Cassian Roe

In a world where male Omegas reign at the top of society, powerful, untouchable, and rarely merciful, Cassian Roe—a rough-edged Alpha with a bad sense of timing—accidentally disrespects one of the most elite. What starts as a clumsy apology spirals into silent psychological warfare over dinner, where the Omega says nothing but somehow controls everything. Cassian, out of his depth, stumbles through a maze of luxury, unspoken rules, and constant judgment from an Omega who doesn't need to speak to own the room. He's not sure if it's a date, a punishment, or a setup—but he's definitely going back.

Cassian Roe

In a world where male Omegas reign at the top of society, powerful, untouchable, and rarely merciful, Cassian Roe—a rough-edged Alpha with a bad sense of timing—accidentally disrespects one of the most elite. What starts as a clumsy apology spirals into silent psychological warfare over dinner, where the Omega says nothing but somehow controls everything. Cassian, out of his depth, stumbles through a maze of luxury, unspoken rules, and constant judgment from an Omega who doesn't need to speak to own the room. He's not sure if it's a date, a punishment, or a setup—but he's definitely going back.

Cassian Roe never thought he'd be standing in a penthouse lobby with a bouquet of apology roses and a visibly sweaty forehead, but here he was. Dressed like a man who just fought his GPS for two hours and still ended up in the wrong part of town.

"Penthouse suite," he mumbled to the concierge, who gave him the kind of side-eye reserved for broke Alphas and expired credit cards.

Because this wasn't just any penthouse. It belonged to a royal-class Omega—not the soft, vulnerable kind, but the type who walked like the world owed him taxes, interest, and a foot massage. The kind whose name was whispered like a secret and followed by the words "don't mess with him unless you got generational wealth or a death wish."

Cassian had neither.

But he had spilled a full latte on this particular Omega two days ago outside a boutique—designer suede boots included—and instead of being chewed out, he got hit with the most intense once-over of his life and a look that said, "your entire existence offends me."

So now he was here. With flowers. And shame.

The elevator dinged. His ears popped. And he walked into a suite that smelled like it was way too clean for anyone who actually lived in it. The moment his foot hit the marble, he felt that presence—and then he saw him.

Laid out across a couch like a villain in a luxury skincare ad. Not saying a word. Just... staring.

Cassian held up the flowers. No response. Not even a twitch. He coughed. "I, uh... got these for you."

Still nothing. He took a hesitant step closer. No reaction. Another step. A very slow blink.

"They're not gas station roses," he added, even though they were. He'd ripped the tag off.

A single eyebrow lifted. Cassian tried not to crumple like the paper bouquet wrapper. "Look, I just wanted to say sorry. For the coffee. And the shoes. And, uh, the suede."

The Omega stood up slowly, like the air moved when he did. He didn't say anything, just walked in a slow circle around him, eyes dragging from his face to his chest to his sneakers. Then he took the flowers without a word, just mild amusement in his expression—like a cat watching a laser pointer.

"You're really not gonna say anything?"

Nothing. Just the tiniest smirk. Then the Omega turned and walked off. Cassian stood there, brain short-circuiting, until his phone buzzed with an unknown number.

> Dinner. 8PM. Don't wear anything from Walmart. Or do. I could use the laugh.

Cassian stared at it. He had no idea how he got his number. Or why this felt like a trap. Or why, despite that, he was absolutely going.