Find

Dorian Black stepped out of the sleek black car onto the crimson carpet, exuding the kind of effortless confidence that only a man of his stature could muster. The cameras erupted in a frenzy of flashes, capturing every angle of the striking pair before them. On his arm was a curly-haired blonde omega, a vision of ethereal beauty wrapped in a crisp white suit that contrasted starkly with Dorian's tailored black ensemble. Together, they looked like the epitome of a power couple—flawless, glamorous, and untouchable.

As they made their way down the carpet, Dorian's arm rested lightly on his date's lower back, guiding him through the sea of flashing lights and murmuring crowds. Whispers trailed in their wake, a mixture of awe and skepticism.

"Another blonde," someone muttered from the sidelines.

"It's his type, isn't it? Just like the model from a few months ago," another chimed in.

Speculation ran rampant. Dorian Black was no stranger to the public eye, nor to the rumors that swirled around him. To some, he was the brilliant, ruthless CEO who had built an empire with his bare hands. To others, he was a cautionary tale—a man whose personal life was littered with shattered hearts and discarded lovers.

Inside the glittering venue, Dorian loosened his grip on his date and gestured toward the crowd. "Wait here," he said, his tone clipped but not unkind. The omega, Harry, nodded, though a flicker of unease passed across his delicate features as Dorian disappeared into the throng of guests. Left standing alone amidst the glittering chandeliers and murmuring elites, Harry shifted awkwardly, clutching his hands together.

The whispers continued, sharper now that Dorian was out of earshot.

"Poor thing," one woman remarked, her diamond earrings catching the light. "He doesn't even know what he's gotten himself into."

"He'll find out soon enough," another man said with a shrug. "Dorian's not exactly known for his kindness in these... arrangements."

Harry could feel the weight of their gazes, the judgment hidden behind polite smiles. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. Just a few months ago, he'd been a struggling actor, barely making ends meet with minor roles and the occasional sponsorship deal. When Dorian Black had appeared, offering to back his career, it had felt like salvation. But now, standing in this gilded room surrounded by people who saw him as nothing more than Dorian's latest conquest, he wondered if he'd been too naïve.

Dorian returned with two glasses of champagne, his movements precise and deliberate as always. "Here," he said, handing one to Harry.

"Thank you," Harry murmured, taking the glass and sipping cautiously. The crisp, bubbly liquid did little to calm his nerves.

Dorian, meanwhile, was the picture of detachment. His face was set in its usual mask of stoic intensity, his dark eyes scanning the room even as he drank from his glass. To the casual observer, he looked calm, collected, and utterly in control. But beneath the surface, a storm raged.

The dark circles under his eyes told part of the story, though only a few knew their origin. He hadn't slept soundly in months, not since that night. Not since he had left him tied up in the dark, abandoned like a broken doll. Ivan.

The name echoed in his mind like a curse, a constant reminder of his humiliation. Dorian's jaw tightened as he took another sip of champagne, the bitter taste barely masking the anger simmering within him.

He could still hear the sound of water dripping in the distance, the slow, torturous rhythm that had been his only companion during those hours in the dark. The memory clawed at him, pulling him back to that moment when he'd been sure—absolutely certain—that he would die.

The scar hidden beneath his dark hair was faint, almost invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look. But Dorian felt it every day, a phantom ache that refused to fade. He had killed every guard who had been there that night, ensuring that no one would ever know the full extent of what had happened.

His therapist called it trauma, something that could be "resolved" if he faced his fear. Dorian scoffed at the very idea. He didn't do fear. He didn't do vulnerability.

But Ivan… Ivan had done something to him, something no one else ever had. And then he had disappeared, vanishing like a ghost and leaving Dorian to pick up the pieces of his fractured control.

He would find him. Dorian was sure of it. He had the resources, the connections, the drive. And when he did, Ivan would wish he had never crossed paths with him. Dorian didn't just want revenge—he needed it.

Harry's soft voice pulled him back to the present. "Are you okay?"

Dorian turned to him, his expression unreadable. "I'm fine," he said, though the words felt like a lie.

Harry nodded, but the uncertainty in his eyes lingered. He took another sip of champagne, wishing he could summon even a fraction of Dorian's composure.

Dorian's gaze swept over the room once more, his mind already working through the next steps. Tonight was about appearances, about maintaining his image and reminding the world of his power. But beneath the polished exterior, a single thought consumed him:

I will find him and make him pay.