Oddity's Charm ( Omegaverse BL)

Zander's POV

I'm moody.

No, moody is an understatement. I'm a goddamn mess.

My sour mood bleeds into everything I do—work, conversations, even the way I sit in my goddamn chair. Everyone around me notices. They don't say anything, but I can see it in the way they step lightly around me, in the way my assistants hesitate before speaking, their eyes darting toward my expression as if bracing for impact.

I don't care.

Because when I'm not working, I swear I can still smell him.

Ivan's scent lingers in places where it shouldn't, like this office, I swear I can picture him here, hell I can smell him. I scowl at the thought, gripping my pen tighter.

I huff out a frustrated breath and grab my tablet, flicking through the usual reports, half-heartedly skimming over financial updates. Then, like a pathetic man with no self-control, I do what I always do—I pull up Ivan's latest photoshoot.

It's on every major fashion site, every social media platform, every tabloid magazine. There's no escaping him, not that I ever would. If I can't have him, then I'll watch him.

Like everyone else.

I could have backdoor access. I tried to have backdoor access. I wanted to see the untouched, raw images before they were polished for the public. I gained that access.

Then, I deleted it.

I burned the folder. Erased every last unreleased image from the publishers.

I don't want to be that person. I won't betray the thin thread of trust he's given me. But it doesn't stop the overwhelming urge to keep looking.

I scroll through image after image, and every single time, my chest tightens.

My omega.

He looks beautiful. Perfect. Ethereal.

He's glowing—his skin flawless under the studio lighting, his gaze sultry, his lips slightly parted in that way that makes my fingers twitch.

The comments say it all. Gorgeous. Stunning. I'd kill to spend one night with him.

My pride swells at how much he shines, how the world recognizes his beauty. But so does my rage.

Because these people—these thousands of faceless strangers—are lusting over something that is mine.

I clench my jaw, my fingers tightening around the tablet, as I shamelessly scroll through fan pages that have popped up over the past month.

A month.

It's been a month.

And in all that time, the only thing keeping me connected to him is this—the endless stream of photos, the rare glimpses of his world through press releases and staged interviews.

He deactivated his burner account. The only way to reach him is through his official social media, but every time I comment, it gets buried under thousands of others.

He doesn't see them.

It's so fucking frustrating. I want to scream.

I toss my tablet onto the desk, rubbing a hand down my face. I feel like a man on the edge, like something inside me is breaking apart piece by piece.

Then, I grab my phone, and out of habit, I do what I always do when I see something that would look good on Ivan.

I buy it.

It's an addiction at this point. A compulsion. I see anything—a silk shirt, a designer suit, a casual hoodie, or even fucking lingerie—and I buy it.

The deliveries never stop. Box after box arrives at the penthouse.

And now, in the master walk-in closet—where Ivan's clothes still hang untouched—there's an entire section dedicated to things he hasn't even worn yet.

At this pace, even a closet this massive won't be enough.

*

Later That Night

I sit in my office, the lights dim, my fingers tapping against my glass of whiskey. The city sprawls beneath me through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but I can't focus on anything except him.

Ivan.

The only person who's ever gotten under my skin like this. The only person who's ever made me feel completely and utterly out of control.

He's back in the penthouse now, sleeping just a few minutes away from me. If I head to my bedroom window I can see his apartment in the building next to this one. I'm fighting that temptation.

That text he sent me—I moved back in.

It was the only thing he's sent me in a month. The only acknowledgment of my existence.

And yet, when I saw it, my heart nearly fucking stopped.

Even if he's not speaking to me, he's here. He's close.

I finish my drink in one swallow, my mind swirling with thoughts of him.

I lean back in my chair, exhaling heavily. The whiskey does little to dull the ache.

I don't know how much longer I can do this—this waiting, this silence, this torturous uncertainty.

But I'll endure it.

Because for Ivan, I'll endure anything.

Even if it kills me.