Chapter Text
The magnificent Château de Versailles was buzzing, a glittering example of French elegance, but frankly, nobody cared about the January chill outside. Behind the Orangerie, in the temporary pavilion, it was a humid, frantic, hundred-degree oven of sheer panic. It wasn't just chaos; it was a bubbling, beautiful, expensive mess, a pressure cooker where the entire Zhou fashion empire—Dylan’s legacy—was precariously balanced on a single pulled thread. The air was thick with the scent of high-grade silk, burnt sugar from hastily applied heat styling, and the unmistakable, metallic tang of stress.
At the epicentre stood Nano, Director of Runway & Studio. He was a powerful Omega, and his control was legendary—not through volume or size, but through an elegant, devastating combination of rage and brutal accuracy. His suit was flawless, yet his expression suggested he was one dropped eyelash away from setting the whole place on fire. His power came from knowing exactly where every detail should be, and the current reality was an offence to his very nature.
“WHO PUT THE WRONG SHOES ON LOOK 12?!” he shrieked, the sound slicing through the din like a high-tension wire snapping. He spun on a junior assistant who dared to have tears streaming mascara down her cheeks. “WHY ARE YOU CRYING? STOP CRYING! FIX THE LASHES!”
He moved like a predatory hummingbird, rapid and lethal, his eyes scanning every seam and hemline. “YOU HAVE THREE SECONDS TO GET INTO THAT CORSET! Yasmin opens, Anok closes! Why the hell is Mona not dressed?! She goes in RIGHT AFTER YASMIN! Get makeup on that model NOW! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT BURN HER ROOTS, THAT’S NOT HOW YOU DO HER HAIR!” The sheer magnitude of the errors was making his head throb. This show had to be perfect.
“PAUL!” Nano was shouting, spinning in a circle, his voice hitting a painful high note.
Paul, his Beta assistant, appeared instantly, already looking like he wished for a rapid, silent death and possibly a career change into accounting. “Yes, sir nano.”
Nano didn't even acknowledge Paul with a glance, his eyes fixed on the flow of bodies and fabrics. “The atelier team goes right after the models, the pattern makers, seamstresses, embroiders, tailors, and at the end, Dylan. He has flown the entire 45-member dressmaking squad to honour his fifth year presenting the Spring Summer Haute Couture here in Paris. I want them all done with makeup, and tell the interns if even one dressmaker is missing, I’ll end their career.” The message was clear. This was a Statement of strength and commitment, and no element could be compromised.
His gaze dropped to the floor, where a pop of shocking neon colour betrayed Fourth, the Head of Marketing and a fellow Omega, crouched down like he was attempting to photograph an endangered species.
“What the bloody hell are you doing on the floor, Fourth? Do you not have better things to do? Like your job?” Nano asked, his irritation thick enough to chew.
“I am doing my job, Nano,” Fourth said, utterly serene, still composing his shot. He was one of the few Omegas who could match Nano’s intensity with pure, unadulterated calm. “I am the head of marketing. I am making a video for our Instagram.”
“And where the fuck is your husband?” Nano snapped, rubbing his temples hard, wishing for a moment of quiet to suppress his rising Omega pheromones. “He is supposed to be here looking after the logistics.”
Fourth finally looked up, giving him a flat look that contained volumes of spousal commentary. “There, you said it, Nano, head of logistics. Gemini is inside the palace looking after the crew and the lightings and the show producer. Use your earpiece to summon the man.” He paused, then added, “If he can’t handle the cables, what good is an Alpha?”
Before Nano could formulate a sufficiently cutting retort, Pahn, Dylan’s tiny, frantic Beta personal assistant, ran across the space with a bulging embroidery bag.
“Pahn, what are you doing? Don’t tell me Dylan’s lost his mind,” Nano said.
“Uh, one of the models dieted a little too much, so he’s fixing the dress himself,” Pahn stammered, pointing toward a serene corner of the room that was always Dylan’s last bastion of peace—the eye of the hurricane.
“Oh god, that man will age me a few years today,” Nano muttered, already calculating the deep lines of stress in his forehead. He loved Dylan like a brother, but the man’s need for perfection was a cross they all bore.
“Nano!”
It was Peach, the COO of Atelier Zhou, another formidable Omega, clutching an iPad like it was evidence in a murder trial. His cool—the one that placated billionaires and managed front-row seating—had completely melted away, replaced by pure, wide-eyed dread.
“What is it, Peach?” Nano demanded, bracing himself for the inevitable meltdown of a starlet.
“You should look at this,” Peach insisted, trying to shove the tablet at him.
“If it’s an influencer throwing a fit about not getting invited, I don’t care, and you should not care either. Give that to Rebecca, she is the publicist. You go do your big boy job of being a COO and an eye candy to Anna Wintour and Jennie Kim,” Nano dismissed, trying to push past him.
“Rebecca gave this to me,” Peach said, and this time he forced the iPad into his hands. The weight of it felt instantly wrong.
Nano glanced down.
The roar of the backstage—the music, the shouts, the heels clacking, the frantic energy of three hundred people—hit a sudden, terrifying mute button. A cold, ringing silence descended, and Nano felt the highly polished, successful world they’d built shatter into a million glittering, sharp pieces. The visual on the screen was a sickening blow, ugly, public, and unforgivable. It was pure, distilled betrayal.
“I am going to kill the bastard! RIGHT NOW? ON THE DAY OF THE SHOW? CALL YOUR HUSBAND! LET’S INVOLVE THE MAFIA!” Nano’s voice was a barely contained hiss, thick with protective rage that tasted like ozone and could fell a lesser Alpha.
“Hush! My husband is the chairman to a conglomerate,” Peach hissed back, swiftly hiding the tablet, frantic that any of the models should catch a glimpse.
“Peach, honey, you have been with him too long for all of us to know that the business he has in Thailand is just a clean front to the ties he has in Russia. We admire it, he’s a great man, but now is not the time,” Nano spat, his fury barely contained by the sheer, looming weight of the event.
“Should we tell Dylan?” Peach asked, his composure still shaky, looking toward the corner where their star sat unaware.
Nano looked at the heavy velvet curtain, the border of Dylan’s entire glittering fantasy—the culmination of half a decade of grinding work.
“After the show,” Nano decided, his face hardening into a look of absolute, terrifying resolve. The dream was too big to die now. “But,” Peach started.
“It’s a big show, Peach, his dream show. He has been dreaming of putting on a show in the Château de Versailles for so long. This is the moment he has been waiting for. I will not let a man ruin his ‘I made it moment’,” Nano finished, his voice final, sealing the decision like a coffin lid.
“Then hide his phone,” Peach advised grimly, already moving out of the pavilion to continue his job with the VIPs, visibly forcing his shoulders back.
“You go back to the show. We pretend nothing happened until the end, and then we break it to him.” Nano commanded. He straightened his silk suit, took one deep, fortifying breath to suppress the scent of his own emotional distress, and walked towards Dylan. The curtain call was in five minutes, and the whole world was about to watch the star whose heart was unknowingly in pieces.
Nano approached the eye of the hurricane—a quiet, velvet-roped corner—and for a critical moment, his composure wavered. He paused, not out of fatigue, but to inhale. Every Omega on the Zhou executive team had a distinct, delicious scent, but their ability to keep those scents sheathed and professional was what made them formidable. Nano himself smelled like clean, sharp lavender; Fourth was a walking, talking lemon sorbet, effortlessly cool and refreshing; and Peach smelled exactly like his namesake—sweet, ripe, and polished.
But Dylan Zhou? Dylan smelled like a Biscoff cake.
He was the sweetest-smelling Omega Nano knew. When Dylan was focused or even slightly worried, there was a sharp, perfect undercurrent of salted caramel, and when he was near a pre-heat or a full heat, he smelled like a whole damn bakery that should legally be locked up—because even female Omegas would be tempted to take a bite. Male Omegas were certainly not the most common, but their magnetic appeal was legendary. They were simply gorgeous, ethereal, and powerful. The fact that Atelier Zhou boasted four Omegas in top positions—Dylan, Nano, Fourth, and Peach—was constantly marketed by magazines as "Beauty with Brains," a triumphant middle finger to the old Alpha-dominated guard of haute couture.
Dylan was currently knelt down in front of Isabelle, a statuesque French model, a sewing kit balanced perfectly on his thigh as he meticulously closed a side seam. His intense concentration was beautiful, completely oblivious to the digital catastrophe unfolding around him.
“Tu dois manger de l'Isabelle,” Dylan said softly, his hands moving with speed. “The dress was altered to fit you, and you lost weight?”
“Pas tout le monde est comme toi mon amour. They prefer the extra thin models,” Isabelle muttered, her voice tight with the anxiety that permeates every inch of this industry.
“Skinny is fine, I get it, as inclusive as I want to be, it’s haute couture, even I have to have skinny models walking the runway, but skinny does not mean bones. Look at me, these waists are pilates, not starvation. Il faut avoir un certain poids pour soutenir la robe” Dylan said, standing up and touching Isabelle’s nose lightly.
“Tout le monde n'admire pas les corps des omégas comme toi,” Isabelle countered, leaning back against the wall, her expression weary. “. Some just see them as hangers, especially agents and the old guard.”
Dylan sighed, his salted caramel scent thickening slightly with frustration. “Then we change the perspective, one perfect show at a time. We carry the clothes, they don't carry us. This is the truth we fight for, my dear. Now, stop worrying about them. I fear you’ll develop an ED, and then who will wear my looks?” Dylan teased, though his eyes held genuine concern.
“If you were an Alpha, I’d have married you. Tu es un homme parfait” Isabelle sighed dramatically.
Dylan laughed, adjusting his shimmering silver-blond hair. “As much as I love the emotion, darling, when I am in a relationship, I only want one vagina in the relationship, and that's mine, so…”
“Mon bébé, if you were a male Alpha, you wouldn't have a vagina,” Isabelle retorted, ever the realist, which only made Dylan laugh harder.
And that was the exact moment Dylan noticed Nano, standing frozen, his lavender scent sharp with distress and the effort of bottling his rage. “Nano, I know you’re busy, but can you have one of your minions bring Isa a burger or fries from the catering? She’s starving herself.”
“I am afraid we are too close to the show, Dyl. We’ll feed her as soon as she’s done walking,” Nano replied, his voice strained but perfectly modulated. He hated the cold efficiency of the excuse, but the priority was the show, and the secret.
“Works for me,” Dylan shrugged, satisfied with the compromise.
“You should change and get those silver locks tamed. You are also going to go say thank you at the very end,” Nano said, stepping closer, attempting to distract him.
“I will, I will. I have to see if someone else needs sewing,” Dylan replied, attempting to return to the fray, completely unaware of the digital bomb ticking nearby.
“Stop it, Dyl, we are good to go. Go change. And where is your phone?” Nano asked, injecting a necessary tone of forced nonchalance. The lie felt dry and metallic on his tongue, a violation of the deep trust they shared.
“Somewhere there near the vanity. Why?” Dylan looked mildly annoyed, waving a hand toward a chaotic table.
“So you don’t panic tweet before the show starts,” Nano lied smoothly, giving a small, fake smile. The weight of the impending betrayal felt like a heavy stone resting right on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
“Uh, keep it with you then,” Dylan agreed, already walking off to get changed, the massive undertaking of the show still shielding him from his own reality.
“Something wrong?” Isabelle asked softly, her instincts sensing the violent distress in Nano’s scent that his face couldn't hide.
“His boyfriend fucked up,” Nano muttered under his breath, watching Dylan disappear around a curtain.
“He has a boyfriend?” Isabelle whispered, Dylan’s private life being famously opaque, known only to his closest circle.
“Well, no one knew, and after this show, no one will know,” Nano said, the promise of vengeance heavy on his tongue, his lavender scent spiking with true, dark resolve.
Isabelle simply shook her head, a gesture heavy with universal understanding. “Alphas.”
“I know,” Nano said, clutching the phone—and the secret—to his chest. He looked toward the curtain separating the backstage hell from the glittering runway. The show was seconds away from starting, and Nano had bought them forty minutes of blissful, dangerous ignorance.
Twenty-one-year-old Dylan Zhou, an ESMOD Paris graduate, would never, in his wildest dreams, have believed that the twenty-eight-year-old version of himself would stand at the helm of a multimillion-dollar eponymous label, Atelier Zhou. His post-graduation designs —two chaotic, brilliant collections sketched mostly on the back of his university notebooks—had won him the prestigious LVMH Prize, rocketing him from obscure talent to the industry’s most wanted Omega. Two years later, a small Paris show turned into a triumphant win of the International Woolmark Prize at twenty-three, permanently altering the trajectory of his life. Suddenly, everyone wanted to work with the pretty Thai boy. His friends—Nano, Peach, Fourth, and Gemini—had treated the label less like a startup and more like a high-stakes, glamorous revolution, pitching in their formidable talents. Since then, he had done two shows in Paris every year, branched out successfully into Ready-to-Wear, secured a massive global fan following, established a beautiful headquarters in Bangkok, and counted four major collections every year to his name that had made the coveted pages of Vogue.
And now, here he was. Standing on the grand stage of the Château de Versailles, the venue of kings. This was his fifth Summer Spring collection, his ninth overall haute collection, and he was ready to step out and bow to the audience who had made him who he was today. The moment felt less like fashion and more like a coronation.
The show was done. It was, simply, a triumph.
Dylan’s vision of light and structure had been received with a roar. The applause was so loud and sustained, he actually teared up—a rare, public display of raw emotion. He had worked the front rows, sharing a lingering, satisfied moment with Anna Wintour, giggling with Jennie Kim, and was deep in conversation with Elle Fanning about her potential Cannes outfit when the protective shield of his staff materialised. Nano, Peach, and Rebecca all marched toward him with grim expressions. Yeah, not good. When the three high-powered Omegas surrounded him, it was less an escort and more an extraction. He excused himself from Elle Fanning and got swiftly dragged away. They pulled him not toward the afterparty, but into the Grand Commun, a sprawling, empty administrative wing where prep and stage props were still being packed away.
They closed the massive wooden door behind them, sealing the roar of the celebration out.
“Did something bad happen?” Dylan asked, his voice suddenly small, his Biscoff scent turning noticeably colder with anxiety.
“Sit,” Fourth commanded, gesturing toward a draped velvet trunk. Dylan sank onto it.
Nano, his scent sharp and protective, didn’t speak but simply passed him the tablet he’d been clutching.
Dylan’s eyes scanned the screen, freezing on the headline that felt like a strike to the chest:
"Actor Eric Siravone announces bonding and pregnancy with partner Model Dalia Tsu."
He reeled back, a gasp escaping him that sounded less like shock and more like physical injury. The Biscoff scent around him fractured.
“Is this a prank? This is my biggest day, if you guys are making this up, it’s nasty. This is my Eric?” Dylan pleaded, his voice thin, looking from Nano to Gemini.
Gemini stepped forward, his face etched with regret. “He says they have been together three years, Dyl. They bonded over Christmas, and they have a baby on the way. They are planning on getting married soon.”
Paul, who finally processed the gravity of Gemini's words, gasped loudly, only to get an elbow and a sharp slap on the arm from Pahn to shut up.
“No, no, no,” Dylan whispered, shaking his head violently, tears finally spilling. “This is my Eric. We’ve been together for five years, Gem. He can’t do it.”
“He did it, Dyl,” Rebecca said gently, her professional PR tone instantly gone, replaced by the tone of a protective friend. “There’s a video announcement, but it’s not for you to see.”
“Why would he do it?” Dylan sobbed, wiping his face frantically. “No, if they bonded over Christmas, why wait for an entire month? Why now?”
Peach knelt beside Dylan, his voice tight with fury. “He chose the day of your fashion show. On your most important day. He wanted to break your heart and ruin your moment.”
“The fucker even chose exactly an hour before the show to announce it, even though it was late back in Thailand, just so he could break you. I am going to strangle him with my hands,” Fourth growled, his cool facade utterly shattered.
“Bastard,” Pahn muttered from the corner, clinking the wine glass against a tissue box.
Nano immediately kneeled in front of Dylan, grabbing his hands, his lavender scent overwhelming the faint, acrid smell of betrayal. “We decided to keep it from you so you don’t feel sad during the show. Now, when he sees the videos tomorrow to see your reaction, he won’t see this. He’ll see you giggling, getting kisses on the cheeks from models for the prettiest collection you’ve ever made. It’ll be a tight slap on his face, Dyl.”
“I could have had a baby,” Dylan choked out, collapsing into Nano’s shoulder, the full, devastating realisation washing over him. “I wanted to bond. I wanted a husband.”
“And you will have all three one day,” Peach said, moving to rub his back, his hand a steady presence. “He was just an idiot who wasn't worthy of this.”
Dylan’s body was shaking, not from the cold weather of Paris, but from the sheer force of disbelief. He pulled away from Nano, his hands clenched into fists, the scent around him a cold, stale thing, like burnt cookies.
“Why would he waste five years of my life?” he choked out, the question tearing from his throat.
It was tragically true. Eric and Dylan had met at the opening of Dylan's very first flagship showroom, right after the high of the Woolmark Prize win. Dylan had waited for that moment—no dingy boutiques for him. With a sizable investment from Peach’s then-boyfriend (now husband, Theerakit) and a chunk of his prize money, he’d launched a space worthy of the Atelier. Eric, already a rising actor, was a guest. He was devastatingly handsome, charming, and Alpha, and Dylan was, predictably, very taken. They had started dating almost immediately. But Eric, the actor, insisted on keeping the relationship a strict secret, citing the need to protect his career narrative. Dylan, desperately in love, had agreed, begrudgingly at first, then resentfully. Five years of constantly avoiding public places; five years of secret dates hidden behind blacked-out car windows; five years of no movie dates, no amusement park giggles, no walking hand-in-hand, and certainly no public pampering—the small, public displays of affection that Omegas were culturally and biologically wired to crave. And for what? For a headline that solidified Eric’s image as a loving husband and father to another Omega.
“He hardly spent any of my heats with me, always having excuses, always being away for events at the exact same time as my heat,” Dylan hiccuped, the memories flooding in with horrifying clarity. “You know how many heats those are? fifteen! fifteen heats of total isolation. I was conveniently a fuck toy for his ruts, though, wasn't I? God forbid he helped me through my biological need.”
Paul slowly walked over, sympathy radiating, to hand him some tissue.
“My last heat, oh god, I begged him,” Dylan continued, his voice cracking, thick with fresh agony. “It was one of those miserable heats that came after I was on suppressants, so I wouldn’t get it during my winter collection launch in Rome. But no. He had ‘friends coming over’, he said. Turns out, he was just putting a baby in another Omega.” Dylan buried his face in Nano’s shoulder again.
“You know how painful it was? I had to spend it with Pahn,” Dylan’s voice broke into a loud, shaming wail.
“I didn’t mind, Dyl,” Pahn said softly, stepping forward. The young Beta assistant’s eyes were wide and earnest.
“I KNOW!” Dylan screamed, tears streaming now. “But you know how humiliating it is to have your assistant see you in that condition, help you shower, cuddle you! It’s a gross power imbalance!”
“Dylan, Nano was helping his Alpha with his rut at the time, and you wanted someone to cuddle, feed, hydrate, and take care of you, and I did it,” Pahn insisted, her voice trembling slightly. “We didn’t sleep together. And even if we did, I was there willingly as a friend. I signed up for it willingly, remember?”
“I know, Pahn, I know you’re a saint, but we are different,” Dylan argued, his hand reaching out to touch Pahn’s arm. “You female Betas get monthly menses, which is painful and inconvenient, but we get a heat once every three months, and it’s a lot more painful than what you go through. Painkillers, heatpads, and hydration won’t help the biological drive. It’s a physical urge to breed, Pahn. And as much as I adore you helping me, that made me feel like a sick person, like a degenerate, and nothing else. Made me wish I was a Beta man, lucky bitches don’t go through any of this shit.”
“I am sorry,” Paul said quickly, a nervous, defensive reflex of a Beta male who felt falsely implicated in the misery.
“Not you, honey, you are very helpful,” Dylan said, giving Paul a wet, hiccupping smile.
The circle of friends had heard enough.
“Dylan, Eric is really not worth these tears,” Rebecca said, pushing her PR clipboard aside. “He is about to find out what happens when you cross the Founder of a global fashion house.”
The Omega rage, momentarily suppressed by grief, returned with a vengeance.
“We could torch his car once we get back to Bangkok,” Nano suggested, his lavender scent turning cold and dangerous.
“Or we could go on a cruise, forget everything, and I’ll have my husband get us a yacht,” Peach suggested, already pulling out his phone.
“No, no, no,” Fourth hissed, stepping into the center of the room, his citrusy scent replaced by pure, bitter malice. “We use Theerakit’s connection to bankrupt him. We make sure he loses all his endorsement deals. Then, when he has to do stupid variety shows just to buy baby formula and diapers, he’ll know who he messed with.”
Dylan’s tears paused. “No baby deserves to go hungry,” he hiccupped, clinging to his last shred of morality.
Gemini, the only Alpha in the room, finally cleared his throat and stepped in as the voice of reason—or at least, legal reason. “Yes, so the good thing to do is get wine drunk tonight and sleep on it. And then we can make wise decisions like maybe a smear campaign. We hit his reputation, not his wallet to that degree. No need to call Peach’s in-laws in the Russian Mafia.”
“They are businessmen, Gemini, high-net-worth individuals who require discretion,” Peach corrected stiffly.
“Peach,” everyone groaned in unison—Nano, Fourth, Rebecca, Pahn, and even Paul.
The ridiculous exasperation of the moment finally broke the spell of grief. Dylan looked at his friends, and for the first time since seeing the headline, he giggled. It was a shaky, watery sound, but it was a beginning.