That Telling MomentChapter 5

Stephen clutched the still-warm candle to his chest like a shield as he fled the Legal Department, his pace a careful calibration between “dignified exit” and “full-blown panic sprint.” His jaw ached from clenching. His smile had calcified somewhere around the third floor.

Walk, don’t run. Back straight. Eyes forward. Pretend you’re leaving to attend an important meeting rather than having a complete psychological breakdown in public.

The corridor stretched before him like an Olympic track, impossibly long and lined with spectators. Every passing colleague seemed to have developed a sudden, intense interest in his emotional state, their gazes holding a beat too long, nostrils flaring as they caught the scent of Eau de Brother’s Reproductive Fluids.

Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant. Nothing says ‘future Senior Legal Counsel material’ quite like fleeing your desk while reeking of artificial omega heat.

He ducked into a less-travelled corridor, his mind racing through options with the frantic energy of someone calculating escape routes during a zombie apocalypse.

Option one: Return to his desk, pretend nothing had happened, and spend the rest of his professional career at Dabney as “that omega whose identical twin sells heat-scented candles.”

Option two: Update his CV immediately. Was there much demand for newly minted corporate lawyers in the Seychelles? How long would it take to get bridging qualifications to practise in Australia? Was it legal to acquire a house koala to distract him from the crushing loneliness of being halfway across the world from his father?

Option three: Murder Lysander, assume his identity, then retire his OnlyFans persona citing a spiritual awakening. Practical difficulties: disposal of the body, having to maintain Lysander’s continued existence through roleplay, and needing to explain to Dad why he never saw the two of them in the same room anymore. He would also need to learn how to apply body glitter in strategic places.

“Morning, Huxley.”

Stephen nearly jumped out of his skin as Janet from Accounts materialised beside him, clutching a stack of folders. Her eyes widened, nostrils flaring before she composed her expression into professional blankness.

“Morning,” he managed, voice strangled. “Lovely day.”

Lovely day? It’s pissing down outside, you complete pillock.

“Right,” Janet said, her gaze darting to the candle in his hands, then away. “Very… overcast.”

She hurried past, her steps quickening with each metre of distance gained.

Stephen continued his humiliation tour of the Dabney hallways, eventually spotting a rubbish bin tucked in a corner. He glanced around to ensure he was alone, then began the funerary rites for what remained of his professional dignity.

“Here lies my career at Dabney,” he muttered, burying the “Smells Like My Slick” candle beneath layers of discarded meeting agendas and empty coffee cups. “Twenty-five years in the making, two weeks in the execution, undone by eau de twin’s slick. May it rest in peace alongside my will to live.”

The scent still clung to him. Every passing alpha seemed to breathe a little deeper, pupils dilating before confusion crossed their faces. Not quite right, is it? Close enough to turn heads, not close enough to be worth £79.99 plus shipping.

Stephen avoided the main thoroughfares, ducking through side corridors. He rounded a corner and spotted an unmarked door. Without pausing to consider what might lie beyond, he tried the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him, leaning against it with his eyes shut, breathing as if he’d just completed a triathlon.

When he opened his eyes, it took a moment to adjust to the dim space. Blue lights blinked like electronic stars in the darkness. A server room. The gentle hum of machines filled the space, steady and low.

He wasn’t alone.

David Ryland sat cross-legged on the floor between server banks, wearing noise-cancelling headphones, Sony MXs, and rocking gently back and forth while staring at the blinking lights.

Stephen froze. He knew Ryland by reputation: Dabney’s Director of Research, the alpha whose work in renewable energy had earned him the nickname “The Edison of Clean Tech.” Three days into his new job, Stephen had been tasked with delivering urgent documents to Eames’s office. He’d hovered outside the CEO’s door, clutching the folder, when Ryland’s voice had carried through the gap.

“That is factually incorrect. Your projections are based on a fundamental misunderstanding of the material properties involved.”

Stephen had frozen, hand raised mid-knock, as Ryland systematically dismantled the CEO’s argument.

“First, your energy transfer calculations ignore the second law of thermodynamics, which makes them not just wrong but physically impossible. Second, your cost analysis is based on 2022 figures that are now outdated by approximately twenty-seven percent. Third, the timeline assumes we can bend the laws of physics, which, despite our considerable resources, remains frustratingly beyond Dabney’s capabilities.”

The man had spoken to Eames, the billionaire CEO, like he was a slightly dim undergraduate. Instead of being fired, he’d been given a raise and more funding.

Fantastic. Perfect. Universe, if you’re taking requests, perhaps a sinkhole could open beneath me? Or a meteor strike? I’m not picky about the method of my demise at this point.

Ryland acknowledged Stephen with the briefest glance, then returned to the lights. No flicker of recognition. No connection made. Just a momentary registration of another human’s presence before dismissal.

Stephen hesitated, then slid down the wall to sit on the floor, maintaining a respectful distance. The server room’s ambient hum settled over them both.

His shoulders curled inward, his body folding in on itself between the humming server banks. He pulled his knees to his chest, the expensive fabric of his suit trousers stretching across his thighs. His breath hitched once, twice, then a shudder ran through him as the first hot tear slid down his cheek.

A small, strangled sound escaped him, quickly swallowed back.

Brilliant job, Huxley. Top marks. Crying in a bloody server room with Dabney’s most brilliant alpha three metres away. Perhaps you could piss yourself to really complete today’s performance.

He pressed his face harder against his knees, the damp patch spreading on the expensive wool as his body betrayed him with another silent, heaving sob.

Ryland made no move toward him. The headphones stayed on. His nostrils flared briefly at the shift in Stephen’s scent, but his expression didn’t change, and his rocking didn’t falter.

No awkward pat on the shoulder. No empty platitudes. Just shared space.

There was something oddly comforting about the lack of alpha posturing or unwanted comfort attempts. No awkward pats on the shoulder. No empty platitudes. Just shared space and the gentle, rhythmic rocking of a brilliant mind seeking its own form of solace.

Without looking at Stephen, Ryland reached into his pocket and produced a finely embroidered handkerchief, the initials DR monogrammed in one corner. He extended it toward Stephen without comment or eye contact, arm stretched across the gap between them.

Stephen accepted it, their fingers not touching during the exchange. The fabric was soft, expensive.

Ryland returned to his rocking, as if the interaction had never happened.

Stephen stared at the handkerchief. In the blue glow of the server lights, surrounded by the hum of machines, he pressed it to his face and breathed.