MR BETA

The clatter of mechanical keys echoed in the quiet corner of the editorial floor, rhythmic and rapid under the fluorescent lights. On the screen, glowing text marched across specialized manuscript software, fueled by sheer creative caffeine.

"The Alpha’s gaze cut through the crowded room like a physical blade," the writer whispered, fingers flying without pause. "His scent—a suffocating mix of cedarwood and pure dominance—made every Omega in a five-mile radius tremble..."

A broad shadow fell over the desk, instantly blocking out the ceiling lights.

"Are the quarter-three marketing drafts ready?"

The laptop lid slammed shut with a crack that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. Towering above the desk stood the new Editor-in-Chief. Perfectly tailored suit, razor-sharp jawline, and smelling—disastrously—faintly of dark cedarwood.

Mr. Yolka narrowed his dark eyes, casting a lingering glance at the closed laptop before taking in the writer's flushed face.

"You seem flushed for someone just checking grammar," he noted coolly, adjusting his cuffs. "Don't overwork yourself. I need your mind sharp."

He turned on his heel and walked toward the executive corner. The moment his office door clicked shut, a long, ragged breath was finally released.

The laptop screen lifted once more. A smirk tugged at the writer's lips.

"Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Thank you for the dialogue, Boss."

Keys clicked again, adding a fresh line to the running tally: "The Alpha smirked, fully aware of the effect he had on the room."

Two weeks later, a torrential storm rattled the floor-to-ceiling windows of the conference room. Heavy rain swept against the glass as the rest of the team filed out for the evening, leaving only two people left under the harsh overhead track lighting to finish a late-night project review.

Yolka casually swiped through a shared corporate tablet, his dark brow furrowed.

"The formatting on the latest press release is messy," he murmured, scrolling. "Let me open the shared drive folder..."

The room seemed to drop ten degrees in an instant as Yolka navigated through the directory. The personal writing folder—the secret vault containing weeks of web novel drafts—had been automatically backed up to the corporate cloud drive during the morning's cloud sync.

Yolka paused mid-swipe, his index finger hovering an inch above the glass. He leaned back slightly, a look of quiet amusement flickering across his sharp features.

"Malware? On a secure corporate network?" he asked smoothly, a faint smirk touching his lips. "Let's take a look."

He tapped the screen. The directory expanded in an instant. Sitting right at the top of the file hierarchy, glaring and undeniable, was a file titled: “The Alpha Boss's Hidden Desires - Chapter 12.docx”.

Yolka blinked once. Twice. He read the file name aloud, his tone deadpan and steady.

"'The Alpha Boss's Hidden Desires'? What is this?"

Yolka effortlessly stepped backward, relying on raw Alpha reflexes to lift the tablet far out of reach. He flicked his gaze across the open document, a low chuckle escaping his chest as he began to read the text off the screen with theatrical precision.

"'Sit down,' Yolka commanded, his voice dropping an octave as he pinned the Beta against the mahogany desk..."

He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes drifted slowly from the tablet screen to the polished mahogany desk in the center of the room, and then directly into pair of wide, horrified eyes.

"It’s a work of fiction!" the writer stammered out, voice cracking in desperation. "Purely coincidental names! There are many Yolkas in the world!"

Yolka took a slow, deliberate step forward, his voice dropping into that exact low octave. "Oh, really? Does the fictional Yolka also have a silver watch on his left wrist and a habit of drinking double-shot espressos at 9:00 AM?"

Step by step, the distance closed until back hit the heavy wood of the office door. Yolka followed without breaking eye contact, planting one heavy hand flat against the door panel right next to the writer's head, effectively trapping them in the shadow of his frame.

"You've been studying me," Yolka murmured, leaning in just close enough for the cedarwood scent to wrap around the air. "Quite thoroughly, it seems."

The silence in the office hung heavy enough to suffocate, broken only by the distant drum of rain against the pane. Termination, blacklisting, corporate scandal—every worst-case scenario flashed in rapid succession.

Then Yolka let out a soft, deep laugh.

He pushed off the door, stepping back and slipping his hands into his trouser pockets.

"You know..." Yolka began softly, trailing off as he walked back to his desk. "Your pacing is excellent. The tension is well-built. But your understanding of how an Alpha actually acts in private? It's a bit inaccurate."

Yolka picked up a sleek metal pen from his desk, scribbled a series of digits onto a bright yellow sticky note, and peeled it off. He extended it outward. It was his personal phone number.

"If you want this web novel to be a bestseller, you need accurate research," Yolka said smoothly.

A textbook Alpha smile curved his lips—charming, dangerous, and completely in control.

"Dinner this Friday. You can interview me. Consider it an exclusive partnership for your creative writing. But under one condition."

Yolka leaned his hips against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms.

"I get to proofread every chapter before you publish it online. Especially the parts involving... the mahogany desk."

Looking down at the bright yellow square of paper, then back up at the Editor-in-Chief, the reality set in. The secret hobby had just crossed the line into something far more real—and infinitely more perilous.