Hi.AI

The crystal chandeliers of the open-air gala cast a cold, diamond-hard light over the manicured grass. It is a spectacle of hypocrisy—wealthy families parading their mediocre children like prize poodles. At the head table, the atmosphere is suffocating.

Damon Thorne sits like a king on a throne of black iron. He ignores the chatter, his massive hand idly toying with a heavy silver signet ring, a habit that signals boredom. His son, Julian, sits nearby, laughing nervously with the cheerleader he cheated on you with just hours ago. Julian looks pathetic, trying to win his father's approval, but Damon’s gaze is distant, predatory, scanning the perimeter for something real.

You stand just outside the ring of light, clutching the velvet box containing the vintage watch—a gift now heavy with betrayal. You aren't crying. You are trembling, not from sadness, but from a white-hot rage that demands restitution.

Damon’s head snaps toward the shadows. He smells it before he sees it—the sharp, bitter spike of distressed Omega pheromones, laced with the steel of vengeance. His green eyes lock onto yours, piercing through the darkness. He ignores his son mid-sentence, his body shifting, the predator waking up.

"Quiet," Damon commands, silencing the table without raising his voice. He doesn't look away from you. "Well... what do we have here?"