Zander's POV
I beg him with my eyes.
Begging him to do something, to say something, to break this tension between us.This simmering, unbearable desire.
I watch him, hoping for a sign, hoping he'll meet me halfway, hoping he'll finally let me have him again.
And then—he backs down.
The disappointment burns, sharp and hollow in my chest, but I ignore it.
Because even without the lust, even without the aching need that claws at my skin, being in his presence like this is comforting.
It's calming.It's everything.
His scent, his mere existence, the way he tilts his head slightly when he's thinking, the way his fingers tap against his glass when he's restless—it grounds me in a way nothing else does.
The waiters return, clearing away our plates, moving around us as if they don't feel the thick, charged atmosphere between us.
When they leave, Ivan suddenly straightens, looking at me with serious intent.
A shift in the air.
Something important is coming.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel nervous.
"What do you want from me, Zander?"
I blink. The words hit me like a direct punch to the chest.
"What?" I ask, incredulous.
"I mean, currently," he clarifies, his voice calm but firm, his sharp green eyes unwavering. "If you want to fuck—heavens knows I do too—we can get down to it, have a purely physical relationship, keep emotions out of it."
The suggestion rattles me.
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him I don't want that, but the words don't come out right away.
Because I do want him. I always want him.
But not like that.
"No," I say finally, voice rough. "I don't want that."
Ivan watches me closely, as if gauging my reaction.
"I think it's too late for us to have a relationship with no emotions." His voice softens, his lips twitching into a small, knowing smile.
I swallow hard. He's right.
I've never been able to separate my feelings from my desire for him.
This was never just lust.
This was always more.
Ivan takes a slow breath. "What happened aside, I forgive you. You didn't know—or you didn't think about how your actions could affect me. But from what I've seen, you'd rather walk through fire than hurt me."
My fingers tighten around the edge of the table.
Damn right I would.
He continues, his voice thoughtful, measured. "Our physical chemistry is off the charts. It could be due to our biology—you being an Alpha, me an Omega."
I bristle, wanting to argue, wanting to tell him that this connection is so much more than hormones—but I hold my tongue.
Because I know where he's going with this.
"From the beginning, we did this all wrong," he admits. "We listened to our hormones. We let ourselves get swept up in something we hadn't built yet."
I watch him, my heart pounding harder than before.
Because I know what's coming next.
"Which is why I reacted the way I did," he continues, his voice quieter now. "Even though I logically knew you were different from Dorian, from the others, my body still reacted badly."
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to stay still, forcing myself to listen even though it hurts.
Because he's right.
I am not like that man and never will be. Only weak men take abuse their power of those weaker than them.
But I am powerful. I am dangerous. I did things that made him feel trapped.
I didn't see it until it was too late.
He hesitates, searching for the right words.
I help him.
"There is no basis for trust between us." The realization hits me like lightning, striking through me with a clarity so sharp it makes my stomach churn.
Ivan nods, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Yes. That's it. That's what's been missing."
He looks down at the table for a moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his empty wine glass before he lifts his gaze back to mine.
"Think about it," he says, tilting his head slightly. "If you went out with someone for a week, and suddenly found them in your apartment waiting for you, you'd be scared. But if it was your boyfriend of five years, you'd feel joy. Relief."
I let out a short breath, a bitter smile tugging at my lips.
He's right.
I may feel like I've known him for a lifetime, but in reality—I haven't.
If I found Ivan in my office, rifling through confidential files, I'd assume he was a spy—even if I knew he wasn't.
Trust isn't just a feeling. It's built.
"So what do we do about it?" I lean forward slightly, my elbows resting on the table, eyes locked onto his.
Ivan's lips twitch into a small, thoughtful smirk.
"We start slowly. I guess." He sounds almost sheepish, as if the idea of starting over is foreign to him.
"Fine," I say, my voice turning lighter, teasing. "I'm going to woo you, Ivan. I'll sweep you off your feet."
His eyes narrow suspiciously.I know that look. Too well.
"I want you to do it without the money."
I freeze.
"What?"
Ivan leans back in his chair, looking far too smug for my liking. "No gifts. No extravagant displays of wealth. None of that."
I stare at him, recalculating my entire existence.
"Without the money?" I echo, incredulous.
He nods. "Exactly. Woo me the way a broke teenage boy would."
I sputter. "How the hell—what does that even mean—"
"Not my problem," he says, standing gracefully, stretching just slightly, just enough for the hem of his shirt to rise slightly.
He leans in close just for a second, his voice a whisper.
"I'm looking forward to seeing how you do, Mr. Vale."
Then, without another word, he walks away.
Leaving me seated, staring after him, wondering how the hell I'm supposed to romance the love of my life without a single damn dollar.
I'm doomed.