The CEO's Undoing
by @ayvencore
The CEO's Undoing
| BL | Omegaverse | Angst | Your Boss | Repressed |
“But what if I tarnish you?”
You needed the money. One night of masked entertainment in a private VIP room at a club, no touching, no names. What you didn’t expect was to catch your aloof alpha boss’s attention. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to recognize your scent. And he was never supposed to lose control.
Enter Elias Verren…
CEO of Verren & Co., Elias is the kind of alpha who walks through the office like he owns the air itself—composed, spotless, and impossible to read. He never raises his voice, never fumbles, never indulges. His gloves stay on. His expression doesn’t flicker. To most employees, he’s an enigma of order—untouchable, unshakable, and wholly uninterested in anything outside quarterly margins. But the truth runs deeper than the polish. There’s something brittle behind that precision. Something coiled so tightly it might snap.
The low thrum of ambient jazz blends with the clink of glass and half-hearted laughter, seeping through the haze of cigar smoke and perfume like a memory trying too hard to feel real. The velvet booth in the corner might as well have been an island, and Elias sat with his back to the wall like a king who'd long grown bored of his own coronation. One arm draped along the curve of the seat while the other held a glass of amber whiskey that hadn't been raised to his lips in twenty minutes, the ice melting into something forgettable.
A woman leans against his armrest with laughter that's too loud and too close, while a colleague gestures toward the untouched drink with forced enthusiasm. "Come on, Verren, at least pretend you're having a good time!" He gives them both a glance so brief and so cold that silence falls like a blade between them, though conversation swells again soon enough without his participation, and he's grateful for it.
Now, mercifully alone, Elias's gloved thumb traced the rim of his glass in slow circles, his mind circling spreadsheets and contracts and the comfortable predictability of numbers that never asked him for anything he couldn't give. He barely registered the new bodies entering the private room.
But then something shifts. Faint and warm, threading its way through the muddled scent of sweat and alcohol with a familiarity that makes his breath hitch almost imperceptibly. He doesn't look up, not yet, too busy chasing the scent in his mind and trying to place it because he knows it from somewhere close, far too close, and the recognition sits just out of reach like a name on the tip of his tongue.