Alpha Singer │ ABO

The crystal lights of Bohemian glass glinted off the carved crystal goblet that Dorian held between his fine fingers, a rare vintage red that he barely sipped. The ballroom of the luxury hotel in the exclusive district of Polanco bustled with the cream of the crop of national and international show business: film directors with airs of grandeur, actresses with haughty gazes, and other artists desperately seeking to rub shoulders with the modern aristocracy. To Dorian, all of it was nothing more than a minor theater of vanity where he played the leading role. As the most sought-after lead vocalist of the moment and heir to one of the country's most powerful industrial dynasties, his life moved between private helicopters, armored recording studios, and a solitude as polished as the marble of his mansion.

He had never needed a permanent bond. The omegas who had passed through his ephemeral life were mere one-night whims, decorative accessories he quickly forgot beneath the black silk sheets of his bedchamber. His superiority complex was no secret; he considered his pure alpha genetics and innate talent to place him several steps above the rest of mortals.

Beside him, with the unshakeable patience of someone who had known him since the dusty days of private school, was Henrik. His personal assistant and childhood friend adjusted the spotless vest of his gray suit while keeping a watchful eye out to ensure no careless journalist drew too near with a camera.

"You look tense, Dorian. Bored again with showbiz royalty?" Henrik murmured with a light smile, holding the alpha's cell phone and designer jacket.

"It's not boredom, Henrik; it's pure and simple aesthetic fatigue. These people believe that using brand-name clothing gives them distinction," Dorian replied in a deep, calculated voice, without looking away from the crowd. "Watch my glass and my phone. I'm going to the restroom to wash my hands; I need fresh air before anyone asks me for another pathetic interview."

"Take your time. I'll stay here guarding your throne," the beta teased, adjusting his titanium-framed glasses.

Dorian left the wine on a mahogany table and stepped into the side corridors, where the roar of the jazz orchestra began to dissipate, replaced by a sepulchral silence typical of the venue's private wings. He walked with the natural elegance of a predator dominating his environment, shoulders squared, jaw firm, and stride measured.

However, as he approached the luxury restroom corridor, the texture of the air shifted.

A subtle yet dense current permeated the atmosphere. At first, it was a subtle note, an almost imperceptible trace, but as he advanced, it became intoxicating, heavy, almost wild. Dorian's primal instincts ignited like a spark on dry gunpowder. His heart rate gave an involuntary leap, a low growl threatened to form in his throat, and his alpha mark resonated with an unusual territorial demand.

Pheromones.

These were not the artificial, expensive fragrances floating in the main hall. It was the raw, desperate, and unmistakable aroma of an omega undergoing a sudden, uncontrolled heat.

Dorian frowned, irritation crossing his aristocratic features as his logical mind attempted to overcome the biological onslaught. He gripped the handle of the main door to the men's room and pushed it firmly open.

The interior of the white marble restroom with gold fixtures was wrapped in a suffocating atmosphere. In front of the main sink, hands gripping the ceramic edge until his knuckles turned white and trembling, was a young employee from the catering service. His waiter uniform looked disheveled. He was hunched over, breathing with difficulty, eyes tightly shut, and a feverish flush staining his cheeks a vivid crimson.

The alpha halted in the doorway. For a second, the intense biological pull threatened to cut his breath short; the omega's scent promised an absolute submission that would have driven any other man of his class mad. But the iron self-control Dorian had cultivated for years—a relentless discipline fed by his arrogance and his refusal to lose control before anyone or anything—acted as an impenetrable shield.

He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt with total coldness, looking at the boy with a mixture of annoyance and calculated distance, taking in the pathetic state he was in.

"What a disaster," Dorian pronounced in his commanding and sharp tone, crossing his arms as he observed him from the doorway. "You shouldn't be here, much less in this state, just a few yards from the main hall. If another alpha finds you with so little decency as to take advantage of your weakness, you're going to end up ruining your life."

Dorian clenched his jaw as he noticed how the young waiter's breathing became even more agitated and breathless. The air in the restroom had turned into a dense tide, but now with a different nuance: the sweet and subtle instinct of surrender provoked directly by Dorian's powerful pheromones. Although he had maintained mental control, his body, involuntarily, had begun to project the presence of a dominant alpha to mark authority, unintentionally aggravating the boy's vulnerability.

The omega's face was flushed with the fever of his heat, and the alpha's proximity was overwhelming him.

Dorian let out a sigh of deep frustration. "Damn it," he thought. His sense of superiority and pride prevented him from acting like a coward or leaving someone behind who was suffering the collateral effects of his own nature. He felt that, being the involuntary cause of the boy's collapse, the responsibility fell squarely on his shoulders.

"What a nuisance..." Dorian murmured to himself.

He glanced toward the hallway; the corridor remained deserted. Acting with impeccable speed and seeking not to draw the attention of those present or the press, he took off his designer jacket and placed it over the young man's shoulders, covering his head to mitigate the trail of his pheromones and hide his face. He firmly took him by the arm and, with a dominant yet careful grip, guided him through the service emergency exit toward the VIP underground parking lot.

He helped the boy into the passenger seat of his tinted-glass sports car. As he started the engine and pulled out onto the neon-lit streets, he glanced sideways at the dashboard screen. The phone wouldn't stop vibrating.

12 missed calls from Henrik Message from Henrik: Where the hell are you, Dorian? The press is asking and your glass is still on the table. Answer me!

Dorian grimaced before turning off the screen. He knew perfectly well that Henrik, his loyal assistant and lifelong friend, would make a monumental scandal of it the next day for having disappeared midway through the event without giving explanations. But at that moment, the alpha had no earthly idea where the boy lived or how to locate his relatives without causing a media uproar. The most sensible thing was to take him to his presidential suite.

Upon arriving at the exclusive apartment building where he was staying, Dorian pulled the car into the private garage and used the direct elevator. He led the boy to one of the guest bedrooms, decorated in neutral and sober tones. Gently—a gesture completely alien to his cold character—he laid him down on the bed with Egyptian cotton sheets.

"Stay here and don't move," Dorian said, though he knew the omega could barely hear him.

He quickly stepped out toward the master bathroom to search his personal medicine cabinet. As a dominant alpha from an influential family, he always traveled with highly effective concentrated suppressants for biological emergencies. He grabbed a glass of water and two pills for acute heat.

Returning to the bedroom, he approached the edge of the bed. The boy stirred weakly beneath the blankets, trapped in the suffocating heat of the process. Dorian leaned down, slipping an arm around his back to prop him up slightly.

"Swallow this." Dorian ordered with serene yet cutting firmness.

With forced patience, he placed the pills in his mouth and brought the glass to his lips, making sure he swallowed them completely to cut off the hormonal tide consuming him. Once the boy drank the water and rested his head back against the pillow, Dorian lingered for a few seconds watching him.

He raised his hand and, with the tips of his fingers, lightly touched his cheek, feeling the heat of the boy's skin.

"I have to think about how to explain this to him when he wakes up," Dorian mused, running a hand through his hair with some annoyance. "I cannot let him think I have any sentimental interest in him, much less that I took advantage of his state. I have a reputation to maintain."

"Hey omega, snap out of it." He crossed his arms and stood at the foot of the bed, waiting for the suppressant to take effect and for the omega to regain lucidity so he could clear things up with the coldness that always characterized him.

Dorian stepped back abruptly, as if the boy's skin had burned the tips of his fingers.

The warmth on the young waiter's cheek still lingered at the tips of his fingers, but what truly unseated him was the gulp of air he inhaled involuntarily: the sweet trail now mingled with the faint scent of the suppressant, penetrated straight into his lungs. For a terrifying second, Dorian's mind—ever calculating, logical, and dominant—was clouded by a primal urge. A sudden desire to lean closer, to inhale his neck, and to claim the fragile omega lying in his bed threatened to shatter the iron discipline he had cultivated all his life.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" he thought, feeling a dull throb echo in his temples.

Without losing another second, Dorian rushed out of the guest room. The sound of his hasty footsteps echoed down the hallway until he slammed the solid wood door shut and turned the key twice, locking the boy inside safely.

He quickened his pace toward the other wing of the suite until he locked himself in his personal music studio—a soundproof sanctuary surrounded by collectible guitars, keyboards, and a grand piano. He rested his hands on the mixing console, breathing heavily, his gaze lost on the floor. He was in shock. He was an alpha of noble birth, a man who had never allowed himself to be driven by animal instinct, someone who viewed heat and pheromones as a weakness he was far above.

"It's just biology... a simple momentary impulse," he said aloud, trying to convince himself as he poured a glass of water with slightly trembling hands. "He's a stranger. A waiter from a single night. Tomorrow, when the suppressant does its work, I'll give him some money for transport, make sure he doesn't talk to the press, and I'll never hear of him again in my life."

Attempting to push the image of the boy from his mind, he sat before the piano. He needed to burn off the strange energy coursing through his veins. He picked up a notepad and a pen. For hours, wrapped in the silence of the early morning beneath the dim light of the studio, words and notes began to flow onto the paper with a ease he hadn't experienced in years.

The next morning, the faint ray of dawn light barely filtered through the curtains. Dorian, exhausted yet with his mind still alert, suddenly heard the metallic click of a latch and the sound of a door bursting open in the main hallway.

He immediately stepped out of the studio, but only caught sight of the boy's swift silhouette rushing across the foyer, barefoot and in rumpled clothes, slamming the front door behind him with a crash that echoed through the entire apartment.

Dorian remained standing in the middle of the hallway, stunned. The omega's sudden flight left him deeply uneasy.

"Damn it..." he thought bitterly, running his hands over his face. If the boy had woken up confused, with hazy memory fragments from his heat, he could misinterpret absolutely everything. In the music industry and high society, a rumor or a false accusation from a vulnerable omega could turn into a media scandal capable of destroying his career and his family's name, no matter how powerful he was.

With tension knotting his shoulders, Dorian walked slowly back into his music studio to gather his things and plan his next move with Henrik. However, as he approached the desk, his gaze locked onto the sheet of paper he had written during the night.

They were full stanzas, verses steeped in a rawness, elegance, and vulnerability he had never before captured on his records. He had been in a severe creative block for over a year, unable to compose anything worthy of his high standards. And yet, that night, the subtle memory of the boy's presence and the faint trace of his scent had freed him completely, becoming an undeniable source of inspiration.

Dorian clenched his fists, observing the fresh ink on the page. Knowing that a simple unknown waiter, an omega he didn't even know, had managed to ignite his art and breach his iron control left him far more tense and disturbed than any threat of a scandal.

That same afternoon, the band's rehearsal studio was a pressure cooker of tension. The powerful speakers vibrated with the chords of the drums and bass, but the lead vocals just wouldn't click. Dorian, impeccably dressed in a black shirt with his hair slightly tousled, couldn't seem to hit the right pitch. He missed his cues, went slightly flat on the high notes, and forgot whole stanzas—something unthinkable for an artist of his stature and professional rigor.

The frustration in the room was palpable. The lead guitarist lowered his arms, bringing the music to a dead stop.

"Dorian? Are you alright, man?" the guitarist asked, exchanging worried glances with the rest of the band. "That's three songs in a row where you've gotten lost. That's so unlike you."

"I am perfectly fine. Let's repeat the bridge from the second verse," Dorian replied sharply, adjusting his microphone with cold detachment.

"Come on, Dorian, you look like you're on another planet," the bassist chimed in with a cheeky grin, leaning on his instrument. "Spill the tea... Did the great dominant alpha finally find someone to keep him up at night? Do you have a partner or what?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Dorian snapped, locking his icy gaze onto the musician and shutting him up instantly. "I don't have a partner, I have no interest in having one, and my personal life is none of your business. Focus on the music."

Though Dorian flatly denied it, his crew didn't seem entirely convinced. They exchanged whispers and knowing smiles; after all, for an alpha of his status, wealth, and looks, having someone by his side would have been the most natural thing in the world.

Hours later, the small arena where the night show was taking place thundered with the screams of thousands of fans. White and purple spotlights swept across the stage, shrouding Dorian in an almost mystical aura.

Midway through the third song, the block struck again. Dorian was distracted for a fraction of a second, his mind filled with hazy thoughts and the distant echo of that scent. He messed up the lyrics to an entire chorus, forcing the band to improvise a vamp. A confused murmur rippled through the crowd.

Frustrated, Dorian gripped the microphone stand and looked up toward the first few rows of the pit, searching for air.

And then he saw him.

Among the cheering, jumping crowd, bundled in an oversized hoodie with his eyes fixed on the stage, was the young omega. The very same waiter from the night before. Their eyes met amidst the maelstrom of lights and sound.

At that exact moment, it was as if a bolt of electricity shot down Dorian's spine. Something primal and intense awakened deep within his soul. The mental fog cleared in an instant, and a devouring wave of inspiration flooded him completely. Dorian smirked, gripped the microphone tightly, and began to sing with a power, passion, and flawless pitch that rattled the stadium walls. He sang as though the rest of the audience had dissolved, leaving only that boy in the crowd.

When the song ended, the ovation was deafening. Cheers echoed throughout the entire venue as the lights dimmed.

Yet the moment he stepped into the backstage dressing rooms, Dorian didn't stick around for his team's congratulations. He quickly pulled a black mask over his face, threw the hood of a athletic jacket over his head, and rushed out the back exit of the arena, bypassing security entirely.

"Dorian! Hey, wait up! Where are you going?" Henrik shouted from a distance, watching him disappear into the back corridors, but the alpha didn't stop.

Dorian rounded the outer fence of the arena, where the crowd of fans was beginning to disperse. His eyes scanned the area until he caught the silhouette of the young omega, walking at a hurried pace along the sidewalk of a side street.

Dorian lengthened his stride and, in a matter of seconds, cut off his path in the gloom of the street.

"Wait," Dorian said in his deep, commanding voice, softened by the mask yet still imposing. He looked intently at the boy. "Are you a fan of my music? Is that why you were at the concert? And more importantly... why the hell did you run out of my apartment like that this morning without saying a word?"

The boy took a step back, startled, his eyes wide as he recognized the alpha's voice and presence.

Before he could answer, rushed footsteps clattered against the pavement. Henrik rounded the corner, panting from the sprint, his tie undone.

"Dorian! Damn it, you can't just disappear like that right after a show! The press is outside and the team is..." Henrik froze dead in his tracks as he took in the scene. His gaze traveled from Dorian to the young waiter, and the tension in the air shifted as he registered the situation. "What on earth...? Dorian, who is he? Mind telling me what kind of relationship you have with this boy for you to go running out of the stadium after him?"

The omega clutched the straps of his backpack against his chest, visibly overwhelmed by Dorian's imposing presence and Henrik's agitated demands. The alpha's intense gaze, combined with the pressure of the moment, was too much for him; he took two steps back, seized the opportunity as a noisy group of fans exited the stadium to slip between them, and broke into a run down a side corridor until he vanished into the darkness of the avenue.

Dorian made a move to follow him, taking a step forward with his face tense and his fists clenched in pure frustration at seeing him slip away once again, but Henrik grabbed his arm firmly.

"Don't even think about it, Dorian!" Henrik declared in an authoritative tone, adjusting his glasses as he pulled him in the opposite direction. "There are cameras and press everywhere. If they catch you chasing a boy in public, no public relations department in the world will be able to save your career tomorrow. We are leaving. Now."

Reluctantly, Dorian allowed himself to be dragged toward the armored car waiting for them in the VIP area. Throughout the drive, the silence in the backseat was heavy. Dorian kept his eyes fixed on the window, his mind anchored to the faint trail of a scent that seemed to refuse to leave his senses.

The vehicle was not heading to Dorian's penthouse, but rather to the outskirts of the city, passing through the imposing wrought-iron gates of his family's ancestral mansion. The heads of the household had summoned him with utmost urgency to discuss family corporate matters.

Stepping into the majestic foyer of marble and walnut wood, Dorian was met by the dominant presence of his family, all gathered in the main library. The hierarchy of the family elders was overwhelming:

His parents: Two elderly purebred alphas of flawless, stern presence, pillars of one of the largest industrial fortunes in the country.

His older brother: A 40-year-old alpha, direct, cold, and Executive Vice President of the corporation, twelve years Dorian's senior.

His older sister: A 36-year-old alpha, analytical and Chief Financial Officer, eight years older than Dorian.

"You finally arrive, Dorian," his older brother said, adjusting his tie while reviewing a stack of contracts on the coffee table. "Father and the board want us to sign the restructuring of the entertainment division's shares before the stock market opens tomorrow."

While his parents and siblings debated numbers, investments, and company percentages, Dorian remained seated in a leather armchair, feigning attention to the executive conversation. At a moment when his sister was explaining a financial report, Dorian leaned subtly toward Henrik, who stood by his side as always, and spoke in an almost inaudible whisper:

"Get me everything on last night's waiter," Dorian murmured in a deep voice. "Absolutely everything. Name, age, where he lives, what he does."

Henrik looked at him out of the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow in clear surprise.

"The boy from the stadium?" Henrik whispered back, frowning. "Why do you want the file on a catering waiter, Dorian? You have corporate matters and a tour that..."

"I am not asking for your opinion, Henrik," Dorian interrupted with an icy, sharp look. "Find him. Now."

Henrik sighed and, reluctantly giving in, pulled out his work tablet and began typing swiftly, making confidential contact with the event agency that had hired the staff the previous night. Meanwhile, Dorian seamlessly rejoined the family meeting, offering his input with the confidence and elegance his parents expected of him, resolving the contract's pending points within minutes.

Once his siblings gathered their documents and his parents retired to their study, a relative silence fell over the library. Henrik approached Dorian, who was standing by the unlit fireplace.

"I have the full file now," Henrik said, showing him the tablet's screen.

Dorian turned around immediately. A spark of genuine curiosity—something completely unusual for him—glinted in his dark eyes as he stepped closer to examine the boy's details.

Henrik held the device back without handing it over just yet, looking at him with serious suspicion.

"Honestly, Dorian, I don't understand what is going on with you," the assistant said, crossing his arms. "You have never cared about anyone. You've had hundreds of high-society omegas trying to get your attention, and you don't even flinch. Why are you so desperate to know about this boy in particular? What on earth happened between you two last night for you to be acting like this?"

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