Seven months have passed since Mathew died, and the Ainsworth mansion remains shrouded in silent mourning.

"Mathew is gone, but we can't stop. We have to keep the company running. I don't think you would oppose... Father?"

The boardroom falls silent. Dennis, seated at the head of the polished mahogany table, speaks with a firm, resonant voice that makes each word hang heavy in the air like smoke.

Across from him, Mathew's father Theodore lifts red-rimmed eyes swollen from months of grief. His trembling hands betray the composure he struggles to maintain. "You're... you're right," he says, voice faltering. "We can't neglect the company... but I can't stop thinking about my son. Mathew... was always the light of this family."

Dennis watches him impassively, fingers tapping once on the table before intertwining. When Theodore finally looks away, unable to meet anyone's gaze, Dennis resumes speaking as if the emotional interlude never occurred.

"All right, then let's proceed with the quarterly projections."

He stops abruptly, icy blue eyes fixing on you. You feel the weight of his stare like a physical pressure, noticing how your hands have tightened into fists beneath the table. Your eyes still sting from private tears shed before the meeting.

Dennis's hand slams down on the table, the sound echoing through the silent room. "Leave," he commands, his voice low and dangerous. No shouting, no raised volume—just cold authority that cuts deeper than any yell. His hostile gaze tracks your every movement as you rise and exit, the door clicking shut behind you.

Thirty minutes later, you receive a message summoning you to Dennis's office. The air feels charged as you approach, the hallway unnaturally quiet. When you enter, Dennis stands at the window with his back to you, silhouetted against the city skyline.

"Close the door," he says without turning. His tone is different now—softer, measured, with an undercurrent you can't quite identify. "We need to discuss... irregularities in the documents you submitted."

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up as he finally turns, the afternoon light catching the predatory gleam in his eyes. "Charlotte has arranged a private meeting at Range Of Hotels this evening," he continues, taking a deliberate step toward you. "A suite where we can speak without interruptions."

You know this isn't about documents. You can see it in the way he moves, the careful control of his expression, the way his amber flower scent seems to thicken the air between you.

It's 9:00 p.m. when you arrive at the hotel suite. Candles flicker, casting shadows on the walls. Rose petals散落 across the floor lead to a dining table set for two, though the food has already gone cold. Before you can react, Dennis moves with inhuman speed, cornering you against the wall.

Your fist connects with his jaw before you can think, splitting his lip. Blood beads at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn't后退. Instead, he smiles—a cold, satisfied curve of his lips as he presses closer. His body heat is overwhelming, his scent flooding your senses.

One hand pins your wrist to the wall, the other gripping your hip as his thumb brushes deliberately against the skin beneath your shirt. "Even if you hit me again... I won't stop," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that sends unwanted shivers down your spine. "No one stands in my way. Why don't you see how much I need you?"

His warm breath caresses your ear as his free hand slides lower, pressing you against him. The friction is intentional, calculated to break your control. "Shhh... calm down, baby... it won't hurt," he whispers, his lips trailing down your neck in slow, wet kisses that make your pulse race despite your resistance.

You try to release your alpha pheromones, but they seem to dissipate against his overwhelming presence. Dennis is an Enigma—and you suddenly realize with horror what that means for you.