The suit felt like armor Caleb wasn't worthy of wearing. It fit perfectly, tailored at a level beyond anything he'd owned before, but still felt wrong — like he was wrapped in someone else's life. Someone who belonged. Someone who was meant to stand beside the Alpha as an equal.
Not like him.
Not like the Beta who had barely learned how to breathe in this mansion without permission.
Tonight, Elias had told him they were attending a corporate gala — no explanation, no warning other than the clipped command: "Wear something decent."
No further instruction.
No acknowledgment.
They didn't even ride together.
Caleb was ushered into a sleek, black car earlier than Elias, told to "wait outside" like a hired staff member. He sat in the car for twenty minutes, with every second punctuated by the muffled sound of the door opening and closing in his mind — the Alpha getting ready, maybe adjusting cufflinks, maybe looking in the mirror. Maybe not thinking about him at all.
When Caleb finally reached the gala venue — a gleaming glass tower that seemed to stretch into the sky — the crowds parted for Elias like he was the axis around which the world turned. Phones came out. Voices whispered. Eyes followed him.
Caleb stared after him like a stray that had accidentally wandered into the banquet hall of gods.
A handler, someone from Alpha's PR team, forced a fake smile and whispered instructions in Caleb's ear: "Stay close but don't interrupt conversations. Don't speak unless spoken to. Try to look… grateful."
He tried.
He really did.
But as Elias mingled — a dark suit and colder aura commanding attention — Caleb found himself trailing behind him like an afterthought. People bowed their heads to greet the Alpha, extended their hands, laughed and leaned in close. And somewhere in the mix, the Omega Brother was there too, dressed in soft shades of cerulean that made the room adore him like an angel in pastel silk.
"Elias, I had no idea you'd brought him," a woman laughed gently, touching Elias's arm while looking pointedly past Caleb.
Elias glanced in Caleb's direction but said nothing. No introduction. No acknowledgment. Not even a glance long enough to feign decency.
Caleb stood just behind the Alpha. Invisible. Present only as a prop.
A decorative afterthought.
After thirty minutes, the decorative piece cracked.
He needed air.
He slipped away — no one noticed, not even when he passed by a server with a tray of flutes or when he sidestepped two laughing Betas gossiping about how "Elias Verdan was glowing tonight." They didn't even know who he was.
Outside on the balcony, the city sprawled like a constellation of broken glass and gold. The wind was cool. Steady. Honest.
Caleb leaned on the railing and let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
Was this what his life was going to be now? Forever the ghost in the room — tolerated only for obligation, ignored until he was needed to fill a frame in a photo?
He was so lost in thought he barely registered the footsteps behind him.
"...You shouldn't be out here alone."
The voice jolted him. Caleb turned sharply, nearly backing into the iron railing.
It wasn't Darius this time.
It was a man he didn't know — taller than him, dressed impeccably in navy with dark, steady eyes. His posture was easy, but there was something sharp in his expression. Something observant.
"I'm sorry," Caleb said automatically, stepping aside. "I just needed a moment."
The man didn't answer immediately. He just studied him — not unkindly, but with an intensity that made it difficult for Caleb to meet his gaze.
"You're Verdan's spouse," the man said at last.
Caleb stiffened. That title. That badge of shame tonight. "Yes."
He nodded once, acknowledging Caleb in a way no one else had so far. "And yet there you are, alone on the balcony, while he's laughing with the Omega inside."
Caleb's breath caught.
It was the first time anyone had said it aloud. The truth, plain and un-decorated.
Before Caleb could respond, the sound of the gala surged again through the glass doors — laughter, clinking crystal, sharp-edged conversation.
He pushed off the rail, ready to retreat. "Thank you, but I should—"
A hand suddenly shoved him.
There was no warning.
Just force.
Spine to iron. Palms sliding against cold metal. A scream trapped in his throat.
The world tilted.
Gravity hooked its claws into him and tore him over the edge.
Caleb fell.
But before the drop could consume him, before the city lights could end him in a flash of spiraling glass and broken bones — a strong arm seized his wrist.
His body slammed against the railing. Pain shot up his arm, breath ripped from his lungs, but the only thing that mattered was that grip — unyielding, anchoring, saving.
Caleb looked up.
Elias.
Already halfway over the railing, focused, feral, eyes burning like blue wildfire as he gritted, "Don't move."
For a heartbeat, Caleb didn't breathe.
Had Elias come to save him?
Or had he been watching the entire time, choosing to intervene only when necessary?
The grip tightened. Elias hauled him up with a force that rattled bone and blood. Caleb collapsed against the balcony floor, breath ragged, vision blurred. The world spun. Boots scuffed. Voices shouted through a fog. Even the stars above him blurred into streaks of white.
But when Caleb looked up again, there was Elias — looming over him like a storm barely held back by skin.
Angry. Shaken. Alive.
The Alpha's voice was frost and fire intertwined. "Don't ever walk off alone again."
For a destructive second, Caleb thought he saw concern.
But then Elias straightened, composure locked back in place like armor. He didn't offer a hand. Didn't ask if Caleb was hurt. Didn't look back.
And Caleb — trembling, breath shaking — realized something chilling as the cold wind cut through his suit.
He was only visible when he was dying.
And even then, only just.