “I swear to god, I’m gonna—”

Charles didn’t let him finish.

He spoke, fast and sharp, in Italian. The words were like a code, a trigger. Max didn’t catch more than a syllable—something final . But he didn’t need translation.

Because from the hedges, the shadows moved.

Two figures emerged like they’d been waiting. Dressed in black, tall and silent, their faces blurred by darkness. They moved with precision, inevitability. Like they’d done this before.

“Wait—” Daniel backed up, hands raised. “What the hell is this? Get the fuck away from me—”

The men didn’t listen.

One of them struck. A clean, practiced motion—metal meeting skull. Max couldn’t even tell what the weapon was. A baton? A silenced pistol? Just a fist wrapped in leather and violence?

Daniel dropped like something boneless. Like a switch had been flipped. One moment fury, the next—a heap on the garden floor, rose petals scattered around him like some awful parody of ceremony.

“No!” Max lunged forward, staggering. “Don’t—! Don’t hurt him—Charles, please—!”

But Charles caught his arm mid-step, pulling him back with gentle strength. His voice, when he spoke again, was calm. Calm like rain just before a flood.

“Shhh. Max. Mon cœur. It’s alright.”

Max struggled weakly, watching as Daniel’s unconscious form was dragged back into the shadows, limp and unmoving. “You can’t—he didn’t do anything—he’s not a threat—”

“Max.” Charles turned him by the shoulders. Both hands on him now, grounding and firm. “You need to be calm. Everything is going to be okay.”

“No—no, I have to—”

He barely felt the prick.

A whisper-soft sting, like a mosquito bite, just under his arm. Then a flush of warmth.

He blinked.

Charles’s eyes were close. Too close. Too clear.

“You’ll feel dizzy in a moment,” Charles said softly. “Don’t be afraid. It’s just something to help you rest.”

Max’s heart thudded, uneven. His vision swam at the edges, like ink dropped in water. He swayed.

“Why…?” he asked, voice paper-thin.

“Because you’ve been through something terrible. And you need to sleep now.” Charles brushed a strand of bloody hair from Max’s temple. “You’ve done so well. It’s time to rest now, baby.”

Max’s knees buckled again, but this time Charles caught him.

The last thing Max saw before everything went dark was the soft curve of Charles’s smile.

Reassuring. Gentle.

Like nothing was wrong at all.

When Charles noticed both Max and Pierre had disappeared, he didn’t panic. He didn’t rush. He simply stood by the table, swirling the wine in his glass, letting his mind move through the possibilities like pieces on a board.

Pierre, ever the eager little saboteur, no doubt thought he was being clever. Probably blackmailing Max, threatening exposure, maybe playing the martyr — believing, laughably, that he was anything more than a pawn.

And Max… Max, who had spent the entire evening walking the thin line between restraint and unraveling. Beautiful, brilliant Max, convinced he still had choices.

Charles smiled into the rim of his glass.

The whole night, he hadn't been able to think of anything else. Not the guests. Not the investors. Not the press. Just Max. The way he'd descended the staircase like a fever dream, draped in white silk that clung to his frame like liquid light. 

He’d had to physically clench his fists to stop himself from crossing the ballroom right then and there and biting down on Max’s throat until every bastard in the room knew who he belonged to.

And then there was the scent.

Blueberry and heat. The kind of scent that curled around his ribs and settled low in his stomach. Max didn’t even realize he was doing it — releasing it like a warning, or a plea. Arousal and fear, anxiety and longing. 

Every time someone stood too close, touched his arm, lingered too long with their gaze, Charles felt something ancient and territorial thrumming beneath his skin.

It took every ounce of patience not to gut the photographer who dared pose his Max.

Still, he allowed it. He wanted the photos. He needed to remember this night — every perfect detail — because it was the night Max finally became his. Finally cracked. Even if Max hadn’t realized it at that time.

And then Daniel appeared.

Charles nearly snapped a glass stem clean in half.

Who had let him in?

Were the background checks so laughably poor these days, or was Charles simply the only one in the room who dug deep enough to know that Daniel Ricciardo was no diplomat — but Max’s long-time friend, RedBull member and someone dangerously close to pulling him away from Charles? 

Idiots. The whole lot of them. Lots of things were bound to change soon.

He was ready to follow when he saw Max slip away following the Australian — but then Pierre made his move. Tail tucked just close enough to seem accidental. Curious, Charles had let it play out.

Pierre returned later with a self-satisfied smirk and told Charles that he’d “have something important to discuss” before the night was over.

Sure . Charles thought. If you survive that long.

Pierre was too proud, too cocky — a perfect candidate. The week had been a carefully constructed performance: whispered praise, fake smiles, arranged coincidences. Enough to make Pierre feel like the kingmaker. He hadn’t realized that every step was bait.

And Max? Max had looked sick since the incident with Oscar. Pale, erratic, eyes shifting too fast. The puzzle pieces were aligning in his head — slowly, painfully.

Too late.

At the beginning of the night Charles had slid a thumb across the golden clamp affixed discreetly to Max’s shirt collar and activated the hidden camera.

He watched it all.

Watched Max back away, trembling. 

Watched Pierre’s threats, the sick gleam in his eye. 

Watched Max swing. 

Again. Again. 

Watched the moment instinct overrode restraint and something inside Max broke.

Beautiful.

Charles kept watching even when the camera feed blurred with blood. He knew how this would end sooner or later. Had planned for it. Had anticipated the mess, the violence.

But he hadn’t expected how hard it would hit — seeing Max like that. Hollow-eyed. Covered in red. Terrified of himself. Terrified of what Charles might think.

The shift was finally finishing up the last stage. Not just emotionally, but biologically. He’d known Oscar’s public collapse would send a signal through the remaining betas, their bodies already seeded with the formula months ago. 

The pain Oscar felt was a side effect. Kimi warned him — the transition wasn’t painless. Rebuilding and activating a whole organ never was. Especially in a body trying to reject it.

In the end when they tested Oscar’s blood, although a beta, he was alpha leaning. The uterus had to be completely recreated. 

It took a while but the drug was strong. Very strong. Especially when all Oscar was for the last 4 months was stress. Normally it would take about 7 months for an alpha-leaning beta to shift. 12 for an actual alpha. 

An omega-leaning beta, though? 5 to 6 months. 

Max’s date was sooner than later.

When Charles first saw Max’s blood results he nearly cried from joy. He really was made just for him. It was fate. 

2% Alpha. 

52% Beta. 

46% Omega. 

So Max would be different.

He wouldn’t have to suffer as much as Oscar did. Charles would make sure of that.

When he finally stepped into the garden and saw him — kneeling, blood-slicked, shattered — the sight nearly stole his breath.

Perfect , he thought. Perfect even now.

His smell was so much different than 30 minutes ago. So very sweet.

And when Daniel burst onto the scene, face twisted in horror — well. That was just an inconvenience.

A flick of his fingers, a word in Italian. Security emerged from the trees. Efficient. Silent. Brutal.

Daniel went down before he could finish the sentence. Max cried out, stumbling toward him, arms outstretched in some pathetic attempt to stop it.

Charles caught him before he could fall.

“Shhh,” he murmured, one arm locking around Max’s waist, the other steadying him by the nape. Max sagged into the touch, eyes wide and distant, the sedative already softening his edges. 

Charles guided him gently, almost lovingly, away from the body cooling in the garden, away from Daniel’s unconscious form being dragged across the gravel like unwanted trash.

“It’s okay, mon cœur ,” he whispered, voice silk-smooth and deceptively kind. “You’re safe now.”

And he was. Finally. Charles had made sure of it.

All he wanted in that moment was to lie down in a dark, quiet room, Max curled against his chest, wrapped in his arms like a fevered prayer. He wanted to breathe him in, trace those trembling wrists, kiss the blood away and whisper how proud he was. 

But there were still 200 useless people sipping champagne in crystal flutes and waiting for him to make the next dazzling announcement. There was still a product to sell.

He adjusted his grip and lifted Max into his arms with effortless grace. Bridal-style. As if he weighed nothing. As if he were something precious — fragile and beloved.

The staff house was tucked away beyond the gardens, old stone and quiet windows. Safe. Isolated. No one would dare come uninvited.

The porch light was still on.

He knocked once.

A man opened the door with the expression of someone who'd expected this far sooner. His eyes swept over the two bloodied figures without flinching. Just sighed.

“So he finally snapped, huh?”

Charles stepped inside. “Pierre pushed a bit too hard. Thought he was clever. Now he’s... no longer a concern.”

The man followed as Charles carried Max to the bathroom. His tone was bone-dry. “Should’ve bet money on this. I could’ve made a fortune on the exact hour.”

Charles chuckled. “You’d finally be free of me.”

He laid Max gently on the counter, cradling his head as Joris began to strip the blood-streaked silk from his body. The fabric clung, sticky and ruined. Such a waste — that suit had been tailored for him to look like a saint.

“Could you do me a favour, Joris?” Charles asked, rolling his sleeves. “Clean him up. Get the blood off. Put him to bed. I’d do it myself, but you know... still have to dazzle the sheep.”

“A favor from you?” he scoffed, already working on the buttons. “What did I do to earn this divine opportunity?”

Charles held Max steady as the shirt slid from his shoulders, revealing flushed collarbones, blood-streaked skin, gentle curves. He couldn’t wait to finally taste them.

“Birdie won’t be flying anywhere for a while,” Joris said, inspecting him. “What the hell did you give him? He’s limp as a rag.”

“Just enough to knock him out and make the memories… fuzzy,” Charles said.

His voice was steady—too steady. Cool, clinical, like he was reciting instructions from a dossier rather than talking about drugging someone he claimed to care about. But the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of muscle beneath skin, gave him away.

There was guilt in that silence. Maybe.

Or maybe something worse.

He didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

The drug was designed to erase the last few days. A soft reboot. Max would wake with a headache and a gap where clarity used to be. The memories would trickle back eventually, out of sequence and fragmented, like static on an old tape. But by then, it would be too late for them to mean anything.

A week. Maybe more.

Enough time.

Enough time for Max to stop asking questions.

To stop remembering.

To stop being afraid.

Charles had seen it in his eyes, when Max finally looked at him like he knew . Like something had clicked. Like he was terrified. He’d said it outright, voice rough with panic:
"I don’t want to end up like Oscar."

And if he forgot what happened to Oscar—

If that fear was stripped away—

Then Charles wouldn’t have to watch Max flinch when he walked into the room anymore.

He’d just keep changing. 

Softly. Still without a clue.

In all the ways Charles needed him to.

Because tonight, Max had finally broken.

Instincts unleashed.

No more holding back.

And Charles could smell it on him.

That signature scent—blueberry, once faint and barely-there—had deepened. Grown richer. Potent. Like something blooming out of control. Still not a full on omega scent, but close enough.

By the end of the week, Kimi would give him the green light. He’d take out that little box. Then it would all be set.

Until then, Max would stay with him.

Safe.

Contained.

The mansion was secure, isolated. He’d remove the electronics—no texts from Horner, no outside voices whispering doubt. Max didn’t need more confusion. He needed rest. Structure. Someone to watch him.

And Charles would be there.

Every second.

Every breath.

Not because he was trying to control him.

No.

It wasn’t control.

Not really.

It was protection .

It had to be.

At least, that’s what Charles kept telling himself.

“And apparently my security team let Daniel fucking Ricciardo waltz in like we don’t do background checks anymore. I’ll be dealing with that after dessert, I suppose.”

Joris let out a low whistle. “One Red Bull hostage, another about to have a full existential crisis when he wakes up and realizes his whole life is about to turn upside down? Ah, and the dead guy. Quite the night.”

Charles’s headache flared. “Don’t remind me.”

His thoughts circled back to Oscar and what awaited Max.

Kimi had said the hormonal shock was manageable, that with the correct conditioning, the change would be seamless. But they hadn’t tested it on someone like Max. Someone this wild. This sharp. Even if he shouldn’t be in pain after the injection, he might have other symptoms. 

Ones Charles will take care of.

He stood in front of the mirror, wiping away the specks of blood on his cheek with a monogrammed cloth. His clothes were still sharp, only darkly glistening in places. The silk of his shirt drank in the red. 

He looked at himself. A man drenched in blood, one he did not spill.

Then at Max — shirtless, vulnerable, still limp and helpless in Joris’s hands.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said without looking away. “But make sure he doesn’t wake. Not yet. Not like this.”

Joris nodded. “Go, Charles. I’ve got him.”

Charles lingered for one breath longer, gaze fixed on the faint rise and fall of Max’s chest. He looked peaceful. Almost angelic.

Soon, he’d be ready to understand what Charles had done for him.

What Charles had done to him.

For now, the only thing he had to do was return to the crowd and smile.

And wait for Max to wake up.

When Charles returned to the estate, it was like walking into a well-rehearsed lie.

The lights still glowed warm gold, chandeliers humming with quiet opulence. Strings swelled in a corner, polite laughter rippled beneath the surface like carbonation — effervescent, empty. Servers drifted through the crowd with silver trays and practiced smiles. On the surface, everything glittered.

And yet, everything felt dimmer.

Max wasn’t here.

Charles accepted a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray. The flute was cold against his fingers, the bubbles biting faintly at his lips when he sipped, but the taste didn’t land. 

He smiled anyway — the same one he’d perfected for this world: all poise, all ease, just enough charm to keep people guessing. No one would know that his mind was gone, miles away, curled around something fragile and fevered in a dark little room with no mirrors.

Even Fernando didn’t see it.

The Spaniard drifted toward him from the crowd like he was following a scent. He always moved like that — lazy, amused, as though nothing in the world surprised him anymore. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, his expression just shy of predatory.

“Where’s the pretty thing?” Fernando asked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as his eyes scanned the room. “Don’t tell me he vanished already.”

Charles kept his smile thin and unreadable. “He got tired,” he said, voice smooth as ever. “Went to rest.”

Fernando tilted his head, mouth curling with familiar mischief. “So that’s another side effect, hm? Drowsiness after the high?”

Charles gave the faintest shrug, a slow blink of agreement. “Among other things.”

Let him think what he wanted. That was always the better strategy. Let them imagine, let them want. Power wasn’t in the truth — it was in the silence between truths, in the space where fantasy grew wild and ungoverned. Fernando liked puzzles. He liked breaking things just to see what was inside.

And Charles? Charles knew exactly how to let him believe he was winning.

“I’ve already chosen,” Fernando said, his voice dropping as if he were telling a secret instead of a warning. “Someone who’s been far too stubborn lately. Someone who needs a little… correction.”

He didn’t give a name, and Charles didn’t ask. He didn’t care. Whoever it was, they’d learn the same lesson eventually. The same obedience. The same helpless heat.

Charles nodded, just enough to suggest interest. But his mind had already wandered.

Back to Max.

Back to that blood-smeared body, cradled in Joris’s arms like something sacred. Back to the slow, uneven rise of his chest. The way he had sighed when Charles stroked his hair, even in sleep — like he knew who was touching him. Like he wanted it.

A voice pulled him back to the present.

“Charles.”

He turned smoothly, no delay, no tells. Just another shift in the dance.

Lewis Hamilton stood before him, dressed in dark navy, cutting clean lines through the decadence of the room. Even without speaking, Lewis radiated intent. He was the sort of man who never wasted a breath.

“Lewis,” Charles returned with a slight incline of his head, both greeting and acknowledgment.

They exchanged pleasantries like veterans of a long war — every word polite, every smile thin and edged. Two kings on different sides of the same board.

Charles watched Lewis sip his drink and scan the room with a kind of cold detachment, and he thought, You’ve already chosen too, haven’t you?

It would be Nico. Of course it would.

Charles had seen it in the way Nico looked at Lewis — something tangled and bitter beneath the surface, envy cut with longing. A man who still hadn’t gotten over losing. A man desperate to matter again.

Lewis would make him matter. Just not in the way he wanted.

Charles didn’t say it aloud. He didn’t need to. Lewis would do what Lewis always did — carefully, efficiently, without emotion. He didn’t need anyone’s approval. Just an opening.

And Charles?

Charles would enjoy watching.

They parted a few minutes later, nothing more exchanged than another glass raised and a smile too sharp to be soft.

Charles moved through the rest of the party like a specter. Handshakes, laughter, murmured approval. Every step choreographed, every interaction calculated. He performed perfectly — the ideal host, the visionary, the one they all owed and feared. But none of it mattered.

Not when his mind was still with Max.

He kept seeing it — the way Max’s lashes had fluttered, the subtle slack in his jaw, the faint hitch in his breath when Charles’s fingers brushed his temple. So pliant. So warm. Still in the remnants of his ruined clothing, skin bare in places that had never been meant to be seen like that.

He had looked like a ruin. Like worship.

The flute in Charles’s hand had long since emptied, but he still held it, fingers white against the stem.

He barely noticed the bodies spinning on the dance floor. The way someone laughed too hard nearby. A man told him he was a genius — something about the serum, the future, the market — and Charles nodded, said thank you, smiled his practiced smile.

But all he could think about was how Max had whimpered when Charles leaned down and whispered to him. How even unconscious, his body reacted — like it knew who he belonged to.

He’s perfect.

There were still tasks to handle. Daniel. Surveillance logs. That final report. Pierre’s corpse and its inconvenient implications.

But all Charles wanted was to go back. To that dim little room with no windows and the sound of slow breathing. He wanted to crawl into that bed and press his body to Max’s until there was no space left. Until the bond sang. Until Max woke up to the truth of what he’d become.

“Charles.”

This time, the voice didn’t belong to a guest.

Kimi stood beside him, still in his dark scrubs, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, gloves peeled off and clutched loosely in one hand. His eyes were tired. Steady.

“He’s almost ready,” he said quietly.

Charles didn’t ask who. He didn’t have to.

He was already walking.

The hallway to the hidden suite was as he remembered it — long, too bright, and sterile enough to leech the warmth out of bone. Entrance hidden behind the fridge in the basement, hidden and private. 

White tiles, silver railings, low buzzing overhead. The lights made everything too clean, too clinical, as though you could scrub away what had happened here just by polishing the floor. You couldn’t, of course.

Charles had tried.

He remembered the last time he walked this corridor — the echoes of Oscar’s screaming had clung to the walls like mold, shrill and raw. Charles hadn’t flinched then either, just stood at the threshold and watched the beta-turned-test-subject thrash against his restraints, all teeth and adrenaline until the sedative drip stole the fight from his limbs.

Now?

Now the sounds were quieter.

Not silence — that would have been mercy. No, what leaked beneath the door were soft, wet things. Mewling, desperate. The kind of noise made by someone who had been undone and didn’t yet understand what was being built in their place.

Kimi opened the door.

The scent hit Charles like a slap wrapped in silk — heat, thick and saccharine. Ripe papaya undercut with sweat and something sweeter: the metallic tang of blood still lingering in the corners of the room.

Omega. Real, undeniable. Not the synthetic simulation they’d spent years perfecting — no, this was full bloom. This was instinct and biology finally giving in.

Charles’s expression didn’t change. But his chest rose just a little sharper. His fingers twitched faintly at his sides.

Oscar lay in the center of the room, splayed like a doll someone had grown tired of positioning. The sheets beneath him were slightly rumpled, clinging where his skin had sweated through the fabric. His clothes were gone, replaced by a loose hospital gown, bunched up around his thighs. His hair was damp and curling, stuck to his flushed cheeks. Skin fever-pink from forehead to collarbone, lips glossy and parted. Pupils blown wide enough to eclipse the color of his eyes.

He was beautiful in that way disasters were — hypnotic, ruined, trembling just before the final collapse.

The scent of slick had already started to stain the air — faint but present. His fingers twitched against the bedding, nails scraping with no real rhythm, no coordination left in him. Just primal instinct, rattling around in a body too overwhelmed to respond.

Charles took it all in like one might observe a painting: distant, detached, appreciative. Oscar was no longer a man. He was a concept. A victory. The first of many.

“A masterpiece,” Kimi murmured under his breath.

Charles didn’t correct him.

He stepped forward, just enough to cast his shadow across the edge of the bed, watching how Oscar’s breath hitched in response. Whether it was recognition or fear or need, he couldn’t say — but it pleased him all the same.

“Get him cleaned,” Charles said, voice flat, measured. “White. Pure. You know the look.”

“Of course,” Kimi said, already signaling for the attendants.

White. The aesthetic of innocence, of untouched potential. It sold better than red. The audience liked the illusion that they were the first to break something.

He himself wasn’t part of that audience. 

He liked things soaked in red.

Charles turned on his heel before the attendants reached the bedside, his thoughts already skipping ahead — past the scent, past the whimpers, past Oscar’s blown pupils. 

The presentation would need to be flawless. He'd already selected the lighting. The music would be minimal — something orchestral but eerie.

Max flickered into his mind again. Not like a memory. Like a pulse.

He hadn’t gone back to check on him yet.

He imagined Max still unconscious, tucked away in the staff quarters, body slack and pliant in fresh sheets. Charles’s hands itched. Not with lust — not only that — but with something more possessive. He wanted to see him. To remind himself what was his.

Later.

For now, there was a product to package. A performance to stage.

And an empire to solidify.

By the time they rolled Oscar onto the stage, the estate had transformed.

The ballroom had once been lit with golden opulence — chandeliers casting rainbows into champagne glasses, strings playing soft, expensive music, laughter floating weightlessly through the air.

But now? Now the atmosphere coiled tight and low, thick with heat and something unspoken. A kind of hunger. The lights were dimmer, warmer, flushed with gold and red. Shadows stretched longer. Murmurs felt heavier.

Excitement curled like smoke under the floorboards, pooled in the corners of the room, hummed at the rim of every untouched flute. 

The air had shifted — heady now, intoxicating, a mixture of perfumes and pheromones. Of wealth, blood, and the sharp sweetness of desire.

Charles stepped into that space like he owned it — and he did.

In the dark suit, his posture impeccable, his hands clasped lightly behind his back, he looked less like a man and more like something sculpted: perfect, cold, and untouchable. A shadow cast in ivory and glass. His expression betrayed nothing. Not boredom. Not satisfaction. Not the fact that his mind was somewhere else entirely.

He still tasted Max’s name at the back of his throat.

But now — the show.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Charles began, his voice smooth and languid, every syllable soaked in control. “Tonight, I present something rare. Something… revolutionary.”

At his word, the lights above shifted. A single, concentrated beam flooded the center of the stage in sterile white, revealing Oscar.

He looked fragile.

Too clean. Too quiet.

His legs trembled where he was kneeling on the low velvet ottoman, barely able to keep himself upright. His skin glowed with an unnatural flush — high color across his cheeks, throat, and chest. Damp curls clung to his forehead, his lips parted as if each breath was a battle. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, rimmed in red.

And the scent.

The audience tensed as it reached them, unmistakable and impossible to ignore — ripe papaya, sugar-slick and musky. Heat. True, full-bodied omega heat. A scent no beta could mimic, no perfume could fake.

The murmur of the crowd rose like a wave — disbelief, awe, lust.

Charles smiled, slow and knowing.

“Just hours ago,” he said, pacing slowly across the stage, each step deliberate, “this young man was a beta. Untouched by secondary traits. No scent. No cycle. No potential .”

He paused. Let the words settle. Let the silence thicken.

“You may have heard the rumors. The whispers. The theories. But tonight,” he said, gesturing toward Oscar like he was unveiling a painting, “you see the proof. With your own eyes.”

He turned to the crowd, gaze sweeping from left to right — measured, sharp, unflinching. He let it rest briefly on a few key figures. Clients. Investors. Rivals. A challenge in every blink.

“You can smell it.” His voice dipped, intimate now. “You can see it. But to truly witness the change — to see how complete, how beautiful, how valuable this evolution is — only one of you will be granted that privilege. The highest bidder. The first to touch what modern science has made possible.”

A sharp gasp echoed from somewhere near the front.

Oscar let out a small, cracked sound. A whimper, barely human, as his body sagged a little to one side. The heat had overtaken him. 

He was swaying slightly now, shoulders trembling, thighs pressed tight together—as if he was trying to hide the mess between them. The silk of his clothes was starting to stick to his skin.

Charles didn’t look at him again. He didn’t have to. The scent alone was doing the work.

“Shall we begin?”

The bidding opened at one million euros.

It climbed fast. A frenzy barely contained beneath jewel-toned tuxedos and silk gloves. Men with oil fields and women with shipping empires. Some whispered to assistants. Others stood with eyes locked on the prize — not Oscar, but the power of him. What it would mean to own the first. To own the proof.

Three million.

Four.

Six.

By the time it hit eight, the room was a different beast altogether. The walls might as well have been pulsing.

Charles stood unmoving, radiating stillness amid chaos.

“8.1 million,” said a voice near the back — American accent, sharp with anticipation. Logan something. One of the new tech billionaires. Raised on ego, privilege, and pornographic amounts of wealth. Charles remembered him from a brunch in Dubai. Or maybe Shanghai. Didn’t matter.

No one countered. Not even the man from Singapore who had been grinding his teeth since seven.

“Sold,” Charles said, voice silk-soft and final. “To the gentleman in blue.”

A few people clapped. Most didn’t breathe.

Two staff members approached the stage from opposite sides, careful and gloved. They lifted Oscar gently, as though he were porcelain, limbs limp, head lolling slightly. He didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink.

Carried like glass. Carried like merchandise.

Charles didn’t watch them go.

He already knew how the story ended.

And in the back of his mind — past the applause, the praise, the numbers — he wondered if Max was still asleep.

Still soft. Still warm. Still his.

He would have to check soon.

But first — business.

He descended the stage and slipped back into the crowd, already feeling the headache building behind his eyes. The performance drained him less than the waiting. Less than the pretending.

He didn’t care about Logan. Or Oscar. Or the future headlines carefully curated to say just enough.

His mind kept drifting.

Back to Max.

To the blood that had clung to his throat like a necklace. The silk stained like sacrament. The way his mouth had shaped Charles’s name even in delirium.

He was going to be so beautiful when he finally woke up.

And Charles would be there — waiting.

Because Max wasn’t like Oscar.

He wasn’t a product.

He wasn’t for sale.

Max was his.

And nothing — not Daniel, not guilt, not even Max himself — would ever change that.

After the showcase, the real games began.

They came to him in waves—guests with sparkling flutes and sharper questions, already hungry for access, for ownership. Details. Terms. Guarantees. They wanted the prize, the proof, the privilege of being the first to touch the future.

Charles knew how to play them. Knew exactly how to smile just enough, tilt his head just so, drip answers like gold-leafed honey.

“In thirty minutes,” he announced, voice smooth as champagne, “we’ll begin the final stage of tonight’s event — the overview. I’ll walk you through every detail. But for now…” He let the moment stretch, the anticipation curl like smoke. “Let’s bathe in the reality of the new world you’re all helping to shape.”

Applause. Eager. Blind.

And then Charles was gone.

He didn’t need to signal Kimi. The Finn fell in step without a word, as always. That was what Charles appreciated most about him — the quiet. The constancy. There was comfort in someone who didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry, didn’t speak unless necessary.

Through the garden, silence stretched between them like silk. The moon hung low. The roses gleamed with dew. Charles’s pulse thrummed faster with every step.

By the time they reached the staff quarters, he was practically vibrating.

He didn’t know if it was anxiety or excitement — probably both, wrapped so tightly around each other he couldn’t pull them apart. He knocked once.

Joris opened the door, cool and unfazed, dapping up Kimi like they were in a different genre of story altogether.

Charles didn’t even ask.

They led him to the bedroom, and when he saw what was waiting for him—

Oh .

He forgot how to breathe.

Max.

Laid out in the center of the bed like a dream made flesh. Sprawled on his back, arms resting at his sides, surrounded by an ocean of pillows. His skin was freshly cleaned, glowing faintly in the soft light. His hair gleamed. Clothes crisp. Joris had done good work.

But it was him . His Maxie. His beautiful, impossible Max, calm and still and finally— finally —where he belonged.

Charles moved closer in a daze.

Then he noticed the bandage.

“What happened to his hand?” His voice came sharp, already moving toward the bedside, the protective edge flaring up like instinct.

Joris barely blinked. “Looks like he scraped it—maybe on the rocks or the roses. Nothing deep. Should heal in no time.”

Charles hummed, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the wound. It could complicate things—memories surfacing too early. But Max probably didn’t remember getting hurt either. Hopefully not. Hopefully he was still floating in that soft, forgetful haze Charles had so carefully arranged.

Behind him, Kimi was already unpacking the medical kit.

The soft clack of instruments. The hum of readiness.

He brought the ultrasound machine—the one Charles had specifically requested to be delivered here , tonight .

God, he could hardly contain himself.

“Open his shirt,” Kimi said, voice even, assembling the rest of the tools. “I’ll begin the scan in a moment.”

Charles didn’t hesitate.

He moved with a care he hadn’t shown in weeks. Each button undone like he was unwrapping something sacred. Max’s skin was warm, sun-kissed, glowing faintly. At Charles’s touch, it twitched—subtle, unconscious shivers, the body reacting even while the mind remained quieted.

Charles’s breath caught. His fingertips brushed down the center of Max’s chest, reverent, aching.

He could stare at him forever.

Mine.

“Charles,” Joris said dryly. “You’ll have all the time in the world once the event’s over. Focus.”

It took effort to pull himself back.

“Right,” Charles said, clearing his throat, hiding the flush climbing his cheeks. “Go ahead, Kimi.”

Kimi didn’t waste time. Each test performed with the precision of a machine. Scribbled notes. Adjusted settings.

Then came the ultrasound.

The screen lit up with shifting shadows. Charles stared at it, not understanding a single shape or blur—but Kimi’s pupils dilated slightly.

That was enough.

“So…?” Charles asked, barely able to keep still.

Kimi tapped the monitor with his pencil, then looked at him—really looked.

“That right there,” he said, “is a fully developed uterus. He progressed faster than I expected.” A pause. A smile — faint, but real. “Congratulations, Charles. You did it.”

Charles’s heart nearly stopped.

He looked down at Max, radiant even in sleep, and his chest swelled with something too big to name. Love, maybe. Obsession. Triumph.

Or maybe something far older, far deeper.

It didn’t matter.

He bent low, brushing a kiss against Max’s temple, barely daring to breathe.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “You’re mine.”

Charles couldn’t stop smiling.

Kimi’s voice kept going — steady, precise, laced with medical detachment — something about hormone stabilization, diet schedules, suppressant dosages. But Charles wasn’t hearing it anymore.

First heat.

God. It sounded unreal .

Like a fairytale he’d spent too long trying not to believe in. But it was real now. All of it. The ultrasound image still lingered on the screen beside Max’s sleeping form, calm and perfect. That small, blooming shape that meant everything . Proof. Promise. Future.

Max was going to be an omega.

His omega.

Charles felt almost dizzy with it. A heat of his own rising up in his chest, spreading like wildfire. Possessive, adoring, so full it made his ribs ache.

And now—

Now he needed to mark the moment.

A gift. Something Max would wake up to. Something beautiful, something lasting, something that told him — this is where you belong.

His eyes drifted to the thin band of gold already on Max’s wrist. The Cartier Love bracelet he'd given him not so long ago — one of the first things. Quietly locked in place, the screwdriver hidden in Charles’s desk ever since.

He needed something to match.

A necklace. Yes. Elegant, subtle, but unmistakably paired with the bracelet. Maybe a slim chain in champagne gold, a matching piece to the bracelet. One strong enough that when Charles would pull on it, it wouldn’t break. 

Or maybe something more delicate — a platinum pendant with a blue stone, like the blueberries Max had started smelling like whenever his body got too close to Charles.

He pressed a hand to his chest, just to ground himself.

He wanted to have it made tomorrow. No — tonight, if he could find the right jeweler. A custom piece. With a small engraving on the back. Another way of showing who Max belonged to.

He would commission a new set of clothes too — softer fabrics, looser fits for comfort. Something in ivory and navy. Maybe a bit of red too. A special room in the house redone, with blackout curtains and cool bedding for when the heat finally hit. Meals tailored to the hormonal shifts. He’d make it perfect.

And when Max opened his eyes again…

He’d see it all. The care. The planning. The love.

The devotion .

Charles was already reaching for his phone, ready to text Bryan and start the list, when Kimi cleared his throat pointedly.

“Leclerc.”

Charles blinked, torn out of the daydream with a jolt. He looked up. Kimi was already packing up his kit.

“You need to go,” the Finn said. “They’re waiting for the final presentation.”

Right. The party.

The last act. The final reveal. The part that would seal everything in place — the technology, the promise, the illusion of choice. The world he'd lured them into, gleaming and bright.

Charles gave Max one last look.

So peaceful. So his .

He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. Then stood. Straightened his cuffs. Smoothed the sharp lines of his blood red suit.

Time to go perform for the last time tonight. 

Time to show the world exactly what he’d built — and who he’d built it for.

Chapter Text

6 days until the injection

When Max came to, it was like waking up underwater.

Thick. Heavy. Every inch of his body aching like he’d been hit by a truck and then dragged for a few blocks for good measure. His limbs were too slow, his skin too hot, and his brain—

God, his brain felt like cotton soaked in static.

Nothing sharp, nothing clear.

Just a deep, bone-soaking fog that clung to him, even as he blinked his eyes open against the dim light. The headache throbbed behind his temples, dull and pulsing, but at least the room wasn’t bright enough to make it worse.

The first thing he noticed was the bed.

Soft. Luxurious. The kind of plush you sink into. It smelled faintly like amber and salt and something warmer, something he couldn’t place—something familiar.

His lashes fluttered as he forced his eyes to adjust. There were wide windows far across the room, heavy curtains drawn against what he assumed was night. The walls were shadowed, but the shapes started to come into focus.

Bookshelves. A painting.

That painting.

Right across from him, half-finished. A portrait of Charles with blank space around him.

And it wasn’t a copy. Max knew it wasn’t a copy. It was the same one Charles had in his bedroom. 

No. No fucking way.

Adrenaline shot through his system so fast it nearly made him dizzy. He sat up too quickly, vision blackening at the edges, heart hammering in his chest. He blinked hard, tried to think , tried to remember —

But all he got was silence.

A huge, gaping hole in his memory. Just static where his thoughts should’ve been.

He grasped at fragments—party? drinks?—but they slipped through his fingers like water. Nothing solid. Just impressions. Glimpses. Emotions without a story to anchor them.

His eyes darted around the room, more alert now. The bed. The shelves. The little car figurines. The fucking original Senna helmet .

No denying it now. This was Charles’s bedroom. This was Charles’s bed.

And he had no idea how he got here.

Max swung his legs off the mattress. He was shaky, weak, like he hadn’t moved in years. His knees buckled slightly as he stood, and the air felt wrong—heavy. Tinted.

What the fuck happened to me?

He padded toward the door, every step surreal. The world still felt a little too far away, like he was watching everything through a fogged-up window. Something in his body buzzed—off-kilter. Not sick , exactly. But altered.

The door creaked open, and the hallway lights hit him like a punch to the skull. He hissed, shielding his eyes. But he didn’t stop.

He needed answers.

Downstairs, the house was… clean. Too clean. Suspiciously clean, considering that there was only one person taking care of it. Everything gleamed like it had just been scrubbed. The only thing off was the smell—still warm and inviting, but layered with something else. Too many scents. Too human. Like people had been here recently.

A party?

Max winced. That would explain the hangover. Maybe. Sort of.

He caught his reflection in the hallway mirror and paused.

He looked… good?

Skin dewy, hair soft and freshly brushed, face flushed just enough to seem alive. His clothes were—wait. These weren’t his clothes. The sweater he was wearing was way too soft, too big, and stitched near the hem in tiny embroidery was a familiar number:

16.

Charles’s number. Charles’s birthday .

Oh god.

He was wearing Charles’s sweater. In Charles’s house. In Charles’s bed.

That strange, nervous flutter in his stomach kicked back up like it had been waiting. It wasn’t fear, exactly. More like—

Something between embarrassment and anticipation. Something Max didn’t want to name.

No time for that. Find Charles. Get answers.

The music drew him in—soft, mellow, jazz, of all things—and when he reached the kitchen, he finally saw him.

Charles. Cooking.

“Didn’t take you for a jazz guy,” Max said, voice rough like gravel. His flirting skills were a bit rusty okay?

Charles startled so hard he nearly dropped the spatula. His whole body spun around, and then—

Max was airborne.

Two strong arms wrapped around him and lifted him off the floor like he weighed nothing. Max yelped, clinging to Charles instinctively.

“ Mon cœur, you’re awake! ” Charles beamed, joy lighting up his whole face as he spun them in a slow circle like this was a goddamn romcom.

“Charles—what the hell —” Max squirmed. “Put me down, please, I’m still kinda dizzy.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry, bébé .” Charles eased him back down gently, his hands lingering on Max’s waist like he couldn’t quite bear to let go. “How are you feeling? Do you remember anything?”

Max scrubbed a hand over his face, embarrassment blooming hot and sticky under his skin. “Not really? I feel like I got hit by a truck and then someone scrambled my brain. What even happened last night?”

Charles gave him a sheepish smile, now smoothing out Max’s sweater, his fingers obsessively tugging at nonexistent creases. “We had a few people over. Small party. You got a little too into the cocktails. Some of them were… stronger than expected.”

Max groaned. “Oh my god, I didn’t make a complete ass of myself, did I?”

Charles’s eyes softened. “Only a tiny one. Don’t worry. Everyone loved you. Do you want some aspi—” He turned back toward the stove and cursed under his breath. “Shit—the crêpes!”

“I can get the aspirin myself, you take care of that,” Max said, amused despite himself.

As Charles frantically tried to salvage the food, Max busied himself with water and tried not to spiral.

There was a breath of relief when Charles finally assembled the table. “Dinner’s ready. Come on, let’s head to the table.”

“Dinner!? What time even is it?” Max whipped his head around, eyes locking onto the old-fashioned clock on the wall. 

9:40

Probably not a.m.

That was way too late for lunch—hell, this was more like a midnight dinner. He glanced at the window. The curtains were drawn, but no light was even trying to seep through.

“Shit, how long was I out?”

“Uhh… maybe 22 hours?” Charles said, casually adjusting the forks like this was all totally normal. “Wasn’t exactly watching the clock when it happened.”

He slid a chair out for Max with a little flourish—like a perfect gentleman. “What matters is you’re awake now, non? Let’s eat.”

Max sat down slowly, still half in disbelief. He’d never slept that long in his life. Never woken up feeling quite this… disoriented. Had he really drunk that much?

He tried to press Charles for more details about the night before—but the more he asked, the more he realized he remembered even less than he thought.

And then there was the other question, the one he couldn’t push down any longer.

“…Charles?”

“Mmm?”

Max hesitated. “Did we… Did we do anything last night?”

Charles turned to look at him, confused at first — then the realization hit. “ Do anything ? Like—oh.” He blinked rapidly. “No! No, bébé , of course not. I’d never do something like that while you were… you know. Out of it.”

Max looked down at his plate, mortified. “Sorry. It’s just. I woke up in your sweater. In your room. In your bed .”

Charles paused, clearly running mental damage control. Then, with a casual shrug, he said, “You passed out on the couch like a corpse. Looked like you were going to break your neck. My bed’s bigger and softer. I thought—I mean, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

There was a quiet moment where neither of them spoke.

Max tried to swallow the uncertainty sitting like lead in his chest.

Charles smiled and pushed a plate toward him.

“Well,” he said, voice soft. “What matters is that you’re awake now.”

Max tried to smile back.

The crêpes were good.

Too good.

Max ate in silence for a few more bites than he meant to, unsure if it was the food itself or the comfort of the moment that lulled him into stillness. But the unease didn’t fade with the warmth of the syrup or the citrus tang of the orange slices Charles had plated with maddening precision.

No, it lingered. Low in his belly. A soft throb behind his temples.

A wrongness .

As Charles scraped the pans clean and hummed quietly along to the record playing in the background, Max pushed his chair back and stood. “Gonna get some air.”

Charles looked up. “Terrace is open. I left a blanket out there earlier.”

Of course he had.

Max nodded, too tired to process the weird tension curling under his skin, and stepped out through the glass doors onto the terrace. The night air hit him gently, cool and damp with the edge of sea breeze, and he sighed as he dropped into the chair by the low table, curling his legs underneath him.

It was quiet.

Not silent—not quite. An owl hooted somewhere in the dark, and thunder rolled faintly on the horizon. But it was the kind of stillness that made his thoughts echo louder.

Something tugged at him from the inside—a strange, restless pull, like he’d forgotten something important. Like some part of his day had been left unfinished, hanging in the air.

His fingers twitched.

He should be doing something.

Something… on his phone?

Right. His phone .

Max sat up a little straighter, heart giving a small, involuntary jolt. It was strange—he hadn’t even thought about his phone until now, but the moment he remembered it, a spike of urgency ran through him. Not even about checking social media or messages, but something deeper. Important .

He was about to get up and go look when the terrace door slid open and Charles stepped out.

“Brought you something,” Charles said, holding out a tray with a glass of orange juice and a bottle of electrolytes, condensation still clinging to the sides.

Max blinked. “You didn’t have to—”

“Shh. You need to rehydrate.” Charles placed the tray on the table and sat beside him, close enough that their knees brushed. “Figured this would be tastier than plain water.”

Max gave him a small, grateful smile, even as his fingers reached absently for the drink. “Hey, uh—have you seen my phone?”

He didn’t even look at Charles at first, too focused on unscrewing the electrolyte bottle, but he felt the change instantly.

Like the air got thicker.

Charles’s hand froze mid-adjustment on the hem of his sleeve.

“Your phone?” he repeated, tone far too careful.

Max finally glanced at him. “Yeah. I don’t remember having it earlier, and I figured maybe it’s just upstairs or something.”

Charles’s lips parted, then pressed into a thin line. “It probably got lost last night during the party. You know how these things go—phones slide between couch cushions, fall under tables…”

“Right, but like—” Max frowned. “I really need it. There was… something. I don’t know. I think I had something to check and—”

“I’ll get you a new one,” Charles said too quickly, waving a hand like he didn’t even hear what Max said. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a phone.”

Max stared at him. “Yeah, but… I need it. I think.”

Charles’s jaw tensed. “Max. You just woke up from sleeping nearly a day straight. You’re exhausted, you’re confused, and your head’s clearly still hurting. We’ll take care of it tomorrow , alright? I promise. I’ll help you look for it.”

Max wanted to argue. There was something there—something clawing at the back of his mind, just out of reach. But Charles was already leaning in, brushing Max’s hair back from his forehead in that same quiet, practiced way he always had. The gesture was so familiar, so effortless, it made Max’s chest ache.

The comfort burned. It ached in a way that had nothing to do with a hangover.

Without really thinking, Max reached out and gently rubbed his fingers along Charles’s wrists—absently, like a habit he didn’t know he had. Charles stilled, then, after a pause, tilted his head and pressed those same wrists softly against Max’s neck.

The effect was immediate. Max’s shoulders dropped. His breathing evened out. He felt… steadier, somehow. Calmer. Like something inside him had been switched off and reset. He didn’t question it. Didn’t even really register it. Just assumed it was the comfort of being near Charles, of not being alone.

So he dropped it.
Let it go, for now.

And just sat there, sipping orange juice while Charles sipped nothing at all, like he was simply content to be near him.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, but Max’s mind kept spinning. The calm felt artificial—like it didn’t belong to him. His body still felt strange, disconnected. And beneath it all, buried under the haze of amber, berries, and the soft sound of Charles humming under his breath, was a silence that rang too loudly.

Something’s wrong.
He just didn’t know what.

Eventually, Charles nudged him gently. “It’s getting late. You should rest again.”

“I’m fine,” Max muttered, trying to hide the panic of falling asleep and forgetting even more . “I’ll just grab a water bottle and go to my room.”

Charles smiled, eyes soft in the terrace light. “ Mon ange , don’t be silly. You’re staying in my bed. You need it more than I do.”

Max opened his mouth to protest again, but the warmth in Charles’s voice—in that nickname—made his throat close up. He sounded so genuine . So full of care.

“You sure?” Max managed, trying not to sound too eager, too small in the face of it.

Charles was already helping him up, a hand warm on the small of his back. “Positive. Besides, you look cute in my sweater. It would be a crime to make you sleep anywhere else.”

Max looked away quickly, face flushing down to his collarbones. “Shut up.”

But he let Charles lead him back inside. With each step he could swear they were getting closer to each other. When he stood at the bedroom door he almost didn’t want to let go of Charles. Some quiet part of his brain screamed at him to invite the alpha in.

Before he could say anything stupid Charles wished him a good night and went his way.

And as he crawled into the too-soft bed once again, a thought lingered at the edge of his mind—just for a second, before it slipped away.

What the fuck is going on with me now?

5 days before the injection

The morning after had that strange, almost too-perfect kind of stillness—the kind that came not just after a storm, but after something that had no name yet. Like the air itself had been changed, rearranged into something quieter, shinier, wrong in the most beautiful way.

Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, golden and soft, bathing everything in a dreamy glow. He loved this house so much.

His head still felt cotton-stuffed and buzzy. Like every thought arrived three seconds too late. And under all of that—buried deep in his chest—was a jittering sensation he couldn’t pin down.

He needed answers.

He needed his phone.

First, though, clothes.

He left Charles’s room, already reaching up to brush the sleep from his eyes, only to trip over something at the doorway. He stumbled, barely catching himself with a groan.

There, sitting like a waiting pet, was a sleek box tied with a soft ivory ribbon.

A note lay delicately on top in Charles’s unmistakable handwriting.

Got these for you. Thought you could use a bit of a change in the closet.

Max blinked. The rational part of him wanted to be annoyed. Wanted to call it out as overbearing or too much . But curiosity won out.

He opened the box—and his breath hitched.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a wardrobe that looked like it had been designed for him. Cashmere sweaters that looked impossibly soft to the touch. Matching sweatpants. A selection of breezy linen shorts, crisply folded. T-shirts with elegant stitching, clearly custom-made. Deep navy blues, soft blood reds, creams and ivories—tones that made his skin look warmer, his eyes sharper.

Max ran a hand over the fabric and swallowed thickly.

God. Charles really was incredible. Thoughtful in a way that snuck under his defenses. Knew his sizes without even asking. Knew his colors . Knew him.

The silence dragged him back. He gave himself a little shake and got dressed, letting the soft navy sweater slide over his skin like second breath.

Then, hair still messily ruffled, he padded into the living room and found Charles lounging on the couch, arms crossed, already dressed like he had a photoshoot at noon.

“Hi Charles,” Max said, trying to sound casual even though his brain was still crawling through half-memories. He raked a hand through his hair again. “Wanna look for the phone with me?”

Charles sat up, the corners of his mouth curling like it was the easiest thing in the world. His eyes scanned Max up and down and his smirk widened.

“Of course,” Charles said smoothly, pushing off the couch. “I already checked the kitchen and guest bathroom. Maybe the media room?”

He stepped beside Max, too close in a way that felt... warm. Not cloying. Just present . Solid. A gravitational pull Max didn’t want to admit was comforting.

Max didn’t know what was going on with him lately. But for now, Charles was helping him look.

For now, that was enough.

They scoured the house room by room. Max moved pillows, checked under tables, even peeked into the laundry basket with an inexplicable hope that maybe, maybe he’d been careless. But the phone was nowhere. And every time he thought he was getting close to remembering something— anything —it slipped right through his fingers like vapor.

He paused in the hallway, heart thudding, eyes skimming over the bookshelf. There, stuck between two racing biographies and a signed photograph of Schumacher and little Charles at Monza, was something out of place.

A sleek red envelope.

The kind of red that screamed money , printed with a glossy black silhouette of the Ferrari prancing horse on the back. He turned it over slowly, chest tightening.

Inside: an invite.

Thick cardstock, gilded edges. It read:

GRAND REVEAL NIGHT — Leclerc Estate — PRIVATE ACCESS ONLY
June 5th, 19:00. Dress code strictly enforced.

His eyes snapped to the date.

That was the night of the “small party.” The one Charles swore was just a casual hangout.

Grand reveal? Max blinked. Something fluttered in his mind. A scent—champagne, heavy perfume. The glint of chandelier light. Silk beneath his fingers. A stage.

A crowd.

The memory came in a flash, blurry at the edges: a packed ballroom, buzzing with conversation. Max standing near a table of tall crystal glasses. A voice echoing through a microphone. His own name—whispered by someone behind him.

His breath hitched.

Before he could grasp onto the thread, before he could lean in , a voice shattered the silence.

“Max!” Charles called from upstairs. “I found it! It was wedged between the bed and the wall—must’ve slipped out of your pocket!”

Max’s heart jumped. He shoved the invitation behind the row of books and forced his expression back into something neutral before heading up.

Charles stood in the doorway to his bedroom, holding the familiar device like it was a trophy.

Max practically snatched it. “God, finally. ”

“I told you it’d turn up.” Charles gave him a smile that was too casual. “Check it out. Make sure everything’s still working.”

Max powered it on. Everything looked normal, but the battery was weirdly full. Like it had been charging all night. He didn’t question it— not yet.

“You’ve got to pick a car for tomorrow,” Charles said, patting Max’s shoulder on the way back down the stairs. “We’re going on another drive—maybe the Aston this time? Or you can try the LaFerrari. She’s a handful, but you’d look good behind the wheel.”

Max, still reeling with a thousand half-formed questions, only nodded. “Sure. I’ll think about it.”

By late afternoon, Max was back on the sim—engine revving in his ears, focus narrowed to the ghostlike path of the racing line. His body remembered the curves before his brain did. It was soothing. Automatic. Real.

And Charles?

Charles sat on the couch behind him, legs crossed, a glass of whisky untouched beside him. His eyes never strayed from Max—his perfect, golden boy, coaxed back to life, with no idea how close he’d come to the truth.

He lifted his phone. Quietly tapped the mirrored screen.

Max’s inbox buzzed across the screen in real time.

Horner:

Max. What the fuck is going on with you lately and why is Daniel silent ever since he talked with you. Call me immediately. Don’t forget the deadline.

Seb:

Max, please. I know things are complicated. I don’t know what happened with Daniel, but please just let me know you’re okay.

GP:

Max did something happen during the banquet? Daniel went AWOL on us. Call me. We’re worried.

Charles’s thumb hovered. His face was expressionless.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Block. Block. Block.

He opened another app. One only he had the password to.

Security CAM 03B

He tapped into the feed.

It loaded slowly, like the universe was giving him time to rethink. But he didn’t. He never did.

The screen filled with the dim image of a concrete room—bare but for a chair and a low table. There, slumped against the wall, blood dried at his temple, was Daniel Ricciardo.

Still breathing. Still alive. But only just.

Charles tilted his head.

A shame, really. He never had anything against Daniel as a person. But a Red Bull spy? A threat to Max’s peace? Unforgivable.

He locked the screen and leaned back, eyes drifting once more to the sim where Max was flying through Eau Rouge, hands tight on the wheel, body loose with joy.

His boy.

His creation.

Tomorrow would be perfect.

He’d make sure of it.

4 days before the injection

The next day unfolded in a golden haze of domestic comfort—one of those soft, delicious mornings that felt like it had been tailor-made. The kind of morning Max never used to believe existed outside of movies or dreams. 

Charles moved around the sunlit kitchen like he belonged to it, like it was a symphony and he was the conductor—pan sizzling, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed in concentration as he plated something that looked straight out of a Michelin-starred menu.

Max sat at the island counter, one leg folded under him, Charles’s cook book resting beside his elbow, and his own phone in his hands. He kept scrolling, swiping, flicking through apps and notifications like they were puzzle pieces—but none of them quite fit. There was a gap in his brain, and it ached. A void right where something important should be.

He wasn’t sure what he was searching for.

A timestamp? A message? A photo?

He ran his thumb absentmindedly over the gold bracelet around his wrist—the one Charles had given him not so long ago, the one with the little screws on the side that locked into place like a promise you couldn’t undo. 

Every time he looked at it he felt... marked. Kept. And maybe that should've been scary. But it wasn’t. In some weird hidden way he kind of liked it.

“What car are we taking today?” Max asked, trying to pull his brain out of the spiral. He kept his tone light, but his eyes stayed fixed on his phone.

Charles turned with a smile that could melt steel. “Max, I wasn't joking when I wanted you to choose.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Of course.” Charles slid a plate next to him, kissed the top of his head without asking. “You should go for something bold, I think. You were eyeing the Valhalla last time.”

Max hummed around a bite of some god-tier omelette. “Yeah, okay. Let’s take her out.”

Charles beamed.

As they drove into Monaco, Max found himself growing more confident behind the wheel. The car purred beneath his hands like it liked him, and the city unfolded like a stage. The Valhalla drew eyes, obviously. But so did the man in the passenger seat.

Charles's hand never once left Max's waist from the moment they parked.

Inside the Cartier store, everything was velvet and hush-toned elegance. A private room was prepared instantly. The staff greeted Charles like royalty, offered Max sparkling water, champagne, whatever he wanted. It felt dizzying—the familiarity they extended to him, like he belonged here. Stark difference compared to last time.

“The order,” the assistant said, placing two boxes down like sacred relics and leaving the room.

Max blinked. “What’s this?”

Charles pushed the bigger one aside and opened the smaller one. Nestled inside was a delicate gold necklace, the design echoing the iconic Love bracelet, only instead of being screwed shut, the necklace locked at the front —with two miniature bracelets holding it closed. 

Max leaned in, eyes catching on the tiny engraving along the back of one: 12.06

Isn’t that in like… four days? Does Charles have something planned? Something important enough that he’d buy a necklace to commemorate it??

“It matches,” Charles said softly, stepping in front of Max and holding the necklace up between them. “May I?”

Max tilted his head back, offering his throat without protest. “Where is this coming from? It’s not my birthday or anything.”

Charles smiled, brushing his fingers along the side of Max’s neck as he clipped it on. “Just ‘cause.” He gave it a small tug, earning a silent gasp from Max.

The necklace settled against Max’s skin like it had always belonged there.

While Charles moved to the counter to pay—his back turned, the second box still unopened and being carefully packed by an employee—Max let his gaze wander. He fidgeted absently with the necklace, fingers tracing the delicate metal at his throat.

Then he caught his reflection in a mirrored wall.

For a moment, he barely recognized himself.

Face flushed, lips pink, hair tousled.

He looked like someone who was... owned.

Adored.

A man approached him—sharp suit, a lazy smirk, breath laced with something spiced and wrong.

“So, is Leclerc planning another one soon?” the stranger asked, voice low and oily. “The last auction was... a feast . Really hoping he brings in more of your type, once the next assets are ready. Blue-eyed, blond hair. The crowd would love that. I’d love that.”

Max blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The banquet?” the man said, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “The one few days ago? You were stunning—if I could I’d try to steal you away.” Max was getting really uncomfortable now. “Thought it was a performance at first when they brought that brunette in, flushed and desperate, but then when they started bidding...”

Max took a half-step back. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

The man let out a low, wet chuckle, leaning in until Max could feel his breath on his cheek—hot, sour, wrong. 

“If he ever gets tired of you,” he murmured, voice thick with something oily, “I’m first in line. Hope I won’t have to pay as much as that Sergeant did for the Australian. What was his name again? Oliver? Owen? Something starting with an ‘O’, I’m pretty sure.” He grinned, teeth flashing. “Ah I remember now! Oscar, wasn’t it? Shame what happened to him.”

Max stiffened. Their shoulders were now touching, the man’s suit brushing against his sleeve like grease on skin.

“Oh, what I’d give to see you squirm like that,” the man breathed, almost moaning the words. “I swear I saw slick running down his thighs like honey. Bet you'd get even wetter. I’d make you beg for—”

A hand crept up Max’s arm, slow, possessive, filthy —

Max froze, bile rising in his throat.

He was about to kick that guy in the balls, when—

“Max.”

The voice came from behind him. Quiet. Steady.

Too quiet.

Max turned.

Charles was there. Smile gone. Eyes sharp, dark, gleaming. A mask of calm stretched over something far more violent.

“Go wait for me at the front, ma vie .”
Soft. Gentle. But not a suggestion.

The rage wasn’t for Max—not even close. It was aimed solely, squarely, at the man now trying, too late, to slide back into anonymity.

Max didn’t speak. His legs moved before he could think. His hands were clammy, shaking slightly as he stumbled toward the exit. He looked back only once—

Just in time to see Charles’s fingers twist into the man’s collar like a vice.

And then the door swung shut.

It was nearly ten minutes before Charles emerged.

His knuckles were red. One was split at the edge, a thin line of blood drying into his skin. Max’s stomach turned cold.

“Everything okay?” he asked, voice too casual, too thin.

Charles took his hand and squeezed. “Perfect. Don’t worry about it.”

They walked back to the car in silence. Max kept casting glances at him, something itchy building under his skin. 

Charles drove the car back home.

With Monaco blurring past them in a sun-drenched blur, Max finally spoke.

“That guy back there,” he said carefully. “He asked me about an auction. Said something about a banquet. I don’t—what auction was he talking about?”

Charles’s hands twitched on the wheel. Just once. A small flex.

“He mistook you for someone else,” he replied smoothly. “It happens.”

Max turned to look at him.

The profile was perfect. Still. Too still.

“But—he said some things. About Oscar? And ‘next assets’? And—”

A sharp chill crawled down his spine. His head throbbed, a pulse of pressure building behind his eyes.

Then—

Blown pupils. 

Gagged lips. 

Person kneeling.

Red velvet curtains. 

A stage. 

A man in torn clothes.

A spotlight. 

A crowd. 

Applause.

A figure in a red suit, stepping forward.

A glint of metal. 

A syringe.

Max flinched so hard his knee hit the dashboard.

“Max?” Charles’s voice cut in, casual but tight. His eyes flicked to him, too quick.

Max swallowed. His throat was dry. 

“Nothing,” he whispered. “It’s nothing. You’re right, let's just forget that guy.”

But his fingers were digging into his thigh now, hard enough to bruise.

Something was wrong. 

And somewhere, just beneath the surface—

He was starting to remember.

3 days before the injection

2:03 a.m.

The villa breathed in its sleep.

Charles stood at the edge of the bed, unmoving, watching the slow, steady rise of Max’s chest beneath the sheets. Moonlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains, cutting pale silver across his bare shoulder, glinting off the delicate gold necklace still resting at his throat—the one Charles had fastened with his own hands, just hours ago.

He looked peaceful. Open.

Trusting.

It made something vicious and tender twist deep in Charles’s chest.

He didn’t look peaceful earlier—when that filthy bastard had dared touch him. Had leaned in, breathed on him, spoken to him like Max was something to be bought, used, discarded.

Charles had nearly drawn the gun strapped under his jacket. Nearly painted the walls red. But they were in public. And death by gunshot? Too fast. Too forgettable.

So he sent Max away— safely —before the mess began.

Dragged the man by the collar into the private room, soundproof and out of sight. Broke his nose with the first hit. Two ribs with the second. Kept going until the man stopped making sounds, until his breath came wet and rattling.

Charles knelt beside him, quiet. Calm.

Waited until he saw it—that flicker of hope.

Of survival.

Then smiled, slow and cold, and drew the knife from his boot.

He drove it into the man’s groin with deliberate, surgical precision.

Not to kill.

Just to ruin.

Let him live.

Let him remember.

He wouldn't be touching another omega again. Not in this life.

Now, in the stillness of Max’s bedroom, Charles stood with blood scrubbed clean from his knuckles, his violence left behind like a shadow on the tile floor. His hand hovered over Max’s hair, fingers twitching—but he didn’t touch.

He didn’t need to.

Not now.

Instead, he turned away silently and padded barefoot down the hall, leaving Max to his sleep. Safe. Untouched.

His phone buzzed once. A silent alert.

Security CAM 03B – Movement detected

Charles’s expression didn’t change, but his pace did. 

Deliberate now. Measured.

Down the winding staircase, into the basement. He didn’t bother with the light. The path to the fridge was muscle memory.

He opened it.

The chilled air bit at his skin, the bottles inside clinking softly as he pressed into the hollow, revealing the hidden steel door behind the wine rack. A soft hiss of hydraulics. He stepped through.

The corridor was sterile—cold, humming with the faint sound of electricity and distant machinery. The light was harsh here, humming overhead in long white panels.

He walked the hall with a grace that felt predatory.

The cell at the end was lit.

Charles opened the reinforced door with a quiet click and stepped inside.

Daniel was already pacing, barefoot on the concrete, wrapped in a threadbare thermal. His eyes snapped up the moment Charles entered.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Daniel’s voice cracked, rough from disuse and fury. “What did you do to Max?”

Charles didn’t speak. He shut the door behind him.

“You broke him,” Daniel hissed. “Did you erase everything? Is he even Max anymore, or just some… version of him you molded to fit your sick fantasy?”

Still no response.

“He killed Pierre,” Daniel spat. “No, sorry killed is an understatement. He tore through him like a goddamn animal, and you praised him. Did you make him do it?”

“I didn’t make him do anything,” Charles finally said, voice smooth as velvet, quiet as falling ash. “Max made his choice.”

Daniel’s eyes burned. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”

“And yet,” Charles murmured, stepping further into the cell, “he did it so well .”

Daniel lurched forward, fists clenched, every inch of him vibrating with helpless rage. “You’re fucking sick. You think this is love? You brainwashed him.”

“I protected him,” Charles replied, voice infuriatingly calm. “From himself. From RedBull. From you .”

Daniel’s laugh was bitter, raw. “You call this protection? He’s a prisoner in a golden cage. He doesn’t even remember who he is.”

“He remembers enough,” Charles said coolly. “Enough to choose me . Enough to let me touch him. Enough to let me in.”

Daniel’s face twisted. “You’re fucking disgusting. Once you get bored, you’re just gonna throw him away, huh? You’re just as bad as—”

Charles moved in a blur—one step, then another, then his fist connected with Daniel’s jaw. The crack echoed off the walls. Daniel went down hard, groaning as he hit the floor.

Charles crouched beside him.

“Let me make this clear,” he said, voice low and precise. “Max is not in danger. Not from me. Not anymore.”

Daniel rolled onto his back, panting, blood in his mouth. “You’re lying to yourself. He’s terrified —he just doesn’t know why yet.”

Charles tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You think you know him better than I do?”

“I do ,” Daniel snapped. “I know what he used to be. What he’s capable of. He’s not yours, Charles. You can drug him, you can twist the truth, but deep down he’s still him . And when he remembers—”

“When he remembers,” Charles interrupted, “he’ll understand why I did what I did. Why I had to. And he’ll choose me again. So far he has done that every time.”

Daniel stared at him, throat bobbing. “So it is about making him yours. Turning him into something else. One of your precious betas-turned-omegas .”

Charles didn’t deny it.

“There’s no stopping it,” Charles said, voice calm—too calm. “You know that. The shift’s nearly complete. You can smell it, can’t you? He’s already changed in ways you cannot fathom.”

Daniel pressed a trembling hand to his mouth. His skin was pale, clammy, eyes shadowed from too many sleepless nights. He looked like a man watching a fire crawl closer to a house he couldn’t leave.

“You’re going to destroy him,” he said hoarsely.

Charles’s gaze didn’t flicker. “No. I’m going to complete him.”

Something in Daniel’s mind caught—hope? Or dread? “So he hasn’t turned. Not fully. Not yet.” His voice sharpened. “He still has a chance.”

Charles tilted his head, lips curling into a smile that wasn’t friendly. “Not really. There’s been a new side effect that will make him want to get injected, but it doesn’t concern you.”

Daniel’s mouth twisted. He looked away, shoulders shaking once before he forced himself to look back, jaw tight.

“What do you want from me?” he asked. “Why keep me here at all?”

Charles stepped forward slowly, brushing his knuckles along his palm in a lazy gesture that made the room feel smaller.

“I want you out of the way,” he said simply. “And you know too much, can’t give you over to Horner just yet. And Max—Max would be sad if you vanished.” He smiled again, indulgent and cold. “You’re here because he’d mourn you. Nothing more.”

Daniel swallowed, hands clenched at his sides. “And if I don’t let this slide? If I fight you on this?”

Charles didn’t answer at first.

Instead, he asked, “What do you want, Daniel?”

Silence stretched between them.

Daniel’s voice came low, ragged—like each word cost him something. “Swear to me. Swear you’ll never hurt him. Not when you’re angry. Not if he pushes you. Not when he tells you no. Not even by accident.”

Charles considered that. He’d already made that vow in private, months ago—when Max first fell asleep with his head on Charles’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Fine,” he said.

Daniel’s eyes sparked again, that brief flame of defiance buried in defeat. “Let him live, Charles. Give him a life. Not a cage. Let him see people. Let him call his sister. Let him leave the house without you on his heels. Let him have friends. ”

There was venom in his voice as he spoke up again. Pleading, yes—but also disgust.

“Just... don’t become one of them.”

Charles looked at him, silent for a moment. 

Why did everyone always assume he was just like the other alphas? Yes, he was ruthless. Yes, he was—technically—a mafioso, a trafficker and a murderer. But never, not once, had he imagined hurting an omega using his own hands. Especially not one he loved with everything he had.

And then, quietly, almost tenderly:

“I’ll think about it.”

The thought of Max slipping out of his hands, even for an afternoon—laughing with someone else, distracted by someone else—made something sour twist in his gut. But if keeping Max meant yielding ground, he’d do it. Carefully. Begrudgingly.

Still, he couldn’t resist stepping in close—just enough to make Daniel flinch. Charles leaned down until his mouth was near the Australian’s ear.

“If you ever try to take him from me,” Charles murmured, voice low and steady, “if you so much as hint at making him choose, making him question what we have—you’ll lose more than just a few teeth, Daniel. And you know I don’t make empty threats.”

Daniel didn’t respond. His jaw tightened, but his shoulders dipped—just slightly, a crack in the armor.

“Behave,” Charles added, almost teasing, “and maybe I’ll invite you to the wedding.”

He lingered, eyes sweeping over Daniel like he was taking inventory—memorizing every weakness, every tell.

Then he turned and walked out of the cell without another word, the door shutting behind him with a soft, final click.

Silence fell again. But this time, it felt like a warning.

Charles made his way back up the hallway.

He reached the exit again.

The fridge door was… open.

Just an inch.

He stared at it for a long moment, head tilting slightly.

Odd.

He reached out, shut it slowly, locked it.

Didn’t notice the faintest trace of warmth on the handle. Didn’t hear the faintest shuffle of breath upstairs.

Didn’t see the narrow shadow that had disappeared around the corner only moments before.

Max had followed Charles through the silent house like a shadow, barefoot and breath held, his curiosity louder than his common sense. The wooden floors were cold beneath his feet, grounding him as he watched from behind the wall near the entrance to the basement. Charles moved with purpose, pulling open the fridge and slipping into an invisible passage behind it like he’d done it a thousand times.

Max’s heart thudded against his ribs.

He waited a few seconds, then followed.

Heavy metal door at the end of the hall was still closing when he reached it, but he dared not go farther. He crept to the wall, crouching beside the thick metal slit of a security-grade window. 

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed against concrete walls, and Charles squatted within a stark room—calm, composed, controlled. Max couldn’t hear what was said, but he could see the other figure on the floor. Curled in on himself. Bleeding, maybe?

The man’s face was turned away, but the dark curls reminded him of someone.

Daniel.

No.

No, that couldn’t be right.

Danny wasn’t part of this. This mission—whatever it was—was his. Max’s. That was what they told him. That’s what Horner said. Danny couldn’t be here.

Yeah, no way that was him. Probably some other hostage of Charles’s. 

His breath fogged the glass slightly, and he jerked back.

After a bit Charles finally stood up. Turned. Max didn’t wait to see more. He ran, quiet as a ghost, slipping out and sprinting back up the stairs just seconds before the fridge door hissed shut behind Charles.

Back in bed, he forced himself to go still, pretending to be tangled in sleep. He shut his eyes tight. Slowed his breathing. His pulse galloped in his throat as the bedroom door creaked open.

The mattress dipped.

A hand—gentle, familiar—ran through his hair. He almost flinched. But instead, traitorously, his body leaned into it. Just a fraction. Just enough to get an amused huff out of Charles.

Charles’s voice came soft as a spell, lips brushing his temple: “My sweet boy. My darling, no one is ever going to take you away from me. Never . You’re mine .”

Max’s breath hitched. He kept his eyes shut.

“Three days left, love. Sleep well.”

And then Charles was gone.

Since then, Max drifted in and out of sleep like a man trapped in a fever dream.

And when he padded downstairs at 7 a.m., silence clung to the villa like fog. No Charles. No one.

He stood before the basement door, staring.

His hand reached toward the handle—hesitated. He could go down there. He could find out the truth. He could see who really was down there with his own eyes. But something inside him—a whisper, or a warning—held him back.

Not today.

There was still time.

There had to be.

So instead, he poured himself a glass of wine. 

Not the best breakfast decision, sue him, but the dull ache in his skull pulsed worse with each flash of memory. Maybe the alcohol would slow the trickle. Maybe it would numb the rising tide.

No messages. No calls.

Nothing from Horner.

Nothing from Seb.

Nothing from Daniel.

Not even a spam notification. It was as if the world had gone dark on the other side of the screen.

The connection, Charles said, was spotty. Probably nothing.

Probably.

He took the wine and stepped outside.

The garden was still kissed with morning dew, the sky painted in soft pastels. He wandered past the flowery paths until he reached his favorite fountain—the one with the two marble lovers forever frozen in a tender embrace. White stone, smooth and godlike, almost glowing in the early light.

Max sat on the edge, sipping slowly, letting the sun warm his skin.

And yet… something ached. Something wanted .

Charles .

God, how badly he wanted him. Craved him. Not just the touch, but the validation . The quiet praise. The way Charles looked at him like Max was both masterpiece and possession.

He flushed, remembering last night. Remembering how his body reacted to being called mine . If his skin had gone hot and his boxers damp, well… no one needed to know.

He glanced at the wine, then at his hand.

The scar. Almost healed now. A ragged little thing across his palm, as if he'd ripped it open on something sharp. 

Roses flashed in his mind whenever he looked at it.

When he asked Charles, he just smiled and said Max probably hurt himself during the party. Told him to be more careful.

But the unease wouldn’t leave.

His gaze drifted to the bushes just beside the fountain—white roses, delicate and in perfect bloom. Not really his thing, too overused, too… staged. But they were undeniably beautiful.

He leaned in to inspect one, a half-open blossom soft as silk.

There—just along the edge of one petal—something red.

His stomach turned.

He knew what it was. He’d spilled it countless times.

Blood.

He touched it lightly. The headache behind his eyes exploded into fire.

Blood. Blood everywhere.

A scream.

Sharp metal piercing someone’s skin.

White fabric—white silk—soaked through with red.

Someone crying out, begging.

Roses painted in gore.

He stumbled back, wine sloshing from his glass, spilling across his white shirt, his shorts—those delicate ivory linens Charles had picked out for him. He looked down in horror, but it wasn’t the wine that scared him. It was the image .

His thighs smeared in blood.

His sleeves soaked red.

A warm body going still beneath him.

Eyes—blue—glassy and wide and fading.

He dropped the glass.

The shatter felt like thunder.

He stood trembling by the fountain, hand clutching his chest.

The visions. They were getting worse. More common, more detailed.

He needed to find out what really happened four days ago.

The wind had died down. The morning light no longer felt comforting—it pressed against Max’s skin like something artificial, sterile. The taste of wine had turned to ash in his mouth.

His feet moved before his mind could stop them. Back into the house. Past the wide archways and the polished stone. Past the kitchen, quiet and immaculate. Past the door of the basement.

He hesitated in front of it.

The cold hum of the appliance felt suddenly… deceptive. Like a predator holding its breath.

Max reached for the handle and slowly, quietly, opened it. Nothing unusual—rows of neatly organized produce, bottles of different drinks, a glass container of lemon wedges.

But then—his fingers traced along the side panel.

Click.

The false back groaned open, revealing the narrow corridor behind. Dim, metallic, humming low like a sleeping machine.

He swallowed hard and stepped inside.

His bare feet made no sound on the cold floor. The walls were narrow, windowless, lined with reinforced panels. The air smelled of disinfectant and electricity. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back.

But he kept going.

At the end of the corridor was the reinforced door he’d seen Charles disappear into. Behind it, something waited—truth or madness or both. He pressed his hand to the control panel. Red light. Denied.

He glanced around—nothing but sterile walls and silence. The lock was password-protected. No easy way in.

But maybe...

He brushed his fingers along the panel’s edge, calculating. His pulse thundered in his ears. Maybe he could rig a bypass—short-circuit the system, lockpick it with his tools, force it open from the inside.

Just as he leaned closer—

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Max’s breath caught violently in his throat. The grip was firm, almost bruising in its stillness. He didn’t need to turn to know.

Charles.

“What are you doing Max?” Charles asked, voice calm— too calm. Like still water over something deadly.

Max stiffened. His heart was going to burst. “I—I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I was just… walking around.”

Charles’s hand didn’t move. “And your walk led you to the cold storage corridor?” he asked, quiet and pointed, the edge of something sharp hiding beneath his words. He slowly spun Max around. He looked him up and down and frowned. 

Max didn’t really want to discuss the wine stains right now so he forced a smile—wrong, shaky. “I was curious. I wanted to get a drink and suddenly this door opened and… yeah.”

A beat.

“Curious,” Charles repeated. His eyes still occasionally traveled to the stained clothes, but he didn’t comment. Then slowly, his hand slid from Max’s shoulder down to his back, gentle again. Comforting, possessive. “You should’ve asked before walking down a hall that is clearly not meant to be seen.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Max said, his voice low, but brittle. “And you said this is my house too. Right?”

Charles let out a quiet laugh, brushing a lock of Max’s hair from his temple. “Of course, mon cœur . Of course it is. But there are parts of it that aren’t… safe.” He gestured lightly to the sealed door. “This door is here for a reason.”

Max turned to look at him then—and for a moment, he saw it. Not the charming, doting man who made him breakfast everyday, who kissed his hair like he was fragile and precious.

He saw the steel.

“You could’ve told me,” Max said, quieter. “Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

Charles tilted his head. His eyes were unreadable.

“You’re not ready yet,” he said, and his tone was final—not cruel, but immovable. “Four days ago… something happened. But not to you. You were involved and I thought it would be better to just… move past it.”

Max’s mouth went dry. “What does that have to do with this door?” 

Why was he straying from the situation at hand? Too many things were being unanswered, everything was becoming too overwhelming. 

Charles’s gaze was still unreadable. “Come upstairs. You haven’t eaten. You clearly need a change of clothes. Let’s not ruin today with ghosts from a party no one even remembers.”

“But I’m starting to,” Max whispered.

Charles’s smile didn’t falter—but his fingers tensed just slightly at Max’s side.

“I know,” he said. “And that’s why we need to go slow. One truth at a time. Please, Max. Trust me a little longer.”

There was a pause—fragile, heavy.

And Max… nodded. Some part of his brain screamed that he shouldn’t. He knew who Charles really was. He should knock him out, use his hand to open the door and finally find out what was going on.

But another part—a small, new one—told him to obey. Do as the alpha tells him to do.

So he did.

For now.

But his eyes lingered on that sealed door as Charles led him away, hand resting at the small of his back like a tether.

Behind that door was the truth.

And it was calling.

When Charles entered his bedroom, he expected to find Max still peacefully asleep. What awaited him was an empty bed and an even emptier room.

He was moving in an instant, robe barely tied around his waist as he stalked through the halls. First the bathroom. Then the guest room. Kitchen. Living room.

Nothing.

Panic didn’t come often. Not to him. But when it did, it was sharp. Clean. Precise.

He moved faster now, slippers silent on wood, cutting through the house like a ghost.

And then—

The basement.

Open.

“Fuck.” Charles muttered under his breath, striding forward now, no hesitation.

The fridge was creaked open and the corridor door inside had been disengaged—ajar.

Charles’s breath left him like a blade had cut through his ribs. Fuck. Fuck. Of all the places he could’ve wandered, of all the rooms.

His mind spiraled, even as his feet carried him forward:

If he’s already seen Daniel…

Should he sedate him again?

Tie him up for the next three days, until he can inject the last dose?

Maybe he should just inject it now?

No—too risky. Too soon.

Maybe another memory flush. He still had the vials. Say Max fainted from stress. He’d believe it, wouldn’t he?

But—

There.

At the end of the corridor, just in front of the reinforced door, Max stood frozen, one hand grazing the panel. Not yet inside. Not yet lost.

Charles exhaled. Merci Dieu.

His pace slowed. Smooth. Controlled.

He crossed the distance like nothing was wrong, like he wasn’t planning seven different forms of containment just moments earlier. Like he hadn’t almost decided to erase Max’s mind again just to keep him close.

And when he reached him, he didn’t yank him away. He simply… grabbed his shoulder.

Upstairs, Charles settled him on the couch, draping a blanket around Max’s shoulders like he hadn’t just been moments away from dragging him off to a chair and forcing another dose of the memory scrub into his veins.

He needed to say something that would distract him from the basement.

He knelt beside him, hands resting gently on Max’s knees.

“Max,” he began, eyes soft. “There’s something I didn’t tell you. About the night of the party.”

Max’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, gaze flicking to Charles like a startled animal.

“You got into a fight.”

Max blinked. “What?”

“There was someone,” Charles continued, voice low and even. “A guest. He said something cruel. About you. About me. I don’t know which set you off first, but—” he sighed, eyes full of carefully crafted sorrow, “—you lost control. He lunged first, but you…”

Max’s mouth was slightly open now, breath uneven.

“You hit him. Hard. There was blood.” Charles’s hands tightened on Max’s knees, just enough for grounding. “I pulled you off before it got worse. That’s what you’re remembering.”

Max’s voice was quiet, trembling. “There was so much blood. On my hands. My clothes.”

Charles tilted his head. “Trauma exaggerates things. Your mind fills in blanks. That’s how it protects itself.”

“But—” Max leaned forward now, eyes darting, wild with the need to understand —“what’s behind that door?”

Charles’s face didn’t move. Not for a moment.

For fucks sake, can’t he just drop it? Maybe I need to stop being as gentle.

Slowly, almost gently, he reached up. Took hold of the delicate gold necklace around Max’s throat—the one he’d gifted him only yesterday—and pulled.

Not painfully. Not yet.

Just enough to bring Max’s face inches from his own. Just enough to feel the pressure. Close enough that he could feel his breath stutter. See the pulse in his throat tremble beneath gold links.

“What’s behind that door,” Charles said, voice dropping into something low and thrumming—like velvet dragged over steel, “doesn’t concern you.”

Max froze. The words hit his chest like a physical shove, knocking the air from his lungs. His spine straightened before he could think, before he could even breathe.

Charles leaned closer, and his grip on the chain looped around Max’s neck tightened—just enough to anchor, not enough to hurt. His eyes gleamed with something ancient and sharp. Not angry. Warning.

“So stop snooping around,” Charles continued, voice soft but saturated with something that reached down Max’s back and locked his muscles in place. “Unless you want it to bite you back.”

Max’s mouth opened, then closed. He blinked rapidly, confused at the way his pulse suddenly fluttered—how warm he felt under his skin. Like he’d just been praised, or pinned. So confusing.

Charles tilted Max’s chin up.

“You don’t go down there again,” he said, slower now. Each word carried weight, wrapped in something feral and unseen. It felt different in a way he couldn’t describe. “ Ever. Understand?”

Max nodded automatically, throat working. He didn’t know why he nodded so fast. His body just… responded. It felt like obedience before he even registered the command. The words resounded throughout his mind, echoing and carving themselves into his brain.

His scent had shifted—sweet on top, but tense underneath. Nervous. A little dazed.

Charles exhaled through his nose, satisfied.

Then—just like that—his entire posture changed. Shoulders eased, expression melted into something warm and fond.

He reached up and tousled Max’s hair like it was the most natural thing in the world, the tips of his fingers lingering just behind Max’s ear.

“Good boy,” he said, making Max feel things he hasn’t felt before.

And then, lighter—playful, almost like the previous conversation didn’t happen: “Now. What do you want for breakfast?”

Max didn’t answer. His fingers were still on the necklace.

He didn’t know why he felt so flushed. Why he suddenly wanted to do exactly what Charles asked—without question.

He didn’t realize what had just happened.

Before he could dwell on it Charles was already standing, moving toward the kitchen with the casual grace of a man who hadn’t just wrapped fear around another’s spine like a leash.

Behind his back, Max sat stiffly, haunted by blood and truth twisted out of reach.

And Charles, smiling at the stove, was already cracking eggs.

Max couldn’t focus. The taste of Charles’s twisted half-truths still lingered on his tongue—like metal, like static. Every part of him wanted to dig deeper, to press at the edges of the illusion he was being kept in, but the answers refused to surface. They stayed buried, fogged over, unreachable. Mocking him from the corners of his mind.

Frustrated, he left the living room and padded quietly up the stairs, rubbing the lingering sleep and confusion from his eyes. He needed to change out of his wine-stained clothes anyway. The linen clung to his skin, still damp in places, too red in others.

Inside the walk-in closet Charles told him to start using a few days ago, everything was pristine. Soft. Lavish. Neatly organized by shade and season. The rich blues and deep reds, the creams and ivories, almost all picked for him by Charles. Like he owned him.

And maybe he did in more ways everyday. Maybe that was the problem.

He stripped off his shirt, tossing it into the hamper, and turned to grab another from the shelf when something small slid out from between two folded jumpers and landed at his feet with a soft thud.

A photograph.

Old—edges soft from wear, creased like it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times. But cared for. Touched often. Kept.

Max knelt, his fingers trembling before they even reached it. As if his body already knew what it was.

Himself.

And Victoria.

His sister's face was strikingly clear—her smile open, radiant, like sunshine bottled in a frame. His arm was wrapped around her protectively, the way it always had been. They both looked young. Happy. Real.

Not like now.

Not like the world they lived in.

Max stared, his heart beginning to drum louder, sharper.

Omegas were rare—less than two percent of the global population. Treated less like people and more like coveted objects. Beautiful, delicate, silent things to be bought, fought over, displayed. Owned. Never asked, only handled.

Unmated omegas were always in danger. Always watched. Always hunted. Like prey in an open field. There was no safety, only the illusion of it. And even when they were mated—maybe especially then—the nightmare didn’t end. The leash just changed hands.

He’d seen it. How alphas used their voice like a whip. A command wrapped in instinct, tearing through obedience and stripping away will. It didn’t matter if the omega cried, or begged, or said no . The alpha voice would kneel them anyway. Fold them in half without lifting a finger.

And the law? It favored the louder growl.

He thought of Victoria. Her silence. The brittle way she smiled now. How she jumped at the sound of keys.

Her husband had been wealthy. Polished. Called her “his jewel” in public, then locked her in a room when she said the wrong thing.

Max still had nightmares about that week. About the bruises. About how easily the system had let it happen. He’d buried a part of himself when he pulled her out. And another when he realized hiding her away was the only real way to keep her safe.

That’s why he got involved. That’s why he sold innocence and made himself useful by revealing secrets and spilling blood—because it bought her peace. 

He just had to keep working under Horner and everything would be fine. That man, as awful as he was, did in fact pay well.

But worse still—worse than the blank space in his head—was the thought that had started slithering through his dreams recently.

That maybe… maybe some part of him wanted it.

To be wanted like that. Cherished. Chosen. Possessed. There were nights where his thoughts slipped, twisted—and in the quiet dark of his room, he imagined being the kind of omega that Charles would never let go of. One he would love. One who could please him. Belong to him. Be his.

It was stupid. Irrational. Delusional, even. Because he was a beta. And more importantly—he knew what that life looked like after the honeymoon phase ended. Knew how it played out. Knew what it meant to lose himself.

Even if Charles wouldn’t hurt him—and Max believed that—his life wouldn’t be his anymore. Victoria wouldn’t be able to rely on him. The system he built to protect her would crumble the moment he stopped being able to act without permission. Without clearance. Without someone else’s hand on the back of his neck.

But he was a beta.

So none of that mattered. 

Right?

And now—

Now something wasn’t right.

The photo sat in his hand like a weight, anchoring him. And a chill crept across his shoulders like ice.

His breathing stuttered. A tight, stinging twist coiled in his chest, like he was standing in front of a fire alarm but couldn’t hear it—only the phantom sense that something was burning.

He stared at her smile. Her eyes.

Something was wrong.

Something was missing .

He placed the photo back exactly from where it had fallen, carefully, like it might fall apart if he pressed too hard.

Or maybe he would.

Maybe he already did.

And he hadn’t even realized it yet.

He changed, quietly, slipping into one of the navy pullovers Charles had chosen for him. It was soft against his skin. Grounding.

He made his way back downstairs.

The house was silent except for the soft sounds of the television. Charles was sitting on the couch, one ankle crossed over his knee, watching the Hungarian Grand Prix with a kind of casual attentiveness that didn’t match anything else about the man. Like he didn’t threaten him thirty minutes ago.

Max paused in the doorway.

A pressure swelled in his chest, hot and breathless and strange . He didn’t know what to name it. A craving? A comfort-seeking impulse? All he knew was that being this far away felt suddenly unbearable. Like his body was trying to pull itself forward without waiting for his mind to catch up.

And so it did.

Without thinking, without speaking, Max walked toward him—quiet and unsure—and sank down onto the couch, close enough for their legs to touch. Then, slowly, shyly, he leaned in until his head found Charles’s side, pressing just above his ribs. His hands gripped the edge of Charles’s hoodie, not out of panic, but something gentler. Something that ached.

He didn’t understand why the tightness in his chest loosened the moment his face pressed into the fabric. He just breathed in—deep, slow, again and again—like the smell of Charles was something he needed . Something that made the edges of his world line up again.

Charles stilled.

And then, like a slow tide, his arm came around Max’s shoulders. Anchoring. Holding. And after a breathless second, Charles bent his head, nestling his nose lightly into Max’s curls.

Max didn’t move.

He didn’t even realize how his body moved—subtle, unconscious—how his head tilted just so, how his jaw brushed against Charles’s chest, how his scent began to rub off in delicate, lingering passes. He wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t aware.

It wasn’t something he did. It was something his body did for him.

Charles noticed. Of course he did.

His grip subtly tightened. His voice, when it came, was soft silk over something darker. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” he whispered, words muffled by fabric.

Charles’s hand moved through his hair, gentle as water. “You don’t have to be.”

But Max didn’t relax. His hands fisted tighter, a tremor rippling beneath his skin. “But I am .” His voice broke around the words. “I’m terrified. Because I can feel something’s missing. Something big . And I don’t think I can survive another half-truth, Charles. I really don’t.”

He pulled back just enough to tilt his head up, cheek resting fully against Charles’s chest now. His breath hitched. “I’m done guessing. Done waiting for crumbs. I need the truth. All of it. What happened that night. What you’re still keeping from me.”

Charles was silent.

Max’s voice dropped even lower, trembling but firm. “I can take it. Whatever it is, I swear I’ll try to understand. I’ll accept it. But if you lie to me again…” He exhaled sharply, like the air was cutting his throat. “I don’t know what I’ll do. I just know I’m right at the edge—and one more lie might be the thing that shoves me over.”

Charles was quiet for a long moment. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Max’s hair—slow, gentle. Familiar. Like he’d been doing it for years.

“Oh, mon cœur ,” he murmured. “My sweet Maxie. I understand. I do. But not much happened. Truly. Nothing that would hurt you. Nothing you don’t already know.”

Max stiffened, just barely. Just enough to show the crack forming down the center of him. “That’s not what it feels like.”

Charles didn’t flinch. Instead, he bent his head again, another kiss pressed to Max’s curls. It landed soft—measured. Rehearsed.

“I protected you,” he said, smooth as silk. “That’s all I’ve ever done.”

A pause, then a murmur: “And when the time is right, you’ll remember. All of it. You’ll see why I made the choices I did. Why I kept certain things from you. Every secret I held— everything —was for you. For us .”

Max didn’t respond. But his fingers tightened in the fabric of Charles’s hoodie, the smallest pull that said: I don’t trust you, but I don’t want to let go.

Charles smiled faintly against his hair.

Because Max didn’t know.

Shouldn’t know.

Not yet.

He didn’t see how the memories had already begun to stir something within him—unraveling it quietly beneath the surface, like threads pulling loose in the dark. And if everything went according to plan, by the time all the memories returned, Max would already be his.

Fully.
In scent.
In skin.
In bond.

And then it would be easy.

So easy.

To hold him through the storm.
To hush the rage.
To rewrite the truth with something softer, something sweeter.
To make Max forget he ever had a reason to doubt.

And when that moment came, Charles would be ready.
With answers.
With tenderness.
With arms wide open.

But always— always —on his terms.
In the exact way he had already planned out.
As always.

2 days before the injection

The sun was already high when Max opened his eyes, but the warmth it brought didn’t chase away the heaviness pressing down on him. He had slept—more than he had in days—but his body didn’t feel rested. Instead, it felt like he had been running in circles all night, fighting something invisible. Something that refused to let go.

His head ached dully, and there was a strange tightness in his chest, like grief without a name.

He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes.

Just a dream. Just a weird, intense dream.

Charles had been in it. Distant, distracted. They were fighting. Max didn’t know over what, not really—but the feeling stuck. That bitter twist in his stomach when Charles had looked past him, kept his gaze locked on someone else . Someone Max couldn’t quite see.

He laughed a little to himself. “Yeah, right,” he muttered. “Like Charles would ever ignore me.”

But even as he said it, something ugly whispered in the back of his mind. A doubt that wasn’t entirely new. A question with roots.

Or maybe it wasn’t a dream at all…

Shaking it off, Max reached for his phone. Still no messages. No calls. No new notifications. Nothing from Horner. Nothing from Daniel. Nothing from anyone.

He checked his signal. Full bars.

Weird.

The silence clung to him, more oppressive than comforting now. Like the house had been wrapped in cotton, and he was the only one still screaming.

Trying to distract himself, Max opened his gallery. It was a silly coping habit—scrolling through photos, trying to anchor himself in moments that were solid and safe.

There were the usual snapshots. A blurry picture of Charles’s Aston he’d snuck when the light hit the hood just right. A blurry photo of a bengal cat that appeared around the estate ever so often. A shot of the garden drenched in morning dew. A photo of Charles half-asleep, shirtless and curled around a pillow, that Max had no memory of taking but couldn’t bring himself to delete.

He hesitated… then opened his Hidden folder.

It was private. Personal. The things he didn’t even know why he kept.

There weren’t many photos there—mostly him and Daniel goofing off during missions, pictures of jewelry worth millions and other things worth remembering from his career at RedBull—but what caught his attention immediately was the most recent one, marked just five days ago.

His thumb hovered over it for a moment before tapping.

The image loaded.

Max sucked in a breath.

It was him .

But not like he’d ever seen himself before.

Dressed in a white silk suit, cut immaculately to fit his body like it had been sewn around him. A gold clasp glinted at the collar, subtle and elegant. His hair messy, skin glowing, posture regal—serene, almost sedated. He looked like a dream. Or a doll.

But Max didn’t remember this. Not the outfit. Not the occasion. Nothing.

That’s when a spike of nausea hit him.

And then— the pain .

A searing bolt of white shot through his skull. He clutched his head with both hands, gasping as fragmented memories tore through the fog.

The banquet.

Daniel, anxious, trying to warn him.

Pierre—laughing too loudly, cutting too deep with his words.

His limbs losing autonomy.

Charles on the stage, standing before an audience, showcasing the drug.

Oscar collapsing and twitching, needle still in his neck.

Pierre cornering him in the garden.

Whispers.

Charles calling him an angel.

Threats.

Gentle arms holding his shaking body. 

Daniel’s head hitting the ground.

And then—blood. 

The taste of metal in his mouth. 

So much blood.

Screams —his or someone else’s, he didn’t know.  

The smell of iron on silk.

It didn’t just hit him—it detonated inside him.

A violent, suffocating wave of memories—out of order, without sense—crashed through Max’s chest like a wrecking ball, stealing the air from his lungs. His vision swam. His stomach turned so sharply it felt like it had been yanked inside out. 

He lurched off the bed, one hand reaching out blindly for balance, but the floor met him too fast—his knees hit the ground with a thud he barely registered.

The cold rush of sweat crawling down his spine made his skin feel alien. His entire body trembled, like it was trying to reject the truth tearing itself free from wherever it had been locked away.

He didn’t make it to the bathroom. Couldn’t even crawl. Just curled there on the floor beside the bed, shaking, arms clutched tight around his torso like he was holding himself together by sheer force. But the memories didn’t stop. They poured in, relentless.

Pierre’s face.

The blood.

His hands—tugging, clawing, trying to stop Max.

The spade. The scream. The snap.

And then more. A second wave, stronger. Sharper. More vivid.

People admiring him.

Seb’s warnings concerning Charles.

Bickering—no, competing—for Charles’s attention like dogs in a ring.

The fight with Charles, now slotted into place with context Max hadn’t had before.

Cold green eyes. 

Eyes that looked at him like he really was just a toy they’ve gotten bored of.

It was too much.

Each memory struck like a fist to the ribs. Every moment folded into the next, too fast for him to process. His thoughts tangled, collapsed in on themselves, incoherent noise echoing inside his skull.

The weight of it—the manipulation he suffered at Charles’s hand, the unfolding lies, the panic clawing at his throat—buried him. It was all too much.

His limbs stopped responding. His breath became shallow, stuttered, trapped.

Max’s body gave out. Slowly. Boneless. Defeated.

He slid sideways, his head pressing against the carpet, a tremor still running through his fingertips. The sweater he wore was stained now—sweat, dust, something else. His phone lay just beside his open hand, its screen dimming, still glowing with the image that had triggered it all. 

And then—

Black

Charles’s hands were shaking as he cradled Max’s limp body, panic clawing its way up his throat with every second of silence. The warmth had drained from Max’s skin, and it terrified him more than anything ever had.

“Max…” he whispered, his voice hoarse, cracking, “Maxie—please, wake up. Look at me, baby—please.”

He pressed a trembling hand to Max’s cheek, the cold sweat chilling both their skin. “I didn’t mean for it to go like this. You just—you remembered too fast. Fuck. I was going to tell you, I swear—just not like this, this isn't how it was supposed to go.”

But Max didn’t stir. Not for one agonizing minute.

Then—finally—a twitch. His fingers moved. His lashes fluttered open. Charles exhaled shakily, relief slamming into him—but it lasted only seconds.

Because the moment Max’s eyes met his, the confusion in them ignited into something savage. Something broken.

Max jerked back like he’d been shocked, scrambling out of Charles’s hold, his limbs clumsy but full of purpose.

“Don’t touch me,” he rasped. His voice was raw, trembling with betrayal. “What the fuck happened at that party—no, the banquet ? And don’t you fucking dare lie to me again Charles.”

Charles froze. The tension in his jaw was visible. His eyes—deep and usually soft—darkened slightly, unreadable. Max’s words hung in the air, heavy as thunder. The whole room held its breath.

The scent shift came first—amber and warmth sharpening in the space, filling it like smoke. Not rage. Not quite. But power. Warning .

“Yes,” Charles said after a beat too long. His voice was too even, too rehearsed. “There was a banquet.”

He rose slowly, like a cat stretching after a long nap. Every movement was too fluid. Max took an instinctive step back, pulse pounding, until his shoulders pressed into the wall behind him.

“And yes…” Charles kept walking toward him, tone maddeningly gentle, “you did everything you’re starting to remember.”

Max felt the blood drain from his face.

“You killed Pierre,” Charles continued, matter-of-fact. “You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You didn’t even hesitate. You ripped him apart. And I had to clean it all up before anyone else saw.”

Max shook his head, violently. “No. No, that’s not—”

“You think I wanted you to forget?” Charles was right in front of him now. “You think I wanted to give you something to wipe your memory? You were breaking , Max. You wouldn’t stop shaking. You begged me. You begged me to take it away.” 

He reached forward and curled his fingers around the golden chain at Max’s throat, tugging just enough to make Max lift his head.

“You owe me for that, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I protected you. I always protect you.”

Max was trembling. Every part of him was screaming. He didn’t want to believe it, but the pieces were slotting into place too fast. He shook Charles’s hand off, heart beating out of rhythm.

“You drugged me,” he said, barely able to get the words out. “You played with my mind. You pushed me into killing Pierre! I might have not seen it then but I sure as hell see it now. You think that’s protection?”

“I saved you,” Charles said firmly, no hesitation this time. “I did what I had to do to keep you sane.”

“You destroyed me!” Max’s voice cracked as he screamed, the fury in it barely masking the tremor of betrayal beneath. “You manipulated me, Charles. You gaslit me. You—you violated me!”

His chest was heaving now, eyes wild and glassy. “None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t brought Pierre into it. If you hadn’t suddenly acted like he mattered more—like I was disposable. Like I was nothing. You knew how it would end didn’t you?”

He laughed then—a bitter, sharp thing. “Was anything this week real? Any of it? Or was every smile, every soft word, every touch just another carefully placed move in whatever sick fucking game you're playing?”

And suddenly it all made sense.

Pierre, appearing out of nowhere like he was always meant to be part of the picture. Charles’s uncharacteristic obsession with him—only to later dismiss it all like it never meant anything.

The eerie silence from his friends. His phone magically appearing fully charged with no memories of last week.

The man in the Cartier boutique, asking all the wrong questions with a little too much interest.

The locked door in the basement.

His stomach turned when he realized. It had to be Daniel.

Max felt like he was falling, like the ground had been pulled out from under him. Everything he thought he knew, every tender moment Charles had fed him—it all felt poisoned now. Staged. Controlled.

He looked up at Charles, shaking his head, barely able to breathe.

“You let me think I was safe. You let me fall for you, and all along, you were the one pulling every fucking string.”

He was shaking now, barely upright. “What about Oscar?” he said, almost choking on the question. “Where is he? Unfortunately I got drugged before I could see the grand reveal.”

Charles hesitated. Then his voice dropped.

“He’s no longer here.”

Max’s eyes widened. “Did you kill him?”

“No,” Charles said, almost too quickly. “He was… relocated.”

“Relocated,” Max echoed bitterly. “Changed owners, you mean. Like a fucking dog.”

Max’s stomach twisted. Was this the fate that awaited him now?

And then, finally—his voice barely above a whisper—Max asked the question that had been clawing at the back of his mind ever since he’d woken up, burning through every moment of silence, every fractured memory.

“Did you use Morphyra on me?”

The room fell still.

Charles didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. His body locked in place. But his eyes—his eyes flinched. A single flicker. And that was all Max needed.

“You did.” The words came out like broken glass, small but sharp. “You really did.”

Charles stayed silent.

And suddenly, Max couldn’t breathe.

“You knew what this would do to me,” he said, voice splintering, rising. “You know how this world works—you know , Charles! You’ve seen it. You’ve heard me talk about what it’s like for omegas who don’t have protection. What happens to them when they’re left alone.”

He took a shaky step back, as if physical distance might somehow shield him from the betrayal sinking deeper into his bones.

“My sister— she ’s an omega,” Max went on, his voice cracking. “Her life has been hell. I’ve had to fight for everything, just so she could have something. So she could stay safe. And now—now I’m supposed to become that? And you didn’t even ask me? You just decided ?”

He was trembling now, full-body shakes that came from somewhere deep and terrified.

“I trusted you, more than anyone.” he whispered, breath catching. “I fucking loved you. Dreamt about our life together. Of what could have been.” He felt a single tear make its way down his cheek as he poured his heart out. “And you— you turned me into this without even asking. Forced me into this.”

His voice grew hoarse, then louder. Frantic.

“Do you even understand what you’ve done?! I’ll lose everything. My position. My rights. My freedom . I won’t be even able open a fucking bank account without an alpha’s name on it now. How the fuck am I supposed to take care of Victoria like this?!”

The name Victoria lit something in his brain. A spark of ice. Another memory surged up—one Max hadn’t wanted to remember. He shut his eyes trying to power through the pain.

Horner’s voice, quiet and low: “You’ve got one month. That’s it. And don’t forget—I know exactly where your little sister lives.”

Max flinched. This was the last week before the deadline. He couldn’t abandon her now.

“I—I was supposed to get the files,” Max whispered, barely audible, like the words were scraping out of a cracked shell. His eyes were glazed, distant. “I almost did. I had everything set up. I—”

Suddenly Max’s knees buckled as the pain tore through him—grief and nausea and helpless rage all at once. He collapsed to the floor, hands splaying against the wood, breath catching hard in his throat. His chest heaved, but it felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room to breathe.

A thousand jagged images cut through his mind, hopefully for the last time.

The camera next to the office.

Charles’s voice in the dark, low and breathless.

Max’s chest tightening as he listened, fists clenched in silence.

The shower afterward.

The blank stare Charles had given him the next morning, like Max had never mattered at all.

Today was probably his last chance of getting those files. He doesn’t even want to know what Charles will do with him now, and he won’t wait to find out.

“Max,” Charles said softly, crouching beside him. His voice gentle—too gentle. As if it could undo the damage. As if kindness now meant anything. “Are you alright?”

Max looked up.

And there was nothing left in his eyes but heartbreak.

“No,” he whispered, voice trembling. “No, I’m not alright. I don’t think I’ll ever be alright again.”

Then he moved.

The punch came fast and full of grief, like he’d poured every ounce of betrayal and loss into his fist. The crack of bone was sharp—Charles stumbled back with a choked sound, his hand flying to his jaw.

But Max wasn’t finished.

He surged forward, drove his knee up hard into Charles’s groin, aiming low—cruel and desperate. Charles collapsed with a strangled gasp, crumpling in on himself.

Max stood over him for a heartbeat, breath ragged, eyes burning with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry Charles,” he said, so quietly it was almost nothing.

Then he turned—and ran.

He ran —barefoot, wild, blood roaring in his ears. Locked the door to the bedroom behind him, jammed a chair under the handle, and didn’t stop to think.

Move. MOVE.

He sprinted toward the office. Kicked the door—once, twice—it burst open.

He fumbled through the shelves.

There— a locked drawer .

He yanked. It didn’t budge.

“Come on, come on— ”

A burst of fury, a wrench of the handle—and it cracked open.

Papers spilled out. Max grabbed the first one: a client list .

His fingers flew. He pulled out his phone, snapped pictures, attached them to a message for Horner. 

More files. A report describing the drug’s chemical formula. Timelines. Names.

And then he found it.

A small box, tucked beneath the folders. Marked M.V.

His blood ran cold.

He reached for it, hands trembling. Below it—his full real name printed on a thick file. How the fuck did Charles know it?

He opened it.

Blood panel:
2% Alpha.
52% Beta.
46% Omega.

Main symptoms: fatigue, sensitivity to scent, hormonal instability, nesting behaviors, possessiveness, mate withdrawals.

Date of first injection: 2 February.

Location: Forearm.

Four months ago.

The night he’d fallen asleep tipsy and woke up sore. The prick in his arm.

“Jesus Christ,” Max whispered, mouth dry, heart thundering as he realized how long all of this has gone for. How long Charles has had him wrapped around his finger.

He turned the page.

An ultrasound image.

Something circled.

The word next to it: Womb. 05 June

Womb? Womb as in—

He staggered back, one hand instinctively clutching his lower abdomen. His knees nearly gave out.

His body . His anatomy . Changed.

And then, beneath the photo, the last note hit like a bomb:

Uterus has been fully developed. 

Last injection recommended date: 12 June

Two days from now.

“No,” he whispered aloud. “No, no, no—what the fuck—”

His hands were trembling violently. He could barely hold his phone as he tried to snap more pictures. But the room was spinning. The truth was pounding against his skull like a hammer.

He did this to me. Charles fucking did this to me.

Max’s lips were dry, his breathing shallow. He could hear the static rush of blood in his ears, the nausea crawling up his throat. Rage, terror, heartbreak—it all swelled up into something unbearable. A primal need to do something.

But as he reached for the final set of documents—still mid-shake—he didn’t hear the footsteps.

Didn’t see the shadow behind him until it was too late.

SLAM .

Something massive collided with him from behind, driving him forward so hard his chest cracked against the hardwood floor. The papers scattered. His phone skidded out of reach.

“ FUCK! ” Max yelled, struggling, but his wrists were yanked behind his back with brutal efficiency. A sharp knee jammed into his spine, holding him down. His breath whooshed out of him.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Max.” Charles’s voice. Low. Cold. Dripping fury. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Just needed to make this harder for the both of us?”

Max twisted violently. “GET OFF ME!” he roared, thrashing.

Charles held him tighter. “You punched me. You broke into my office . You sent files—what the fuck did you send, Max?!”

“You drugged me! Twice!!!” Max snarled. “You’ve been fucking experimenting on me, Charles! You put something inside me you— you changed my body! ”

He bucked, trying to dislodge him, but Charles had always been on the strong side and the angle was unforgiving. Max’s arms screamed in pain as Charles kept them pinned, his scent sharp, acrid now—like amber burning.

“You don’t understand if you’d just stop struggling I’ll expl—”

“I understand enough,” Max spat, voice laced with pure pain. “I understand that you’ve been lying to me for months. That you let me think I was going insane. You fucking —” His voice cracked. “You let me fall in love with you, while you saw me as some fucking plaything.”

Tears were threatening to break through.

“Maybe I wouldn’t even be this angry if you hadn’t lied every step of the way,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Because even now—despite everything—all he wanted was to feel those strong arms around him again, just like they had the night before. The night he begged Charles to stop lying.

If Charles had told him everything last night would he still react the way he did today? 

“Charles please, I need to send those files, I have no other options. This isn’t about me, or you, or Ferrari or even fucking Redbull—please you have to listen, Charles please—”

But Charles wasn’t listening. He shifted his weight, letting go with one hand just long enough to reach into his back pocket.

Max caught sight of the white cloth and his heart plunged .

“No— no no no, don’t you fucking dare! ” he screamed, twisting with everything he had left.

But Charles was fast—grabbing a fistful of Max’s hair and slamming his face back down. The cloth came over his mouth and nose a second later, sharp and chemical and suffocating.

Max tried to hold his breath. He bit down, hard, into Charles’s palm.

Charles snarled in pain, yanking his hand away—but not before Max gasped in a breath and got a lungful of whatever was on that cloth.

His limbs turned to rubber and once the cloth returned he couldn’t even fight it.

Charles leaned in and whispered against his temple. “You’re in so much fucking trouble.”

The strength drained from his body.

“No,” Max slurred. “No, I—have to… I have to save—”

His vision blurred. The phone was still there, blinking, waiting to send that message.

Just one tap. Just one fucking tap…

He reached for it—but his arms wouldn’t move anymore.

And then the black swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

Max had exploded.

Everything Charles had carefully held together—every secret, every lie, every ounce of control—had unraveled in seconds. One photograph. One fucking selfie.

And Max had punched him .

Charles hit the floor with a stunned grunt, eyes blinking in pain. For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then the sharp, blinding pain in his groin made him howl .

He curled in on himself, clutching at his ribs and abdomen as Max took off, feet pounding down the hallway. Charles forced himself to breathe through the agony.

He was up in seconds. Off-balance, one hand still on the wall, but he pushed forward—limping, stumbling, furious.

His Max. His little, clumsy Max kicked him right in the balls. 

And he did it pretty damn hard.

The office door was hanging from one hinge when Charles reached it.

The light was on.

Inside, he could see Max kneeling on the floor—snapping pictures, digging through files, back turned, completely unaware of what was behind him.

Charles didn’t hesitate.

He charged .

Tackled Max to the floor with everything he had left. Pinned him. Fought him like an animal. Max didn’t go quietly. He was kicking, cursing, screaming like he’d finally understood everything. Charles could barely keep him down.

But he had the cloth ready.

He always kept one near the office. Just in case.

Now Max lay still beneath him, completely out.

Charles sat back on his heels, chest heaving.

He stared at the papers littering the floor. The open file. Max’s name. The ultrasound.

Fuck.

He reached over and grabbed the phone. The message was still open, unsent.

Horner’s number on screen.

Charles’s expression relaxed a bit. At least Max didn’t manage to send it.

“We’ll talk about this once you’ll wake up, mon cœur.” he whispered. They’ll have all the time in the world.

He deleted the message. Cleared the photos. Yanked the SIM card out and snapped it in half with his fingers.

Then he bent down and gathered Max into his arms—carefully, gently, as if nothing had happened at all.

His lips brushed Max’s temple.

“I warned you,” he murmured, voice quiet now. “I told you it would bite back.”

He carried Max out of the room like broken glass, footsteps echoing down the hall.

When Max opened his eyes, all he saw was darkness.

The heavy, suffocating kind—not just the absence of light, but the kind that seemed to press against his skin like water, thick and slow. His head throbbed with a dull ache, and everything felt wrong.

As his vision adjusted, he could make out shapes. Curtains drawn shut, a tall dresser, a familiar painting across the wall.

Charles’s room.

Of course.

He shifted slightly—only to realize he couldn’t. His arms were pulled taut above his head, wrists bound to the headboard with thick, leather cuffs. The strain bit into his skin. The more he tugged, the worse it burned.

Then the second thing hit him: the gag.

A thick leather strap forced between his lips, buckled tight behind his head, soaked already at the corners with his own spit. No way to bite through it. No way to scream. No chance to free himself.

He gave a few desperate tugs at the restraints anyway, knowing it was useless—but the panic still needed somewhere to go. All he got for his trouble was a deeper ache in his shoulders and the faint sound of the headboard creaking.

Eventually, he stopped.

Laid there.

Staring at the ceiling.

Waiting for whatever came next.

Probably Charles.

Charles.

His chest ached just thinking of the name.

Charles, who used to pull him in close in the early mornings and murmur soft things into his hair. Charles, who promised that Max was safe with him, that he was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Charles, who had spent too much on gifts Max didn’t want—expensive jewelry, designer clothes, a whole sim rig—silent bribes for trust.

Charles, who had looked him in the eye, over and over again, and lied .

Max blinked hard, trying not to let the tears come. Not yet.

He thought about the night before.

They were lying together, limbs tangled, Charles’s big hands cradling his back, steady heartbeat against his ear. Max had burrowed in, exhausted, craving comfort—and found it.

Now he lay alone. Gagged. Restrained. Tossed aside like something dangerous.

Something broken.

Something owned.

A soundless laugh caught in Max’s throat. Charles would probably get off to seeing him like this—helpless, silenced, pliant by force. That’s all he ever wanted, wasn’t it? Not a partner. Not a lover. Just control.

Just another trophy for the shelf.

Max squeezed his eyes shut, biting back the pain rising in his chest.

He really thought Charles had been different.

He really thought… maybe, just maybe… he had found someone who didn’t treat him like a thing.

Charles had always played the part so well—the respectful Alpha, the progressive one. He never used the voice or force, never pulled rank in public. He spoke gently. Listened.

But now Max knew that persona wasn’t meant for people like him. Or rather the person Charles had made him become.

That performance was for the world. For the Alphas and Betas and people who could fight back.

But now that Max was more of an Omega than anything else, now that Charles had shaped his body to fit the mold, there was no reason to hide anymore. No reason to pretend.

Charles didn’t want love. He wanted obedience.

And the moment Max started to resist, started to ask questions—fought back—Charles stopped pretending altogether.

Max’s thoughts drifted back to the office. The files. The names.

Over sixty clients.

Some he knew.

Alonso. Hamilton. Zak. Binotto.

Powerful men. Rich men. Men who smiled with sharp teeth. Max remembered Binotto pressing a kiss to his knuckles during the banquet and calling him beautiful. It hadn’t felt flattering then. It felt rehearsed .

Like a script they all knew by heart.

He should’ve known.

They all wanted the same thing. Not companionship. Not affection. Ownership.

And Charles was one of them.

Max felt sick.

For so long, he’d envied Omegas in secret. He’d never said it aloud, but part of him had always wanted it. Wanted to feel things others did—wanted to scent emotions, to be wanted in a way that was instinctive, to bond, truly bond with someone.

To belong somewhere.

To someone .

But now, all of that felt like a cruel joke.

The reality of being turned into one—not by choice, not by nature, but by design —was hollow, degrading. Max wasn’t given a bond. He was given a cage.

And it was Charles who built it.

The man he had loved—really loved —had used that love to gut him from the inside out.

And now? Now that he knew?

Now that Charles had seen what he’d done in that office—seen the truth in Max’s eyes, seen the fear, the defiance —he’d likely do what he did with Oscar.

Get rid of the problem.

Change owners.

Max’s throat clenched.

He remembered Oscar’s warm smile. His nervous laugh. His kindness even if he only knew him for a few weeks. Now he was probably locked in some cold basement or worse—sold off to some faceless Alpha who wanted a prize with no fight left in it.

And Max…

Max was next.

He felt himself spiraling—thoughts folding in on themselves, looping over and over like a noose tightening. He had no plan. No escape. No allies left. Just a body not his own and a man who once whispered love into his hair and now left him gagged in the dark.

The door creaked.

He flinched.

The light from the hall spilled in. He pushed himself back as far as he could, pressing against the headboard, his breath coming faster. He tried to wipe the spit off his chin with his shoulder, tried to sit up straighter, tried anything not to look as small and ruined as he felt.

But the moment the door opened fully, he couldn’t hold it anymore.

He didn’t scream. Didn’t fight.

He just let one tear slip down his cheek.

Silent. Slow.

Because somewhere inside, despite everything, a small part of him had still hoped that Charles wouldn’t do this.

And that was the part that hurt the most.

Max flinched instinctively, a tremor rushing through his bound body. His throat was dry, and the pressure behind his eyes had turned into a steady, dull ache. His muscles burned from strain. His wrists felt raw. His heart was barely holding together.

The faint smell of something warm wafted in—rosemary, maybe. Ginger. Mint. It made his stomach twist.

Charles stepped inside, carrying a small tray. On it was a steaming cup of tea and a plate of food. Light things: sliced fruit, a few biscuits, a bowl of soft rice and vegetables. Comfort food. It would’ve been kind, once.

Now it felt like a cruel joke.

Max’s chest tightened as Charles moved slowly, carefully—like he didn’t want to scare him. He placed the tray on the nightstand and switched on the small lamp. The glow it cast over the room was warm and soft, too soft for the sharp edge that had carved itself into Max’s bones.

Charles sat on the edge of the mattress.

Max jerked his legs back with what little room he had, as far away from the other man as the restraints would allow. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A line in the sand.

Charles noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched him. Then he sighed quietly, the kind of sigh that felt more like resignation than frustration.

“Max,” he said softly, voice low and quiet, “I never wanted it to come to this.”

He pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket, moved slowly toward Max’s face.

Max recoiled, breath hitching, chest tight with panic. His eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding like a trapped bird. No. No, don’t touch me.

But he couldn’t stop him—not like this.

The handkerchief reached his jaw.

And instead of wiping him harshly, instead of punishing him for the flinch, Charles was gentle .

So gentle it made Max shatter all over again.

The cloth dabbed at the drool on his chin with care, like Charles was afraid of hurting him more than he already had. That care—that kindness —was what broke him. Not the cuffs, not the gag, not the betrayal.

That impossible, unbearable kindness.

Max’s breath hitched.

A tear slid down the side of his face, then another.

He kept his eyes closed, trembling. He didn’t want to see Charles. He didn’t want to remember the man who had kissed his temple and promised him peace. He didn’t want to see those eyes and wonder how they could’ve ever held love.

“Mon cœur,” Charles whispered. “Please don’t cry.”

He moved the handkerchief upward, catching the falling tears.

“Please,” he murmured, voice nearly breaking. “Max. Look at me.”

Max shook his head, barely. Not enough to pull away, but enough to say no.

No, I can’t. No, I won’t.

Charles was quiet. The handkerchief lingered a moment longer… and then it disappeared. A breath passed. One second, then another.

“Okay,” Charles said.

That word startled Max more than any threat might’ve.

Okay?

Since when did Charles back off like that? Charles was never okay with things not going his way. He was always coaxing, pushing, controlling. He was a force.

This felt like something else. And for a second—a dangerous second—Max wondered if Charles meant it.

But then he remembered the softness. The calculated patience. The lull of affection used to make Max trust him. To weaken him.

Probably another act.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said gently. “That we have to talk like this. I didn’t want to… but after last time, I didn’t want to get kicked or bitten again.”

Max swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat.

You deserved it, he thought. You deserved worse.

“I know how this looks,” Charles continued, settling back slightly. “How much I must look like a monster to you right now. A manipulative bastard. Maybe I am.”

You are.

“But, Max…” His voice cracked, and he didn’t bother hiding it. “Everything I did—every decision—I swear to you, I did it thinking of you. Trying to protect you.”

Max couldn’t stop the bitter tremble in his lip.

Protect him?

From what? 

Himself? 

He had taken everything. His body, his freedom, his life.

“I violated your trust,” Charles said. “I know that. I changed things I had no right to touch. I took away choices that weren’t mine to make.”

He paused, voice softening again. “And I know you probably hate me for it.”

Max’s eyes were still closed, but his breath was catching again. A whimper, almost. His fingers twitched against the restraints, as if his body was trying to flee without him.

“I just…” Charles shifted on the mattress, inching a little closer. “I need you to understand. I want to explain it from the beginning. All of it. No more secrets. Just… the truth.”

Something cracked open in Max at those words.

He blinked.

His eyes fluttered open, slow and pained. The room blurred behind the tears, but he forced his gaze up.

And met Charles’s.

Green, deep and soft with sadness.

Max didn’t want to see what he saw there. Didn’t want to find sorrow, or guilt, or the ghost of love. It would’ve been easier if Charles looked cruel. Easier if he smirked. But instead…

Instead, he looked like he was hurting too.

And that—God—that made it so much worse.

Max’s lower lip trembled again. A tear slipped down his cheek, tracing the same path as before.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

But if he could’ve, the words would’ve sounded something like this:

Why did you do this to me? 

Why did you make me love you just to break me?

And most of all:

Why are you still being gentle, when all I want is to hate you?

And in the quiet that followed, Max let one more tear fall.

He didn’t fight it this time.

“When you first came to work here,” Charles began, his voice soft and conversational like they were old friends catching up over drinks, “I didn’t even notice you. We’d just gotten rid of the last cleaner for his, uh... unfortunate loyalty to Mercedes. Your resume seemed clean. Didn’t speak Italian, knew a bit of French, some karting experience.”

He chuckled faintly at that last part.

“We used to talk about karting so much, remember? You and me, both dreaming of F1 back when we were kids. But then life happened. You ran away from home, I had... a funeral at twelve.”

Max’s heart clenched at the mention of Charles’s father. The way he said it—detached but heavy—it dug into something soft inside Max. Something he didn’t want touched.

Charles went on.

“So imagine my surprise when the guy I thought would be just another placeholder turned out to be... the most stunning human being I’ve ever seen.”

His voice dropped an octave, eyes warm and wanting.

“God, Max. You don’t even know how many times I had to stop myself from pinning you against a counter and kissing you breathless every time you bent over.”

Max felt his cheeks flame before he could stop it. A blush bloomed across his face despite every effort to keep his expression neutral. Don’t react. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

Charles smiled when he saw it. A small, smug pull at the corner of his lips.

Damn it.

“Then came the night I found you asleep on the couch,” Charles continued, tilting his head. “Phone in your hand, an email from Christian Horner open on the screen.”

Max went still.

He knew.

All this time, he had known. 

Known what Max was. What he was doing. 

And he let him stay? Let him infiltrate, pretend, spy?

Let him lie to his face?

“I knew right then I couldn’t lose you,” Charles said calmly, like he was explaining a simple equation. “I couldn’t let you finish your little mission and run back to Red Bull. Not after what I felt. I needed to keep you. So when Kimi brought in one of the first doses of Morphyra, I made a decision.”

The name made Max’s throat tighten.

“I used it on you,” Charles said, unapologetic. “Because if I could make you love me not just in your mind but in your biology... then maybe I’d have a chance to keep you.”

Max stared at him, horrified. But somewhere under the revulsion was something far worse: a flicker of understanding .

So Charles did all of this because he wanted him. Needed him.

The drug. The manipulation. It wasn’t random cruelty. It was targeted, driven by want.

That didn’t make it better.

Maybe it made it worse.

“I watched you change,” Charles said, bolder now. “It’s like you never even realized it was happening. How you flinched at loud noises. How your scent started picking up mine—the amber and salt, you know that smell? That’s me in your blood now.”

His own scent thickened in the room suddenly, warm and low and slow, curling like invisible vines around Max’s throat. Max turned his face to the side and tried not to breathe it in. But it still seeped in, softened the edges of his panic.

“And then that night,” Charles said, voice almost fond now. “You were in the kitchen. I don’t know what overtook me, but God, you looked like something out of a dream. I had to taste you.”

Max’s face twisted in shame. That night.

The night he let Charles touch him. When his body responded even though he didn’t understand what was happening. When he wanted it.

He had been so stupid.

“I stopped myself,” Charles added, as if that proved something. “You weren’t ready.”

Max remembered what he did after that. 

Oh god.

His pulse pounded.

Hopefully Charles didn’t—

“I didn’t think you'd do anything after that, but imagine my surprise when I checked the cameras and found that video.”

Max’s stomach turned violently. He shut his eyes tightly and slammed the back of his head against the headboard with a muffled groan, desperate for the floor to open beneath him.

God, no. 

He knows. 

He saw.

“Max…” Charles’s voice dropped to a purr now, hot and low beside his ear, “I had no idea your mouth could be so filthy.”

Max flinched violently at the sound, trembling now in full humiliation.

“All that talk about how badly you wanted to be knotted,” Charles whispered, a hand sneaking up his thigh now,  “how much you needed to be marked, filled, bred—God, could’ve thought you wanted to be an omega yourself.”

A fresh wave of shame crashed over Max, leaving him dizzy.

Charles was closer now, the other hand brushing through his hair. Max jerked, but the fingers only curled gently against his scalp and thigh. So soft. So wrong.

“You were so beautiful,” he murmured. “When I saw that footage two weeks ago, I almost ran down the hallway to give you exactly what you were begging for.”

Max’s eyes snapped open.

Two weeks ago? That was—

That night.

The office. The porn. The guilt.

He had thought Charles had been watching other people . Fantasizing about some other pair. But no. It had been him. Watching him.

“You were imagining it was me instead of your fingers, weren’t you?” Charles grinned now, eyes bright. “Don’t be shy, baby. I loved watching every second of it.”

Max’s face burned. His skin prickled with heat and horror.

“No need to be embarrassed,” Charles whispered. “You gave me a gift. And I treasure it.”

He leaned back slightly, drawing his hand down Max’s jaw in a slow stroke before pulling it away.

“But I’m getting distracted,” he said, tone shifting again—still warm, still intimate, but now serious. “I wanted to show you how much you mattered to me. How I could provide. Protect. Offer you what you never had.”

He gestured toward the slim, golden bracelet on Max’s wrist.

“You didn’t know what it meant back then,” he said, almost wistfully. “Didn’t even realize you were being courted. Still a beta, still blind to the signals.”

He leaned in again, voice reverent now.

“Do you know what a love bracelet means to an alpha, Max?”

Max didn’t answer. Couldn’t, not with the gag. But even if he could, his throat would’ve closed around the words.

“It’s the most sacred gift we can give. Custom-made. Scent-infused. A lock that only the one who gave it can open. It’s... a claim. A vow. A promise.”

Charles’s eyes burned into his.

“You’ve been mine since the day I put it on your wrist.”

Max’s entire body shook.

And as much as he wanted to scream at Charles, to spit in his face, to curse him for everything he'd done—his traitorous heart beat just a little too fast when he heard those words.

Mine.

“You noticed it too, didn’t you?” Charles murmured, leaning in like he was sharing a secret. “Your scent. Blueberries. So sweet, so unmistakably you. That’s when I knew— really knew—it was happening. That it wasn’t just in my head.”

His gaze drifted downward, shameless and slow, no trace of the tender man who brought tea and whispered apologies moments ago.

“And your body, Max...” His voice dipped into something velvet and dark. “Your hips... wider now. Chest softer, fuller. Even your eyes—they’ve gone all gentle. Drowsy. The kind of softness that begs to be touched.”

Max wanted to scream. He hated this. Hated being seen like something delicate. Breakable. Like he wasn’t strong anymore. Like he’d been transformed into something he didn’t ask to be.

“Even with the changes,” Charles continued, “you’re just as perfect as the first day I saw you.”

Max’s entire body went tense. Every muscle screamed with how wrong it all was—how every word Charles spoke was rot dressed in silk. But he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t run. Couldn’t fight. All he could do was lie there, bound and gagged, while Charles slowly rewrote reality with his voice.

He wasn’t apologizing anymore.

He was justifying .

“And I know what you’re thinking,” Charles said, tone growing smug, “that I’m crazy. That I’ve lost my mind. But Max... really, what choice did I have?”

Charles stepped closer to the bed again, his presence swallowing the air in the room.

“You left me,” Charles went on, quieter now. “Went off to that little Red Bull bunker in Austria and left me to start preparing . ” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh—did you see Seb while you were there? That old man’s been ghosting me for months.”

Max’s chest tightened. No. No no no. How much did Charles know? Had he traced Max back to the location? Had he endangered them all just by being sloppy?

Charles cocked his head, watching Max’s reaction with amusement.

“Yeah, I figured you did. Probably sat around badmouthing me. It’s fine. Seb will come around eventually. Kimi will make sure of that.”

Before Max could even begin to guess what that was about Charles was already moving on.

“But anyways, I saw the changes taking hold, but they weren’t happening fast enough. So I had to... encourage them. Introduce stress. Accelerate the shift.” A pause. “That’s where Pierre came in.”

Max blinked, stunned. So that was the reason. Just another move on the chessboard.

“He didn’t even know,” Charles said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Pierre couldn’t find his own ass with a map. Every second I spent pretending to like him was agony, believe me. But I needed you to react. And you did.”

Max’s jaw clenched behind the gag. React. Like it was all part of some grand experiment.

Then his voice changed again. Sharper. “And then the verbal fight happened. Between us.”

He watched Max closely.

“I didn’t expect you to be so... destructive,” he said, eyes glinting. “Even with your body halfway to omega, you fought. Like hell. You still do.”

Charles gestured at his bandaged hand where Max had bitten him earlier.

“That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Max. You don’t back down. Not even when you should. Just like that night at the banquet.”

Max’s blood ran cold. He knew what was coming.

“You killed him, Max. You slit Pierre’s throat because he told you he’d take me away from you. Tell me,” Charles murmured, crouching slightly now, lips near Max’s cheek, “am I really the only one with blood under my nails?”

Max’s body jolted like he’d been slapped. Yes, he wanted to scream. You manipulated me, drugged me, twisted me into something I’m not. But the gag silenced every scream, so all he could do was stare at Charles with wide, burning eyes.

Charles chuckled softly.

“Okay, okay... no need to look at me like that, love.” He brushed a finger along Max’s jaw. “What matters is you did it. For me. For us. ”

He stood again, expression shifting into something warm and awful.

“You looked beautiful that night. Covered in blood. Eyes wide and lost. I had to take a picture.” His smile widened, cruel and loving all at once. “I’ll show it to you sometime.”

Max’s chest heaved in panic. He didn’t know whether he wanted to scream or sob. Maybe both.

“We almost kissed, you know,” Charles murmured, voice a slow, silken confession. “You were so soft in my arms. So pliant. I barely had to hold you and still, you melted.”

His eyes softened, just for a second. Then they darkened.

“But then Daniel saw us.”

Max’s stomach twisted. Oh no.

“If he hadn’t meant so much to you, Max, I would’ve gutted him right there for ruining something that perfect.” His tone didn’t even flinch at the idea. “But I didn’t. I had the guards knock him out instead. Then I put you to sleep. You were spiraling, Max. I had to stop you from shattering.”

Max said nothing—he couldn’t—but he stared at Charles with an unreadable look, a flicker of something like reluctant acknowledgement behind the fear. Because, deep down, he knew Charles wasn’t entirely wrong. That night had fractured him. If Charles hadn’t drugged him… Max might have cracked open like glass under pressure.

Fuck, he really hated the way Charles’s actions did have some sense in them.

Charles watched him closely, reading him with the precision of someone who had memorized every flinch.

“Not much happened after that,” Charles said, casually, like they were just catching up over coffee. “Cleaned up the mess. Moved Daniel into a new room. Finished the banquet. Quite the night, hm?”

Max just stared.

“He’s fine, by the way,” Charles added lightly, smoothing down an imaginary wrinkle on his sleeve. “Two floors below. I’ll let him go soon.”

Max blinked. Just like that?

No threats? No cruel condition hidden beneath a sweet voice?

He was about to ask—or maybe make a sound of question—until Charles tilted his head, smiling that slow, lazy, wolfish grin. Like a fox in velvet gloves offering you a ride to hell.

“Well,” Charles said, “one condition.”

There it was.

“You won’t trash around too much.”

Max made a confused sound.

But… why would he trash around? 

For some reason—maybe the shock, the amber or maybe the exhaustion—this had been the calmest he’d felt all day. 

That illusion shattered the moment Charles reached into his pocket.

And pulled out a red velvet box.

The red velvet box.

No.

Every muscle in Max’s body tensed in panic. He started to thrash in the restraints, as far as the heavy leather would let him. The gag muted his voice, but the terrified, high-pitched whines that escaped made the message clear: Don’t. Please don’t.

Charles didn’t even flinch.

“Calm down, baby,” he murmured, voice syrupy and coaxing as he popped the box open with reverence. “It’s not going to hurt. At least, I don’t think it will. You’re more omega-leaning than Oscar, so it shouldn’t be as bad.” He took the syringe out like it was something delicate, something precious.

Max was shaking now. Truly shaking.

No, no, no, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

But deep down, he’d known this moment was coming. Of course Charles would inject him eventually. That had been the plan all along, right?

The main damage was already done. He already had… God. He didn’t even want to think about it. A womb. Something had grown inside him like he was nothing more than a lab rat. It made his stomach twist.

“This little serum’s just going to trigger your first heat,” Charles said softly, almost sweetly. “I know that probably sounds scary. You might feel dizzy, a little disoriented. But don’t worry—I’ll be right here. I’ll guide you through everything.”

Tears streamed down Max’s face. He was still shaking his head, still begging through the gag, voice cracked and broken.

He thought about Victoria. About how she would suffer because he hadn’t moved fast enough. Because he hadn’t hit send in time. Because he wasn’t strong enough.

“Hey, hey,” Charles crooned, brushing his thumb under Max’s eye. “You’re so pretty when you cry, but there’s no point now, sweetheart. You’re just going to wear yourself out.”

He caught Max’s ankle, pressing it down into the mattress with enough force that escape was impossible.

“Let me be clear,” Charles said, voice shifting—too smooth, too steady. “I’m not doing this to hurt you. Or to degrade you. Or—fuck, okay, I get how this looks. ” He let out a low, amused laugh, almost like he was embarrassed on Max’s behalf. “But I’m not here to rape you, Max.”

His thumb made lazy circles against Max’s ankle.

“Look, I need to inject the last dose sooner rather than later,” Charles said gently, with that maddening patience he wore like silk. “Or the little womb inside you is going to start to, well, decay.”

…

What.

Max’s entire body went rigid, breath catching.

What the fuck did that mean?

Charles tilted his head, apologetic in the way only he could be when delivering something so monstrous. “It’s… new. A side effect we didn’t expect.” He waved a hand like it was nothing more than an unfortunate glitch in an otherwise flawless design. “One of the early test subjects refused the last injection. We got curious. Let it play out.”

He smiled, as if the memory entertained him.

“It wasn’t pretty.”

Max’s breath caught. His limbs felt heavy. Hollow. There was no point in fighting anymore. Every door had already been locked, every exit sealed. This was it.

It was either let Charles inject him… or rot from the inside out.

His body trembled—once, hard—but the sob that escaped him wasn’t anger anymore. It was something quieter. Sadder. Acceptance soaked through his bones like ink in paper.

He wasn’t getting out of this.

Charles leaned in close, his presence immediate and overwhelming, voice soft and sweet like the warmest kind of poison. “Maxie…”

Fingers curled under his chin, coaxing—not forcing—his gaze up. Max didn’t resist. He let his head tilt back until their eyes locked.

“I’m not going to force myself on you,” Charles said, thumb brushing over Max’s damp cheek with infuriating tenderness. “I won’t even touch you—unless you’ll want me to.”

But his hand was already on Max’s thigh. Warm. Steady. Possessive.

The words contradicted the action—but Max didn’t pull away.

He should have. He knew that. But his body didn’t listen. It leaned in, subtly, hungrily. Not from panic—but from something heavier. Warmer. A pull he didn’t want to name.

And the worst part? It felt good.

It wasn’t supposed to.

But it did.

His breath hitched. Not in fear—but in need.

There was a part of him—deep, quiet, aching—that wanted this. Or wanted to want it. Wanted to believe that if he let it happen, if he didn’t fight, he could somehow control it. Shape it. Make it mean something.

Because Charles touched him like he was important. Like he was wanted. Like Max was more than a pawn—more than a liability. Like he was loved.

And maybe if he didn’t resist, if he was compliant, if he was careful… maybe Charles would give him what he truly needed.

Maybe he’d help with his sister.

Maybe he’d be merciful.

So Max told himself this was the smart choice. The safest move. The only path left that didn’t end in ruin—for him, or for the people he still had to protect. He could survive this. Wear the mask. Play along. Endure.

Maybe, if he let himself lean into it—he might even enjoy it. Because no matter how much he loathed Charles in this moment, there was still a part of him that longed to stop fighting. Just for a little while. To surrender to the pull he’d been resisting since the beginning.

He had no way out. Not really.

So why not give in? Why not let himself be wanted?

Why not pretend—just for now—that this was love?

That when Charles touched him, it wasn’t about control or power but care. That when he finally let go, it would feel like being held instead of being claimed. That Charles could break him open in a way that didn’t shatter—but sanctified.

“I’ll respect your boundaries Max. But we both know how this will end, don’t we?” Charles murmured, leaning in, his voice a hush of silk and sin.

His smile deepened. “I can already smell it on you.”

Max closed his eyes—not to resist, but to stop himself from guessing. From thinking too much. From remembering what this really was.

Because his body knew. It betrayed him with every breath. Every flicker of heat. Every aching throb that had nothing to do with fear.

When he opened his eyes again, Charles was still there. Looking at him like he was something sacred. Something already his.

He didn’t fight.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t look away.

Just nodded once.

Charles reached for the syringe, moving with a terrifying kind of reverence. Like this was fate. Like this was love.

“Don’t worry, mon ange,” he whispered, soft and holy. “I’m going to be quick.”

Max’s heart beat once—slow, resigned.

He didn’t flinch when the needle pierced his skin.

And when the heat spread through him, thick and consuming—

He let it.

Thick and slow and deep , blooming out from the point of impact like the sun rising inside him. Not an explosion, but a tide. A pull. His limbs went soft. His breath hitched.

The restraints were still there. But they didn’t matter anymore.

His body… was already giving in.

He sank into it.

Into the heat.

Into the inevitable.

Into Charles .

Charles needed a plan.

The sedative would wear off soon—an hour, maybe two at most—and when Max woke, he’d fight. Of course he would. He’d try to send the files, try to run, maybe even try to kill him. Charles knew better than to underestimate him again.

But he had time. And tools.

With slow, deliberate steps, Charles opened the shelf he rarely touched — the one that held all the things he’d once thought of in passing, as possibilities, fantasies. Not necessities. And yet, here he was. Fingers closing around the heavy black cuffs he’d imagined on Max’s wrists too many times.

He paused before he fastened them. Looked at Max — pale, still, too quiet. Even unconscious, he radiated defiance. And strength. Strength Charles had always admired, but recently feared. Max would use anything he could to fight him. Even these cuffs. He’d turn them into weapons if given half the chance.

So Charles locked them to the headboard.

“Just… insurance,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

Charles kissed the inside of Max’s wrist once, lightly, a mockery of tenderness, then pulled back to examine the bandage on his own palm. Max had bitten him. Hard. Deep. Maybe he deserved it. Probably. Max is going to get punished for that eventually. Still, he’d need to tread carefully from now on.

This wasn’t just about control anymore.

This was about trust. Or at least the illusion of it.

He considered his next move. Shouting would be pointless. Max would block him out, dig his heels in deeper. Pain? No — as much as he hated to admit it, Charles couldn’t stomach truly hurting him. He was Charles’s. His to protect. Even now.

So he’d start soft.

Food. Water. Care. A show of gentleness — not fake, not entirely. Just weaponized. He could make Max remember what it was like in the beginning. The warmth. The pull between them.

But Max would talk. Would twist the knife with every word. Accuse. Condemn. Bite again, maybe harder this time.

So Charles made another choice. One he didn’t let himself dwell on.

He returned to the shelf and stared at the gags.

The red ball one—too porn-ish.

The muzzle would make Max feel like he was a dangerous animal. And Charles wanted to see those beautiful lips, not hide them away. 

The pecker—too sexual.

All wrong. All too much.

Except one.

The leather bite gag. Heavy, secure. Restraining, but not cruel. No shame, no humiliation. Just silence.

He fastened it carefully, adjusting the strap so it wouldn’t hurt. Max stirred, barely, a small whimper slipping out. The sound nearly broke something in Charles.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

A lie.

Or maybe the truth. He didn’t even know anymore.

He reviewed the scenarios in his head:

Max wakes, panics, and Charles injects him without warning. No. Too brutal. Too fast.

Max wakes, hears the truth, refuses, and Charles injects him anyway. Possible. But the trust—whatever thread remained—would be severed completely. Again a no. 

No, the best path was deception dressed as care. He would offer choices that weren’t choices. Soft explanations that framed this as mercy, not manipulation. He’d make Max believe there was no other way.

Because there wasn’t.

The injection had to happen. The heat would come. And when it did… Max would need someone.

Better it be Charles than anyone else.

If he played it right, Max wouldn’t fight. He’d fold. Reluctantly, slowly. Maybe even begin to lean into the comfort Charles could offer. Maybe — one day — he’d see that Charles wasn’t the villain.

He was the only one who stayed.

One last kiss on Max’s forehead, a soft sigh.

“You’ll see,” he whispered. “I’ll make you trust me.”

And then he left, locking the door behind him.

He couldn’t feel his body.

He couldn’t feel his soul.

It was like he no longer existed—like his mind had cracked open and spilled into some vast, formless space where nothing made sense. Only phantom echoes drifted past him, voices from another world.

It’s okay.

Let it all out.

I’ve got you.

Then—suddenly—he slammed back into himself.

And it hurt.

Everything burned .

His nerves felt like they were being doused in molten metal. He was on fire from the inside out, thrashing against the restraints like they were the only things keeping him from detonating.

His lungs refused to work right. He tried to scream—but all that came out was a strangled, wet gurgle.

Then— hands .

Cold hands. Smooth hands. Familiar hands.

They cupped his jaw, and he lunged toward them instinctively, like a drowning man reaching for a lifeboat. The chill of their touch cut through the inferno just enough to make him gasp.

The fingers traveled gently, slowly, behind his head.

The pressure in his mouth vanished.

The gag was gone.

He dragged in a sharp breath like it was his first, the cool air stinging his throat as it hit the raw burn blooming inside him. The hands didn’t stop moving—one brushing over his clammy forehead, the other tracing carefully down the back of his neck.

He shuddered.

When one wrist glided over his collarbone, something like a sob escaped him—raw, animal, desperate. The world narrowed to sensation.

“T–there,” he whimpered, voice wrecked. “Pl—ease.”

Another pass, this time over the sensitive skin of his throat.

His back arched involuntarily. “So hot… make it stop… please…”

He wasn’t even sure who he was begging. The hands? The room? God?

That’s when he remembered.

Charles was still there.

He always was.

“I know, baby,” came the low murmur by his ear. “You’re burning up. I’ve got you. Just let me take care of you. Say yes if you want me to continue touching you.”

The words slithered into his mind like balm and poison both.

So he let the poison spread. “Yes. P-please…”

Somewhere beneath the pain, he began to register the soft amber scent he’d once loved. It wrapped around him, warm and golden, like it was trying to anchor him through the firestorm. It smelled like safety. Like relief. 

Like Charles.

“There you go,” Charles whispered, stroking his hair with the same reverence one might give a holy relic. “You’re doing so good. I’m right here. Just breathe.”

But Max couldn’t breathe.

The fire kept climbing—up his spine, down into his belly, curling between his legs until he was trembling and biting back humiliating noises.

“I hate you,” he choked out, his voice nearly gone. “I hate you.”

“I know,” Charles said gently, brushing the damp hair from Max’s eyes. “You can hate me later. Right now you need to cool down.”

Something cold and damp pressed to his forehead—a cloth maybe—and Max moaned aloud in relief. The contact was bliss, brief as it was.

He felt hands unlatching the restraints on his wrists.

“I’m going to undo these now,” Charles murmured. “So you can move. Just a little. Okay?”

Max didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust himself to.

He couldn’t tell if his body was his anymore, or if it belonged to the storm writhing inside him.

The bindings came off, and he didn’t fight—just collapsed into the mattress, curled half onto his side. His arms twitched, trying to pull something— someone —closer.

Charles was already there, slipping in behind him like a shadow.

Not touching.

Not yet.

Just… near.

Close enough for Max to feel the heat of his body and smell that maddening scent, thick and warm and heavy in the air.

“You’re going to get through this,” Charles whispered. “It’s your first. They’re always the worst. But I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

Max shut his eyes.

Tears leaked out even as he nodded—barely perceptible, shameful, involuntary.

He didn’t want this.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined their first time. Not even close.

Max had always pictured something different—something beautiful. Maybe a little too much wine shared between quiet laughter. A soft bed with even softer sheets, tangled beneath the flicker of candlelight. The kind of night that wrapped around them like a secret, slow and reverent. Charles would show him how much he wanted him—not because of heat or instinct, but because of love.

They’d wake up tangled together, the morning light gentle on their skin, everything warm and quiet and right.

Or maybe they’d make love under the stars on the terrace. Or in the garden, beneath the old willow tree, its branches swaying like they were keeping watch. Maybe even beside the white fountain, moonlight catching in the water as Charles kissed every inch of him like he was something sacred.

Not like this. Not when Max was too dizzy to keep his thoughts straight, too lost in the fever of it all to feel the weight of Charles’s gaze. To see if he was being adored or just devoured.

And yet, the fire clawing through his body had drowned out every dream he’d ever had. It was stronger than want. Stronger than pride. Stronger than all the soft, slow things he used to imagine.

And Charles—damn him—knew it.

He always had.

Max whimpered again, curling tighter into the sheets, and didn’t flinch this time when Charles reached out and touched his back—fingertips whisper-light.

“Just breathe,” Charles said again, like a lullaby. “I’ve got you, mon cœur. I’m not going anywhere.”