Chapter 148: Day’s work
Chapter 147
Nolan
Jack had said it so simply that it irritated me.
"You’re overthinking because you have too much time to think."
As if that explained the spirals. As if insecurity were a clock you could switch off by keeping your hands busy.
Still, he hadn’t been wrong.
Which is why I’m standing in front of a building that looks like it was carved from glass and ambition, smoothing down the front of my suit for the third time in the last minute.
The structure rises in reflective panels, silver-blue and unforgiving. It doesn’t belong to Solmere. I can tell that much immediately. Solmere architecture tends toward stone and heritage, ornamental flourishes and subtle nods to history. This place is clean lines and international money. Modern. Controlled. Powerful without shouting.
It belongs to Ivan’s husband.
I remember Ivan vividly. The extroverted beautiful blonde omega who talked so fast I could barely keep up, who laughed with his entire body. I hadn’t expected his husband to be the quiet sort—the type who builds empires across borders.
Having a branch in Solmere, is saying something because Solmere is an extremely isolated kingdom most days I forget there’s a world outside this kingdom.
Apparently, he owns several.
This branch alone operates across three continents. Logistics. Infrastructure. International contracts. The kind of business that moves quietly but influences everything.
I exhale slowly.
Yes, I got this opportunity through connections.
I’m not naive.
No matter how polished the recruitment email looked, no matter how formal the onboarding documents were, someone somewhere made a call to someone.
Someone being his husband, and that’s how I with no education prospects, nor experience found myself here.
I refuse to be ornamental.
I push through the glass doors.
The lobby is wide and understated—marble floors, soft lighting, a reception desk carved from dark wood. People move with purpose. Conversations are low, professional, efficient.
The receptionist looks up.
There’s a flicker. Recognition.
Her smile sharpens into something careful.
"Mr. Harlow. Welcome. We’ve been expecting you."
Of course you have.
I nod politely and sign in. My signature looks steadier than I feel.
As I wait for the HR representative, I notice the glances. Subtle. Quick. Curiosity wrapped in discretion.
If they expect a decorative presence sent to "learn," they’ll be even more disappointed.
I didn’t just accept this job.
I prepared for it.
Last night, after the offer was finalized, I enrolled in online courses through a world-class university. Business administration with an international focus. Supply chain management. Corporate governance.
If I am going to exist in a world of empires and negotiations and quiet wars, I refuse to remain ignorant.
Jack and Ciel may be royalty.
But I will not orbit them without gravity of my own.
The elevator ride to the twentieth floor is smooth and silent. My reflection stares back at me in the mirrored wall. Composed. Sharp suit. Neutral expression.
I look like I belong here.
I step out into an open-plan office that hums with restrained energy. Desks are minimalist. Screens glow with data. A digital board on one wall tracks shipments across different time zones.
A tall man approaches, likely in his mid-thirties. Crisp suit. Dark hair. Observant eyes.
"Welcome," he says evenly. "I’m Director Havel."
His gaze lingers for half a second too long.
Assessing.
"We value competence here," he says. "Titles outside these walls don’t carry weight inside them."
There it is.
A boundary drawn.
I don’t flinch. "That’s exactly why I’m here."
Something shifts in his expression.
He gestures toward a workstation. "You’ll begin by assisting on the Eastern Corridor project. Review the logistics report and identify inefficiencies in the routing model. We’ll discuss your findings this afternoon."
No soft entry. No symbolic tasks.
Real work.
Perfect.
***
Peter
Life is average.
Painfully average.
If you ignore the bodies.
I adjust my gloves as two men haul what remains of tonight’s "discussion" toward the van. The air smells metallic. The warehouse is quiet again, except for the dull scrape of boots on concrete.
In another world, I might have been an accountant.
Or a teacher.
Instead, I stand beside a prince who smiles for cameras and dismantles threats in silence.
Each time I see headlines praising Prince Jackson’s kindness—his diplomacy, his charity initiatives, his gentle public speeches—I fight the urge to laugh hysterically.
Kind.
The word feels almost obscene.
He is kind.
But only where it matters to him.
And that’s the terrifying part.
Most rulers are either openly ruthless or openly benevolent.
His Highness is both.
Tonight’s situation had been brewing for months. A faction aligned with one of the Dukes had grown bold. Too bold. Whispers about "claiming what should belong to stronger bloodlines." About omegas as political leverage.
That was their mistake.
Omegas have always been the reverse scale of certain alphas throughout our history.
Touch the scale, and you awaken the dragon.
I watch as the Duke’s envoy...what remains of him anyway,trembles on the floor. One hand already restrained.
His Highness stands before him, immaculate even in violence.
"Your leader seems to be coveting something that does not belong to him," the prince says calmly, rolling the word on his tongue as if tasting it.
"Such an ugly habit."
The blade flashes.
Precise.
No wasted movement.
The scream is cut short.
I do not look away, I’m accustomed to this after all.
The hand falls, severed cleanly.
His Highness kneels, not hurried. He retrieves a prepared box from the table nearby—white, lined with silk. A ribbon rests neatly beside it.
He places the hand inside as though arranging flowers.
"Gifts should be returned," he says mildly.
He stands and examines his trousers.
A thin streak of red stains the fabric.
"Dammit," he mutters softly. "I got blood on me. I’ll have to change before we reach the palace."
The duality not for the first time, gives me anxiety.We move toward the exit. I carry the box carefully.
By the time we arrive, he will have changed.
Pressed suit.
Clean hands.
Composed smile.
And no one will ever suspect that earlier tonight, he wrapped a severed hand in silk and tied it with a bow.
All in a day’s work.