Episode 2

A Year Later…

He relished the view from the aircraft he was traveling on. It was a private jet, and he was accompanied only by his bodyguards and the aircraft's crew.

He listened to music and wished for a long journey. The prospect of arriving in Russia didn't appeal to him. He had lived there with his father for a long time, but his father wasn't the warm or attentive type, showing little concern for him around the clock. With a weary sigh, he reflected on the relentless days filled with performances and an array of other demanding activities to which he felt almost bound. He loved his art, he loved to dance, he loved everything to do with being on stage, yet his father continuously demanded more and more from him.

Ballet dancing was no simple task. It wasn't merely about slipping into ballet shoes and gliding across the stage. It required practice, enduring pain, dismissing discomfort, and lots of rehearsal.

He discovered his passion at the age of five when his mother took him to a theater, and he saw a woman dancing. He was enchanted by her movements, her grace, the love she expressed for her craft, and in that moment, he knew it was what he wanted to do for life. However, a year later, his mother passed away.

Understanding that his conception was the result of a one-night affair, he had no memories of his parents together—not a kiss or embrace—as they never lived under the same roof.

Such familial warmth was unimaginable to him, knowing it was an impossibility. Thus, following his mother's death, his father took on the responsibility out of sheer obligation, bringing him home to avoid any gossip tarnishing the family name. His father was never truly interested in having a son; his real pursuits were fame and power. And as his son grew, he saw him as a potential goldmine to exploit endlessly.

It was clear to him he wasn't his father's cherished child, as the man had other children he loved and cared for, whereas he was only known as the president's son.

Closing his eyes, he opened them again when one of his bodyguards indicated they were about to land. It was winter in Russia, so from above, as they descended, everything was blanketed in white. He liked the snow and allowed himself a slight smile. He didn’t want to let the thoughts of returning to Russia bring him down as they usually did, instead, he focused solely on the positive.

After disembarking from the plane wrapped up in a heavy coat, his breath visibly puffing out with every exhale, he didn't take long to get into another car awaiting him.

"Your father will be expecting you," one of the guards informed him.

"Alright, Soel. I suppose it's family business as usual."

Soel, the Alpha, nodded. He was the one he most often joked with and engaged in conversation—after all, he didn't have many friends. When his performances ended and the team disbanded, they went their separate ways and wouldn't meet again unless another opportunity arose.

"I don't have much detail. Just that message."

He let out a sigh.

"We have time. I'd like to grab something warm and buy some candies."

The other nodded. It was his ritual upon each return to Russia. He always visited the same spot, ordered his usual warm beverage, and got the candies he munched on daily without fail. Whether chewy, tiny, hard, cognac-flavored drops, or lollipops, he enjoyed a diverse mix.

The car headed to the place. It was large but secure.

Stepping out accompanied by just two of the guards—donning a cap to obscure part of his hair, dark sunglasses, and a face mask—he preferred not to draw attention. Crowds and disorder ensued whenever he was recognized in Russia, especially at packed theaters and notably at the eminent Bolshoi, renowned for its opera, dance, and naturally, theater.

As the doors swung open and the two Alphas followed closely, on guard with stern expressions and imposing statures, bystanders immediately steered clear of them.

With Bley well-covered, no one could guess whom they were protecting so vigilantly.

The Omega was never bothered, finding it pointless to worry when he was confident that his bodyguards would never let anything happen to him—besides, he felt inconsequential enough that nobody would bother him.

After picking out and filling two bags with his favored caramel sweets, he couldn't imagine a day without at least one, as it turned his day vibrant and kept troubles from magnifying. The candies had become his steadfast companions, and he had no intention of substituting them for anything else.

Proceeding to the cashier, he usually carried cash, but before he could settle his purchase, he noticed someone else had already taken care of it.

The man beside him, with a brusque manner and no warmth, waited for the girl to tell him the total. Bley threw a brief glance and spotted him wearing a simple short-sleeved shirt despite the chilly weather. He noted the man's large arms and physique—no further clue was needed to deduce he was an Alpha—and how his red hair stood out with a striking contrast between long on top and close-cropped sides.

Tattoos marked his arms—barbed wires, hearts pierced by daggers, serpents—giving off the impression of imminent danger.

He watched the man sluggishly take out his wallet, handle his money with the same disregard, and gather his items to walk away. Blinking, Bley stepped forward to place his items down when the sound of gunfire rang through. Glass shattered and more shots followed. The last thing he saw was the cashier being hit by a hail of bullets, her body collapsing to the ground. The shouts of his bodyguards and their frantic communication through microphones were the last things he heard as they identified the situation as an ambush.

And he thought he was going to die.

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