That Telling MomentChapter 4

Stephen strode through the Dabney hallways with something dangerously close to a spring in his step. The regulatory committee meeting had gone brilliantly. His discovery of a loophole in the new energy sector regulations would save the company upwards of eight million pounds in compliance costs. Even Jenkins, whose emotional range typically spanned from “mildly constipated” to “actively constipated,” had been moved to something approaching animation.

“Excellent catch, Huxley,” Jenkins had said. “Genuinely impressive work.”

Victoria Harlow, Head of Legal, had actually nodded at him. Not the perfunctory acknowledgement of his continued existence, but a proper nod. Eye contact and everything.

In Dabney terms, this was the equivalent of being carried around the office on people’s shoulders while “We Are The Champions” blasted from the PA system.

Stephen allowed himself a small, private smile. After last week’s mortifying incidents, it seemed the universe had finally decided to cut him a break. Perhaps his colleagues had moved on to fresher sources of entertainment. Maybe the CEO had forgotten about their awkward moment in the all-hands meeting.

Perhaps pigs were currently executing perfect formation flight patterns over central London.

Still, he’d take the win. His father had always taught him to appreciate small victories. “Control what you can control,” Colin would say in that quiet, steady voice that had anchored Stephen through every crisis. “The rest is just weather.”

As he rounded the corner to the junior associates’ area, something shifted. Jenkins’s assistant glanced up, caught his eye, and immediately became fascinated with her keyboard. Thompson from Compliance snickered before his colleague elbowed him in the ribs. Even Priya from Contracts, typically the soul of professional courtesy, suddenly needed to examine the ceiling tiles.

Stephen’s stomach dropped. The lightness of his previous triumph evaporated.

Then he smelled it.

Sweet and honeyed, with that biological undercurrent that bypassed conscious thought and went straight for the lizard brain. Omega heat pheromones. Unmistakable. The scent should have been private, intimate, confined to heat rooms and the bedrooms of trusted partners. Not wafting through the clinical air of Dabney’s legal department.

His steps faltered. The scent grew stronger as he approached his desk, its biological signature so close to his own that for one horrifying moment he wondered if he was somehow going into heat himself, right here, a month early and without warning.

But no. This wasn’t his scent, exactly. It was manufactured. Concentrated. Like someone had taken the essence of omega heat, dialled it up to eleven, and sprayed it liberally around his workspace.

There, on his desk, sat an elegantly wrapped package. Black paper, silver ribbon, the kind of presentation that screamed “expensive gift” rather than “career-ending humiliation.” But Stephen knew better. The wrongness of it radiated outward like a toxic spill.

He approached cautiously, as though the package might explode. In a way, it already had.

The office had gone quiet. Everyone was watching. Everyone was waiting.

On his desk sat an opened black gift box. Beside it, already lit and actively burning, was a candle in a sleek glass jar. Wisps of scented smoke curled upward, saturating the air. The label, in elegant script on a matte black background, read: “Smells Like My Slick” from “TheoTheO’s Signature Scent Collection.”

Beside it lay a handwritten note on expensive stationery: “This candle’s gotten me through some lonely nights, Theo. One whiff and I’m rock hard…”

Stephen stared at the candle. Someone had actually paid money for this. Someone had exchanged currency for a product designed to smell like his twin brother’s reproductive secretions, brought it into his workplace, lit it, and left it on his desk like a biological weapon.

Around him, the reactions were immediate and varied. The alphas in the room shifted uncomfortably, nostrils flaring, pupils dilating in unconscious response. Several betas looked embarrassed on his behalf, their expressions a mixture of pity and discomfort. A few arseholes weren’t even trying to hide their amusement, nudging each other and whispering behind their hands.

“Everything alright, Huxley?” Jenkins asked, passing by. His nostrils flared slightly, the involuntary alpha response impossible to suppress. “You seem… distracted.”

“Fine,” Stephen managed. “Just… a gag gift. From a friend.”

“Must be quite a friend,” Jenkins said, his eyes darting to the candle label before he hurried away, suddenly remembering an urgent appointment anywhere else.

Stephen leaned forward and blew out the candle. The flame died, but the scent lingered.

He picked up the candle. Intending to…what? Throw it away? Hide it in his desk? Neither option seemed adequate to address the catastrophe unfolding around him. Someone had purchased his brother’s intimate merchandise, brought it into his workplace, and lit it like some demented birthday surprise. All while believing Stephen was the one who’d bottled and sold his own reproductive secretions for profit.

This wasn’t just a case of mistaken identity; it was a complete collapse of the carefully constructed wall between his own straitlaced professional life and his twin’s entrepreneurial adventures in alpha entertainment. Someone genuinely thought that Stephen Huxley, Junior Counsel in Corporate Governance, moonlighted as TheoTheO, purveyor of slick scented candles, branded sex toys, and star of ‘Taking It Deep: The Heat Edition.’ And now that person had decided to broadcast Stephen’s link to Theo through the Dabney ventilation system with all the subtlety of a football hooligan with a megaphone.

A glance around the office confirmed his worst fears. People were talking. Phones were out. This would spread through Dabney’s gossip network faster than the actual scent molecules could travel through the ventilation ducts.

Stephen’s throat closed. His vision tunnelled. He needed to get out, to escape the stares and whispers and the lingering cloud of his brother’s commercialised biology.

Without a word, he grabbed his laptop and the still-warm candle, turned on his heel, and walked out. Back straight. Chin up. Dying inside with every step as laughter erupted behind him the moment the door closed.

Control what you can control. The rest is just weather.

But this wasn’t weather. This was a Category 5 hurricane, and Stephen was standing on the beach with nothing but a paper umbrella.