Early morning, still hours before the city fully awoke. The illuminating sparkle of the city's lights filtered in, fractured by the thick windowpanes of Choi Seungcheol's high-rise apartment, catching the tiny dust motes dancing in the air. This was a room that spoke of elegance, priceless Persian rugs anchoring the spacious living room filled with the finest antique, luxurious furniture.
Furniture which was now lying in shambles across the room.
In the center of the destruction stood Choi Seungcheol, rigid and breathing hard, the acrid scent of black tea and bitter bergamot thick in the air, a testament to the fury that had consumed him since midnight.
The heavy mahogany side table lay on its side near the window, broken into irreparable pieces; the remains of the beautiful, antique lamp that had stood on it just an hour ago now lay shattered across the floor, shimmering wickedly on the hardwood. The pristine ivory keys of the grand piano were broken and sticky with blood where he had slammed his forearm down, and scattered scores of music sprawled crumpled like discarded thoughts across the rug.
He had hurled objects until his body was trembling with exertion, unable to contain the primal, possessive rage that had boiled over as pure, unfiltered alpha adrenaline course through his veins.
Hana had been there for the initial violence, but had long since left, wise enough to sense when her beta presence could serve up nothing to quell his storm, save for being a receptacle of his rage.
Seungcheol didn't notice her absence. She didn't matter. He had just about torn everything apart, and still, this place felt less like his home, and more like a prison of his own making.
Why hasn't he come to me?
Every day which had passed since the gala that hadn't brought Jaemin knocking on his door to seek him out had been filled with bewilderment. His meticulously planned sequence of attacks—the Gala bouquet that set off Jaemin's heat, and the humiliating aftermath in the press; the vicious smear about the SPS using Jaemin's omega pheromones as a strategy to seduce an alpha audience, which had, at least for a time, enraged the public—all of it had been calculated to prove to Jaemin that he was vulnerable without his alpha presence, and that his new partner was an explosive risk, a mirror of the very volatility that had driven Jaemin away from him years ago.
He had engineered the perfect scenario for Jaemin to choose safety and submission back into his familiar orbit, but still, he hadn't come.
Confused, Seungcheol had walked into the rehearsal hall of the Seoul Philharmonic Symphony days ago, unseen, and had been deeply reassured when he had witnessed firsthand the dissonance between the conductor and the concertmaster. He had seen the proof, inhaled it in deep—Kang Do-hyun's cold shoulder, the distance, Jaemin's wounded scent, the rift between them widening—and had left satisfied, certain that the disintegration was underway, and that Jaemin would soon come running straight into his arms.
You hurt him. I saw it. He is mine to comfort.
But, one week later, he was still left unfulfilled. The orchestra stayed on their feet, standing tall and proud. His omega was still traipsing around, Kang Do-hyun his shield of defiance.
He hadn't come home to him. He hadn't sought out the quiet, stable familiarity of the man who had seen the beginning of his glory, witnessed his pitiful state in his deepest vulnerability. Instead he clung, recklessly, blindly, to that arrogant, second-rate alpha, Kang Do-hyun. Seungcheol felt a low, agonizing ache of fury in his chest at the thought of his mate being held in another alpha's embrace.
Why won't he submit?
He had felt so sure that Jaemin would turn from Kang Do-hyun when the Bow Incident leak had hit the media. Surely such an event would show Jaemin the concertmaster's true colours, how profoundly unreliable and violent he was.
But it had not worked. Kang Do-hyun was still there, still playing his little violin, still strutting around with Jaemin in public with a defiant, protective air. Even worse, the public outcry was already shifting from outrage to curiosity, thanks to the SPS's quick, polished counter-statements. Hana was good, but Kang Do-hyun's defense team was faster.
"I am trying to save you, Jaemin-ah," he whispered in frustration, voice laced with aching sincerity. "Can't you see what I'm trying to do for you? I'm trying to eliminate all the obstacles that keep you from achieving your full glory. And yet, you choose a distraction."
Jaemin was his true masterpiece, the greatest composition of his life, and he was allowing an unworthy brute to ruin his momentum.
Foolish. Self-destructive.
He knew his omega would see his actions as cruel, and not for the salvation that it was. All Seungcheol wanted was to rescue him from himself. Do-hyun was but an unruly, unbroken pup, and Jaemin didn't even understand his own needs.
A tragic flaw of his designation. He should have known that an omega would never know what was truly good for himself, that he wouldn't see how Seungcheol was trying to stop him from terrible decisions about his own life, and spare that precious, fragile soul from the turmoil that was sure to erupt in time.
Even after all I've done for him…
He ran a trembling hand through his hair, pacing the length of the room as he thought of all the years he had fought to build his own musical reputation, compromising his own beliefs, using his talent to navigate a complex, corrupt industry. And yet, he still felt empty.
There had been so many times that he had wanted to give up, to just walk away and start over with someone else, perhaps someone like Hana, who would give until she bled down to her marrows to make him smile.
But what could he do? He loved Jaemin. He was bonded to him. He was the one who had seen Jaemin's true, delicate potential, nurturing his compositions and protecting his innocence until that final, necessary moment.
There was no future he could imagine without his omega, his fragile little mate, who had clung to him with such yearning, such desperation, in the throes of his first heat. He had been so beautifully vulnerable then, face flushed with pure, unadulterated desire, yielding so eagerly under Seungcheol's touch. He could still remember, with excruciating clarity, the need in the amber eyes, the thrill that ran through his entire being, the moment his mate had begged for his protection.
The most exquisite instrument he had ever held.
He wanted me then. He pleaded for my presence, for my touch. He submitted to my mark because his body knew the truth.
The memory was acutely arousing. The sensation of his fangs closing on that pale neck, the rush of his venom, the overwhelming sense of claim and power—it was intoxicating. It was the only time he had felt truly complete.
Rage suddenly intensifying, he slammed his fist onto the broken piano keys, the splintering sound a sharp crack that barely registered as he spun, snatching up a manuscript that still bore Jaemin's writing from days long past.
Why?! Why couldn't Jaemin see?! Why was he always running away from Seungcheol, the mate to whom he belonged, and running instead to other men? First that weak, formless beta Kwon Jaehyun, then to this mediocre concertmaster who was utterly beneath him, behaving as though Seungcheol's ownership was nothing more than a bad memory.
The stupid little omega would never understand: the glory of his success would have swept him far away from Seungcheol, too far. And Seungcheol could never accept that, because he knew that they were fated. He knew that Jaemin belonged to him, and him alone.
Without each other, they could achieve nothing, could be nothing. Only with Jaemin's genius, Jaemin's song, Jaemin's dependence on his dominance for structure, could they show the world what a perfect partnership was like. Only with Jaemin, could his song be complete.
He pressed his hand to his own chest, feeling the familiar ache of separation from his true mate, an ache which now held a raw, primal energy.
The world. The world is trying to deceive him.
He needs to be shocked into clarity.
He needed to see Jaemin. He needed to confront his omega face-to-face, to use the power of his presence to prove that they were undeniably drawn to each other… to confirm his ownership before the final weapon was deployed.
He needs to see me.
He stood, breathing deeply, the rage transforming into a chilling, focused calm. Thoughtlessly discarding the ruined music he held crushed in his hand, he walked to his wardrobe.
He needs me to be ruthless. He needs me to clear his path.
He would not be defeated by this. He was Jaemin's true destiny. And no matter how difficult it was, as the devoted, determined, self-sacrificing alpha that he was, he would see to it that his omega recognized their bond, and finally came home.