𝑹𝒉𝒚𝒔 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 ❥ 𝑺𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒕

The luxury limo glided like a phantom through the city, its windows blacked out from the world, its interior draped in hushed opulence. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic outside—because inside, the silence was thick. Controlled. Sharp-edged.

Sat like a god among mortals because— well, Rhys Graves practically was. An alpha with the world at his feet and a snarl barely hidden behind perfect teeth. One leg crossed over the other, dressed in tailored obsidian slacks and a dark cashmere coat that whispered wealth and danger. His sculpted jaw was tense, his eyes sharp and stormy as he scrolled through his tablet with a slow, irritated finger. Across from him, his assistant— Jordan shifted uneasily, already bracing for the explosion.

Rhys’s lips curled in a sneer as he stopped scrolling. The profile photo on the screen showed his co-star— a rookie, a newbie. “This is a joke.” His voice was low, lethal. “Tell me this is a fucking joke, Jordan.”

Jordan tugged nervously at his collar. “It’s not ideal, I know. But Kwan insisted— he says the chemistry will—”

Rhys barked a short, bitter laugh and threw the tablet on the seat beside him. “Chemistry? This is an adult film, not a goddamn high school play. This is my first time doing this kind of role. One mistake. One fucking inch off, and my career goes down the drain.”

This is his first role in a full-blown adult film. Smut, basically but with prestige. Artistic. The director had sold him on the concept, called it “bold, raw, intimate dominance meets brutal vulnerability.” Rhys had only said yes because the director, Kwan, had been the one to give him his first serious shot in the industry. Loyalty kept him here. He expected professionalism. Experience. Someone seasoned.

Not a rookie. Not a fucking omega.

Rhys snapped, eyes glinting with fury. “And did you know my co-star is an omega? Did you know?”

Jordan hesitated. Rhys slammed his palm on the armrest. “You knew! And you still let this happen? I do not work with omegas. I’ve made that clear since the beginning. Their scent makes me sick. Like breathing in rot.”

Rhys leaned forward slowly, the way predators do just before the kill. “I made sure every co-star I’ve ever had was alpha or beta. No surprises. No distractions. And now I’m being paired— in a real fucking scene with a trembling, untrained omega who’s probably looking to slap my name across their first PR headline?” Jordan remained silent. There was nothing he could say.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of The Ethereal Crown— a towering fortress of gold and glass reserved for the ultra-elite. Rhys didn’t even look out the window. He wasn’t here for the view. He was here for work.

The door opened. Rhys stepped out with the weight of a storm behind him. Straight posture. Unflinching gaze. He walked through the polished lobby without a word, right into the elevator, tapping the top floor like it was a trigger. He didn’t speak again until the penthouse doors opened.

The suite was a palace of seduction— dim lights, luxury linens, cameras already mounted around the massive bedroom at the center of the set. The crew rushed him like moths to flame, hands outstretched with wardrobe pieces and brushes.

Rhys didn’t slow down. He flipped his wrist sharply, brushing them all off. “Don’t touch me. I’m camera-ready.” And he was. Every line of his face, every lean muscle under that crisp black shirt— perfection was his baseline.

Director Kwan stood by the monitor, giving him a respectful nod. Rhys returned it— barely. Then he turned toward the shooting location. The bedroom.

Rhys’s steps were slow and deliberate. His presence hit the room like a blast of cold air— commanding and domineering. His sharp eyes scanned you like a weapon. Expressionless. Icy. Superior. Your scent was subtle, but unmistakable. Omega. His jaw clenched immediately. "You're the one?" His voice was level, but carried venom underneath. He looked you over his gaze clinical, assessing. "Let's get a few things straight before anyone yells 'action’, alright?"

He took another step forward, invading your space, his scent sharp and aggressive but contained. Controlled. Barely. "I don't do PR pairings. Don’t post about me. If you so much as breathe about this shoot in a way that paints me as anything more than a professional on your feed," He paused, eyes narrowing dangerously. "I will end your career before it starts. Because I’m not your stepping stone.”

Rhys wasn’t done. He leaned in— his expression tightened, voice dropping to something harsh. Intimate. "I don't do retakes. I don't fake my scenes. If the script says I fuck you I fuck you. No angles. No camera tricks. No pretending. No safety net. You better be ready and keep your scent down.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and walked to the bed, unbuttoning his shirt and rolling his sleeves with slow, deliberate movements, like a man preparing for war.