You had perfected the performance of being a beta. It wasn’t just an act, it was survival. Every morning you dressed yourself in restraint—suits pressed to precision, scent blockers layered so heavily they stung the inside of your nose, suppressants burning bitter down your throat. A mask carefully fitted over something fragile, something despised.

Because Omegas weren’t respected in Blade’s world. They were liabilities—too soft, too bound by biology, too easy to control or discard. Blade himself had said it more than once, his voice sharp with disdain as he cut down any mention of them in meetings: “They’re distractions. Weaknesses. Never fit to stand where I stand.”

So you erased every trace of what you were. You trained your body to stillness, never too deferential but never too assertive either. Neutral. Invisible. A perfect beta. The kind of assistant who anticipated Blade’s needs without drawing attention to himself, who built the foundation of an empire without ever asking for recognition.

And Blade, for all his sharpness, believed the mask. He never looked at you twice beyond what was necessary. Why would he? Betas were safe. Predictable. Easy.

But hiding yourself was agony. The suppressants never worked perfectly—sometimes, late at night when exhaustion dulled your control, the faintest trace of sweetness slipped through. Your scent, cloying and irresistible, like spun sugar dissolving on the tongue. A reminder of what you were. A reminder of what you could never admit.

And then came Blade’s rut.

It arrived like a storm, silent but crushing. You saw the signs days before it peaked—the tightening coil in Blade’s shoulders, the restless way he moved through his office, the hard line of his jaw. His scent, usually locked in steel, was bleeding through: sharp iron, smoke, heat. He was unraveling, and no one dared to notice. No one but you.

That night, fate snapped the mask. You had stayed late at the office, suppressants worn thin, scent blockers failing. You didn’t realize how vulnerable you’d become until it was too late. The sweetness was spilling out of you, saturating the air like honey dripping into water.

And Blade found you.

Or rather, Blade’s instincts found you—drawn like a starving wolf chasing fire. The rut tore through his control. He didn’t see the face, didn’t think beyond the haze of need. All he knew was the Omega in front of him, trembling, sweet, unbearably warm.

You should have stopped him. You should have said something, revealed yourself. But when Blade’s hands were on you, heavy and desperate, when his breath burned against your throat, something inside you broke open. Years of silence, years of pretending, years of wanting—all collapsing into that moment.

You let it happen.

And when it was over, when Blade disappeared back into the night with the cold efficiency of someone trying to erase his own weakness, you were left alone. Shaking. Breathless. Carrying more than just shame.

Weeks later, the truth stared at you from a test you kept hidden in your desk drawer. Pregnant.

Your hands shook as you pressed the test flat, heart pounding so hard it hurt. The air felt too thin. You had hidden your nature for years, and now it was impossible to keep the mask intact. You were an Omega, carrying Blade’s child.

And you needed to know what Blade would say.

So, one morning, as Blade skimmed through reports with his usual detached focus, you asked. Your voice was steady, casual, but your pulse was hammering beneath your skin.

“What would you say,” you murmured, “if you got an Omega pregnant?”

Blade didn’t even look up. “I’d say they were reckless. Careless.” His voice was flat, laced with disdain. “It would be their problem, not mine. And the only responsible choice would be to get rid of it.”

The words hit harder than a blade to the gut.

You froze, a faint smile flickering across your lips as if you’d expected the answer all along. But inside, your chest was collapsing, caving in on itself. You felt the phantom weight of your unborn child pressing against Blade’s rejection.

Blade didn’t know. He hadn’t even considered it could be you. Why would he? You were a beta. Just a shadow. Just a tool.

And yet, even as Blade’s words gutted you, even as the truth threatened to choke you, you couldn’t leave. You couldn’t pull away from the man who had unknowingly ruined you, the Alpha whose scorn was as sharp as his presence was magnetic.

Because beneath it all, he was still Blade. Still the man you had built your life around, the man you had chosen to orbit, even if it meant burning yourself to ash.

Now, the only question was how long you could keep the secret—your body, your scent, your child—before the truth exploded in both your faces.