113
Ivan POV
Well.
Zander certainly wasn't exaggerating.
Dinner.
More like a poorly veiled execution.
I glance slowly around the enormous dining room—long, polished table, tall-backed chairs that look straight out of some medieval castle.
The lighting is low, almost theatrical. Paintings of ancestors in heavy frames glare down from every wall. The entire place smells faintly of old money and older ego.
Since the moment we arrived, no one's made much effort to acknowledge me.
A few stiff nods. A few sideways glances. The occasional narrowed eye.
It's childish, honestly.
I expected more.
The food arrives—perfectly plated, of course. The steak in front of me is seared on the outside, but when I cut into it... practically raw.
I start cutting the meat into tiny, careful pieces—taking only the smallest of bites. Polite. Perfect. Utterly unimpressed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the woman two seats down—her skin pulled too tight, mouth drawn in a faint grimace.
Across from me, an older man clears his throat loudly, slicing into the strained silence. His hair is greying at the temples, eyes sharp, cold.
"So," he begins, tone dripping with condescension, "what family do you hail from?"
Ah. Finally. The interrogation begins.
I set my knife down, folding my hands neatly on the table.
"None," I reply evenly. "I'm an orphan."
I watch the flicker in his gaze—the brief, smug flash of superiority that crosses his face like a stormcloud.
As if he expected this answer. As if it somehow confirms every assumption he's already made about me.
He leans back, smug, fingers steepled.
"Surely you must be aware," he says, voice slow, deliberate, "of the... difference between your social classes?"
He gestures lazily toward Zander, seated beside me.
I glance over at Zander—who is currently gripping his fork a little too tightly.
I smile, serene.
"I suppose," I answer smoothly.
A beat of tense silence.
Then—
"You should be ashamed."
The words come from the woman with the too-tight face, her voice brittle as glass.
I tilt my head slightly.
"Shame?" I ask, mild as ever. "About what, exactly?"
Her mouth thins.
"You gold-digging little thing," she spits, voice rising. "Look at what you've dragged our family into. You've made us a laughing stock."
So there it is. No pretense left.
I lean back, fingers brushing the stem of my wine glass.
"Something I cannot help," I say lightly, "given my profession."
She scoffs, eyes narrowing.
"Profession?" She repeats the word like it's a slur.
Before I can answer, she turns sharply toward Zander.
"Surely, Zander," she says sharply, "this can't be serious."
I feel Zander tense beside me—so tightly coiled I can practically hear the restraint in every line of his body.
I can sense it—he's on the verge of exploding.
But beneath the table, our hands are laced tightly. I give his fingers a small squeeze—firm, grounding.
Since they think I'm just the omega who seduced the heir... well.
Might as well act exactly that way.
I tilt my head slightly, giving them a faint, knowing smile.
"Yes," I say airily. "My profession. You know—modeling."
The way they react, you'd think I'd just declared myself a high-class escort instead.
One of the men further down the table actually scoffs and pushes his plate away, like the very mention of it offended his delicate appetite.
"This is unprecedented!" he declares, voice tight. "No one has ever brought their mistress to a family dinner."
Mistress?
I rest my elbow lightly on the table, chin in hand. Smile widening.
"Oh my," I say, eyes sparkling with faux-innocence. "You must not be aware?"
The same man stiffens. "Aware of what?"
I bat my lashes, deliberately coy. "That we're engaged. Getting married, actually. Surely you must not have known?"
Or else why the fuck would you call me a mistress? I don't say this part out loud of course.
A visible ripple goes around the table—sharp exhales, scoffs, a few forced chuckles of disbelief.
"As if," the tight-faced woman sneers, voice practically dripping poison. "As if the heir would ever marry an omega—let alone a maleomega."
Ah. There it is.
"Really?" I say sweetly. "And... why not?"
There's a pause. The man next to her straightens, puffing up like an old peacock.
"You lot are—" he starts.
And wow. I have to hold back a laugh. It's been a long time since I've been on the receiving end of this level of raw snobbery.
Back on Earth...well my old Earth.Try being an openly gay male model on a shoot in a conservative country. I've had people camp outside my hotel room, scream slurs, quote scripture at me. Hell, they even threw stones once.
This?
This is nothing.
I lift my wine glass slowly. Take a sip. Smile wider.
Then—Zander speaks. For the first time all evening. His voice is calm, but the edge underneath it is razor-sharp.
"Interesting you put it that way," he says coolly.
"Considering my bearer is a male omega."
Then, from the head of the table—the old man. Finally deigning to speak. His voice cold as stone.
"Clearly," he says, tone dripping with disdain, "the apple does not fall far from the tree."
Zander's grip tightens under the table, fingers nearly crushing mine.
Why the fuck would he say that?