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The gilded cage descended from the ceiling with a whisper.
Max Verstappen had come to this auction for a set of rare titanium connecting rods, wearing a plain black suit, and telling no one where he was going. The venue was a converted theatre in Monaco’s industrial district, its red velvet seats filled with wealthy Alphas in custom suits and silk masks, the air thick with expensive cologne and a sweet, chemical tang that itched the back of his throat.
The auctioneer, a gaunt Beta with silver hair, stood beneath a single spotlight. “Our final lot of the evening requires special presentation.”
The cage stopped six feet above the stage, inside which a figure knelt on a black velvet cushion, white silk draped over his shoulders and tied at the waist with a gold cord, his head bowed, dark curls falling forward to hide his face, and a leather collar studded with tiny sapphires around his throat that caught the light with every shift of his weight.
Max’s hands went cold.
“Lot forty-seven,” the auctioneer said. “A premium omega companion, certified unscented and unmarked. Full medical evaluation available upon request. Bidding begins at fifty thousand euros.”
The figure in the cage lifted his head.
Max forgot how to breathe.
Green eyes, that specific shade like sea glass heated by the sun, a face that had haunted Max’s teenage years first as rivalry, then as a ghost story whispered in the paddock: Charles Leclerc, the boy who had beaten him in junior karting championship, the boy who had vanished from the sport without explanation, the boy now kneeling in a cage, wearing a collar, being sold to the highest bidder.
Charles’s gaze swept across the audience with practiced emptiness, and when his eyes met Max’s, something flickered—recognition, a tensing of his jaw—before his expression smoothed back into that terrible blankness, like a curtain falling over a window.
Panic hit Max in the chest.
“Fifty-five,” someone called from the back.
“Sixty.”
“Sixty-five.”
Max’s mouth opened. “One million.”
The room went quiet, heads turning, the auctioneer’s eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “Sir, the minimum increment is five thousand.”
“I am aware.” Max’s voice came out steady, his hands shaking under the table. “One million euros. For the full package.”
Charles’s eyes widened, his lips parting slightly to reveal the quick flash of his tongue wetting them, that nervous habit from childhood, the one Charles used to do before a race start.
The auctioneer cleared his throat. “One million euros, going once. Going twice.” The gavel struck. “Sold to bidder forty-two. Please proceed to the payment chamber to complete your transaction.”
Max stood up, his legs feeling disconnected from his brain, as a handler appeared at his elbow—a large Beta in a black jumpsuit—and guided him through a side door into a corridor painted deep burgundy. The payment chamber was small, holding a desk, a terminal, and a contract printed on heavy paper.
“Name for the certificate?” the clerk asked.
“Max Verstappen.”
The clerk’s stylus paused, recognition dawning in his eyes before he looked down again and processed the payment without another word.
The handler handed Max a key card. “Room seven. The companion will be delivered within the hour. Use this card to access the private suite. All standard services are included in your package. Additional requests can be negotiated directly with the companion.”
Max took the card, his fingers brushing the handler’s, and he felt a faint electric charge from the Beta’s suppressant patch working overtime.
The suite was on the top floor of an adjacent building, connected by a secured walkway, and Max entered alone to find the room decorated in muted grays: a king bed, a sitting area, a minibar stocked with champagne and omega supplements, and a door on the far wall leading to a bathroom with a sunken tub.
He sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
The door opened without a knock.
Charles entered, still wearing the white silk and the sapphire collar, his feet bare, walking to the center of the room and stopping with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfect—shoulders back, chin level—the posture of someone who had been trained.
“Good evening, sir,” Charles said, his voice soft and carefully modulated. “Thank you for your purchase. I am here to fulfill any service you require within the terms of my contract.”
Max stared at him, and up close, Charles looked thinner than he remembered, his sharp cheekbones even sharper, a faded bruise half-hidden by his hair behind his left ear, his scent entirely absent, blocked by suppressants so strong that Max’s nose could only detect the faint chemical tang of the drugs themselves.
“Charles,” Max said.
Charles’s composure cracked just a hair, his eyes flickering, his lower lip trembling before he caught it. “Sir?”
“It’s me. Max.”
“I know who you are, sir.”
“Stop calling me sir.”
Charles’s jaw tightened, and he looked at the wall behind Max’s shoulder. “I have to. It is in the contract.”
Max stood up slowly, and Charles took a step back before stopping himself, forcing his body still, an automatic flinch from someone who had learned to expect violence.
Max held up his hands, palms open. “I am not going to hurt you.”
“That remains to be seen, sir.”
“I bought you because I recognized you.”
Something broke in Charles’s face, not the composure that stayed in place, but something behind his eyes, a wall cracking. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you paid one million euros to have your old rival as a whore?”
The word landed like a slap, Max feeling it in his chest.
“I did not think of it that way,” Max said quietly.
“How did you think of it?” Charles’s voice rose, then dropped as his training reasserted itself. “I apologize. That was inappropriate. Please tell me what service you require.”
“I require you to sit down and talk to me.”
Charles stared at him, the silence stretching.
“That is not a listed service,” Charles finally said.
“I am the client. I am requesting a custom service.”
Charles’s lips pressed together, and he walked to the armchair by the window, perching on the edge of the cushion, his hands staying on his knees with fingers spread in a deliberate position that showed he had no weapons, no hidden objects.
Max sat back on the bed, leaving distance between them.
“How long?” Max asked.
“How long what, sir?”
“How long have you been in this?”
Charles looked at the ceiling. “Three years. Four months. Twelve days.”
The precision broke Max’s heart. “How did it happen?”
“I opened a gelato shop in Nice. It was doing well. Then a group of men came in one evening. They were Alphas. They said I smelled too sweet, that I was disrupting their dining experience.” Charles’s voice was flat, reciting facts. “I told them to leave. They did not appreciate that. One of them grabbed me. I tried to fight, but I had just presented as an omega three months prior. My body was still adjusting. I was not strong enough.”
Max’s hands curled into fists. “They took you.”
“They sold me to a trafficking ring within forty-eight hours. I was shipped to a training facility in Italy. Once I was broken, they brought me to the auction circuit.” Charles paused. “I have been sold seven times prior to tonight.”
Seven times, and Max felt sick. “What happened to those buyers?”
“Some kept me for a few weeks. Some traded me back for upgrades. One gave me as a gift to his business partner, who was gentler than the rest but still saw me as property.” Charles’s voice caught. “I am telling you this so you know what you have purchased. I am used. I have been used many times. If you expected something pristine, you will be disappointed.”
“I did not expect anything,” Max said. “I saw you in that cage and I bid.”
“Why?”
The question was simple, and Max answered it simply. “Because you were my friend.”
Charles’s expression crumpled, and he covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking, Max realizing he had learned to cry silently, another piece of training.
Max stayed where he was, wanting to cross the room, to touch Charles’s shoulder, to offer comfort, but knowing that touch might be misinterpreted, so he waited.
After a long minute, Charles lowered his hands, his eyes red but his face recomposed. “I apologize for that display.”
“Do not apologize.”
“It is in the contract. Companions must maintain composure at all times unless specifically directed to display emotion for the client’s enjoyment.”
“I am voiding that clause.”
Charles blinked. “You cannot void contract clauses, sir. The contract is legally binding and was signed by all parties prior to transfer of ownership.”
Max stood up and walked to the desk where the contract lay, picking it up and reading through the brutal language that listed Charles’s body as an asset, categorized his allowable services, and set limits on what a client could demand, his own signature staring back at him along with Charles’s thumbprint.
“I can tear this up,” Max said.
“It would not change the bond. The bond is registered with the state. Even if you destroy the physical document, the ownership record remains in the central database.”
Max set the contract down. “Then I will hire a lawyer. I will have the bond dissolved.”
Charles let out a short, bitter laugh. “You cannot dissolve an omega bond. It is permanent unless the owner dies or willingly transfers ownership to another party.”
“Then I will transfer it to you.”
“An omega cannot own themselves under the law. That is the point of being an omega.”
Max had known this, everyone had known this, the laws in place for generations, but knowing it intellectually and confronting it in the face of someone he cared about were different things.
“I am sorry,” Max said.
Charles looked at him with those green eyes. “For what?”
“For every time I did not wonder what happened to you. For every race I won that you should have been in. For the world that did this to you.”
Charles’s composure broke again, this time he let out a sob, just one, then clamped his hand over his mouth and rocked forward, pressing his forehead to his knees.
Max turned away, walking to the minibar and pouring two glasses of water, and when he turned back, Charles had straightened up again, his hand still over his mouth.
Max set one glass on the table beside the armchair. “Drink.”
Charles looked at the glass. “I am not allowed to accept items without explicit permission.”
“You have explicit permission. Drink the water.”
Charles picked up the glass, his hands trembling as he brought it to his lips, taking a small sip then a larger one, finishing the glass and setting it down.
“When was the last time you ate?” Max asked.
“This morning. A nutrient bar.”
“I will order food.”
“You do not have to.”
“I want to.”
Max picked up the room phone and ordered from the hotel menu: pasta, vegetables, bread, dessert, enough for two people, not asking Charles what he wanted because Charles would say he wanted nothing, so he ordered what he remembered Charles liking as a teenager—carbonara, grilled zucchini, tiramisu.
When the food arrived, Charles stared at it.
“I remember you always ordered carbonara at the restaurant near the Valencia circuit,” Max said. “Before the junior finals.”
Charles’s eyes glistened. “You remember that.”
“I remember a lot.”
They ate in silence, Charles’s table manners immaculate, each bite measured and precise, the training again, while Max ate slowly, watching Charles, trying to see the boy he had known beneath the surface.
After the meal, Charles set down his fork. “I need to ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“What do you plan to do with me?”
Max considered his answer carefully. “I plan to keep you safe. I plan to help you find a way out of this. And I plan to never touch you unless you ask me to.”
Charles’s expression was unreadable. “That is a generous plan.”
“It is the only plan I have.”
“And if I never ask you to touch me?”
“Then we will sit in this room until the laws change. Or until we find another option.”
Charles looked down at his hands. “I have been trained to satisfy you. If I do not perform my services, I will be deemed defective. Defective omegas are sent to reconditioning facilities.”
“I will not report you as defective.”
“The facility monitors the bonds. They will know if I am not fulfilling my function.”
Max’s stomach turned. “What function?”
Charles met his eyes. “Sexual. Domestic. Emotional. Whatever the client desires. If the bond shows no activity for extended periods, an automatic review is triggered.”
“How extended?”
“Thirty days.”
Max calculated, he had thirty days to figure something out. “Then we will make it look active without actually doing anything.”
Charles let out a soft sound, almost a laugh. “You think that is possible?”
“I think we can try.”
Charles stood up, walking to the window and looking out at the Monaco skyline, the lights of the city glittering below. “You have changed, Max. You were always competitive, always hungry. But you were never cruel. I am glad that part of you survived.”
“I could say the same about you.”
Charles turned, his silhouette outlined against the glass. “The part of me that was your rival is gone. That boy died in a warehouse in Italy when they forced me to my knees and branded me with a number.”
Max’s throat tightened. “I am sorry.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep meaning it.”
Charles walked back to the armchair, sitting down and folding his hands. “If we are to make this look active, we will need to establish certain protocols. I will need to scent the room. I will need to leave traces of my presence in your space. I will need to touch you occasionally, for the bond sensors to register skin contact.”
“Is that acceptable to you?”
Charles considered the question. “It is acceptable if you set the boundaries.”
“Then we start small. Handshakes. Shoulder touches. Nothing more without discussion.”
Charles nodded. “I can work with that.”
They sat in silence, Max watching the clock on the wall tick past midnight, the adrenaline of the auction faded, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
“You should sleep,” Max said.
“I am not permitted to sleep before my owner.”
“I am permitting it. Take the bed.”
Charles’s eyes widened. “Where will you sleep?”
“I will take the couch.”
“That is improper. I am the companion. I should sleep on the floor.”
Max stood up. “I am going to take a shower. When I come out, I expect to see you in the bed. That is an order.”
Charles opened his mouth, then closed it. “Yes, sir.”
The shower was hot, Max standing under the spray and pressing his palms against the tile, his mind racing: Charles Leclerc, the ghost of his childhood now his property, the absurdity of it twisting in his chest.
He stayed under the water until it ran cold, and when he emerged, wrapped in a hotel robe, Charles was in the bed, lying on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The white silk had been folded and placed on the armchair, Charles wearing a simple cotton shirt and shorts provided by the hotel.
Max dried his hair with a towel and walked to the couch, wide enough to sleep on but not long enough for his frame.
“Max,” Charles said.
Max looked up.
“Thank you,” Charles said. “For not treating me like the others.”
“You do not have to thank me for basic decency.”
“It is not basic. Not in this world.”
Max lay down on the couch, the cushions too soft, staring at the dark ceiling and listening to Charles’s breathing, shallow at first, then deepening as sleep took hold.
In the morning, Max woke to the smell of coffee, Charles standing at the minibar pouring a cup, having dressed back in the white silk but with the collar gone.
“I took it off,” Charles said, noticing Max’s gaze. “The contract states the collar is optional during private sessions.”
“Good. Keep it off.”
Charles brought Max a cup of coffee, black, no sugar.
They drank their coffee in silence, the morning light filtering through the curtains.
“I have a race next week,” Max said. “In Belgium. I want you to come with me.”
Charles’s hands tightened on his cup. “I am not allowed in public events. I do not have documentation.”
“I will arrange documentation. I am Max Verstappen. I have resources.”
“If I am seen, people will ask questions.”
“Let them ask.”
Charles set down his cup. “Max, I cannot be seen as your companion. It will damage your reputation. An omega belonging to a top-tier athlete, that is a scandal waiting to happen.”
“I do not care about my reputation.”
“You should.”
“I care about you.”
Charles’s composure cracked, his eyes filling with tears, and he turned away quickly, pressing his hand to his mouth.
Max stood up, crossing the room and stopping behind Charles, close enough to feel the warmth of his body, not touching him.
“I am going to get you out of this,” Max said. “I do not know how yet. But I will find a way.”
“And until then?” Charles’s voice was thick.
“Until then, you stay with me. You are not a companion. You are a guest.”
Charles turned, his face wet. “I do not know how to be a guest. I have been property for three years.”
“Then we will learn together.”
Charles let out a shaky breath. “You are making this very hard for me.”
“I know.”
“I spent years training myself to feel nothing. To survive. And you are undoing all of it in one night.”
“I am sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
Max held his gaze. “What do you want me to do?”
Charles looked at him for a long moment, then stepped forward and pressed his forehead against Max’s shoulder, the contact light, barely there, the first voluntary touch Charles had initiated.
Max stayed still, not wrapping his arms around Charles, not moving, letting Charles control the contact.
Charles’s shoulders shook, silent tears soaking into Max’s shirt, and after a minute, Charles pulled back, his eyes red but his expression steadied.
“I want to go to Belgium with you,” Charles said.
Max nodded. “Then we go to Belgium.”
Max called his lawyer, a Beta woman named Helena who specialized in omega rights cases, who met them at Max’s apartment in Monte Carlo, a penthouse overlooking the harbor.
Helena reviewed the contract with a grim expression. “This is ironclad under current law. The only way to dissolve the bond is to prove fraud in the original transfer of ownership. Do you have evidence that Charles was trafficked?”
“I was taken from my shop,” Charles said. “There are security cameras. The police report from Nice.”
“The police report will list you as a missing person, not a trafficking victim. Omega disappearances are rarely investigated as crimes.”
Charles’s hands twisted in his lap, Max reaching over and taking one, the contact brief but steadying.
“What about challenging the law itself?” Max asked.
Helena shook her head. “That would take years. Constitutional challenges to the omega property statutes have failed for decades. The courts are stacked with Alpha judges who benefit from the system.”
“There has to be something.”
“There is one option.” Helena paused. “If you marry Charles, the ownership bond is superseded by the marriage bond. Marriage grants certain legal protections to omega partners. It is not a complete freedom, but it removes him from the commodity market.”
Charles’s head snapped up. “Marriage?”
“It is a legal loophole. Several omegas have used it to escape the auction circuit. The catch is that marriage to an omega comes with heavy financial penalties and social stigma. You would face fines from the racing federation. Your sponsors might drop you.”
“I do not care,” Max said.
“You should,” Charles said. “Your career. Your legacy.”
“My legacy means nothing if I let you rot.”
Helena looked between them. “I will draw up the papers. You have until the end of the thirty-day review period to decide.”
After she left, Charles stood by the window and stared at the sea.
“You do not have to marry me,” Charles said. “I can survive the reconditioning. I have survived worse.”
“I am not letting you go back to that.”
“Max, think about what you are offering. A lifetime tied to an omega. No children without state approval. Constant monitoring. The press will destroy you.”
“Let them try.”
Charles turned, his green eyes fierce. “Why are you doing this? We were rivals. We were not even close friends. We competed against each other. That was the extent of our relationship.”
“It was not,” Max said. “I looked up to you. I wanted to beat you because you were the best. When you disappeared, I searched for you. I asked everyone. No one would tell me what happened. I spent years wondering if you were dead.”
Charles’s expression softened. “You searched for me?”
“I called your family. They said you had moved and did not leave a forwarding address. They sounded ashamed. I did not understand why until now.”
“My family disowned me when I presented as an omega. ”
Max’s hands curled into fists. “They are wrong.”
“They are products of their culture.”
“Culture can change.”
Charles walked to Max and stopped a foot away. “If we do this, if we marry, you will be tied to me forever.”
“I know.”
“You will not be able to take another partner. You will not be able to compete freely. Your life will be constrained.”
“I know.”
Charles searched his face. “Why do you look like you are offering me a gift?”
Max smiled, a small, sad smile. “Because I am getting you back.”
Charles’s composure shattered, and he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Max’s neck, holding on tight, his body shaking.
Max held him back, gently, carefully, his hands resting on Charles’s waist, light, giving Charles the power to break the embrace.
“I am so tired,” Charles whispered. “I am so tired of being strong.”
“Then rest,” Max said. “I will be strong for both of us.”
Charles pulled back, his eyes wet but smiling, the first real smile Max had seen from him.
“I remember you in Valencia,” Charles said. “You crashed in qualifying and still finished second. You were so angry. You threw your helmet.”
Max laughed. “I remember. I was angry because you won.”
“I always won.”
“Not always.”
Charles’s smile widened, lighting up his face, making him look younger, closer to the boy Max remembered.
“Marry me,” Max said.
Charles’s breath caught. “That is not a romantic proposal.”
“I am not a romantic person. But I mean it. Marry me, Charles. Let me give you back your life.”
Charles looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.
“Yes,” Charles said. “Yes, I will marry you.”
Max did not kiss him, wanting to but holding back, instead taking Charles’s hand and squeezing it.
“We will figure the rest out together,” Max said.
Charles leaned his head against Max’s shoulder. “Together.”
The wedding was small, Helena arranging everything through a private registry, no press, no guests, just Max and Charles in a government office, signing papers under fluorescent lights.
The clerk, a bored Beta woman, stamped the documents without ceremony. “Congratulations. You are now legally mated. Please report to the health office within thirty days for your mandatory compatibility screening.”
Charles’s hand tightened around Max’s, the compatibility screening a genetic test to determine if their pairing was suitable for reproduction, requiring treatment or penalties if not.
“We will handle it,” Max said quietly.
Charles nodded.
They walked out of the office into the Monaco sunshine, the air warm, Charles squinting up at the sky.
“I am free,” he said, as if testing the words.
“Legally, you have more rights now. Not complete freedom. But more.”
“More is enough for now.”
Max drove them back to his apartment, Charles sitting in the passenger seat, his hand resting on the window, looking lighter, the tension in his shoulders eased.
That night, they sat on the balcony and watched the stars.
“I do not know how to be a husband,” Charles said.
“Neither do I.”
“We will be terrible together.”
“Terrible but determined.”
Charles laughed, the sound genuine. “I missed this.”
“Missed what?”
“Being able to laugh without permission.”
Max’s chest ached. “You never need permission to laugh. Not with me.”
Charles turned to look at him, the moonlight catching his eyes. “Max.”
“Yes.”
“I want to kiss you.”
Max’s heart stopped. “Are you sure?”
“I have not wanted to kiss anyone in three years. I did not think I would ever want to again. But I want to kiss you.”
Max leaned in slowly, giving Charles time to pull away, and when Charles did not move, Max pressed his lips to Charles’s forehead, gentle and chaste.
Charles let out a shaky breath. “That was not what I meant.”
“I know. But I want to take this slow. You have been through enough. I do not want to rush you into something you are not ready for.”
Charles reached up and touched Max’s face, his fingers tracing the line of Max’s jaw. “I am ready for this.”
“Are you?”
Charles met his eyes. “I trust you.”
Those three words meant more to Max than any championship.
He kissed Charles properly, soft at first, questioning, Charles responding, his lips parting, his hand sliding into Max’s hair, the kiss deepening, Max tasting salt, Charles’s tears, and something sweet beneath the suppressants.
Charles broke the kiss, his breathing uneven. “I want more.”
“What do you want?”
“You. All of you.”
Max searched his face. “I need you to be certain.”
“I am certain.”
Max took Charles’s hand and led him inside, the bedroom dark, Max turning on a single lamp to cast warm shadows across the walls.
Charles stood beside the bed, his hands shaking.
“We can stop at any time,” Max said. “If you feel uncomfortable, if you want to pause, we stop.”
“I know.”
“I mean it, Charles. Any time.”
“I know.”
Charles unbuttoned his shirt with deliberate care, his body lean, marked with faint scars: a line across his ribs, a burn mark on his shoulder, Max’s stomach twisting at the evidence of past cruelty.
Max reached out and touched the scar on Charles’s ribs. “Who did this?”
“The first owner. He was angry that I fought back.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “I will kill him.”
“He is already dead. A deal gone wrong. The trafficking ring cleans up its own messes.”
Max pulled Charles into his arms, holding him close, pressing his lips to the scar.
“I wish I could have protected you,” Max murmured.
“You are protecting me now. That is what matters.”
They lay down on the bed, Max propping himself on his elbow, looking at Charles in the lamplight, Charles looking back with steady green eyes.
“Tell me what you want,” Max said.
“I want to feel good,” Charles said. “I have not felt good in a long time.”
Max leaned down and kissed him again, his hand traveling down Charles’s chest, over his stomach, to the waistband of his pants, pausing.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
Max eased the pants down, Charles’s body fully exposed, his thighs strong, his hips narrow, between his legs the soft curve of his vulva, the slick evidence of his arousal.
Max’s breath caught. “You are beautiful.”
Charles’s cheeks flushed. “I am not.”
“You are.”
Max lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the inside of Charles’s thigh, Charles’s body jerking, his hand fisting in the sheets.
Max kissed higher, trailing his lips along the sensitive skin, and when he reached the center, he paused.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I do not want you to stop.”
Max pressed his mouth to Charles’s vulva, licking slowly, tasting the omega’s slick, Charles’s body trembling.
Max looked up. “Please what?”
“I need you inside me.”
Max rose up, shedding his own clothes quickly, his cock hard, glistening with precome, positioning himself above Charles.
Max entered him slowly, Charles’s body accepting him, hot and tight, both of them groaning, Max pausing to give Charles time to adjust.
“Move,” Charles whispered.
Max moved, his thrusts slow and measured, each one pushing deeper, Charles wrapping his legs around Max’s waist, pulling him closer.
The rhythm built, sweat slicking their skin, Charles’s nails digging into Max’s shoulders.
Max pressed his forehead to Charles’s, their breaths mingling. “You are safe,” Max whispered. “You are with me. You are safe.”
Charles’s eyes filled with tears, his orgasm hitting him suddenly, his body clenching around Max, the sensation pulling Max over the edge, coming with a groan, burying his face in Charles’s neck.
They lay still, Max’s weight pressing Charles into the mattress, the sweat cooling on their skin.
Charles was crying, silent tears streaming down his face.
“Was that okay?” Max asked.
Charles laughed through his tears. “That was better than okay.”
“Why are you crying?”
“Because I forgot what it felt like to want something. To want someone. For three years, every touch was a transaction. Every kiss was a payment. And this, with you, was the first time I felt like a person.”
Max wiped Charles’s tears with his thumb. “You are a person. You have always been a person. The world forgot. I did not.”
Charles pulled Max down and kissed him, the kiss salt and sweat and hope.
“I love you,” Charles said. “I know it is fast. I know it is probably absurd. But I love you.”
Max smiled against his lips. “I love you too.”
They stayed tangled together as the night deepened, the lamp casting its warm glow, the world outside continuing.
“What happens tomorrow?” Charles asked.
“Tomorrow, we go to the health office. We pass the compatibility screening. Then we figure out the rest.”
“And the racing federation?”
“I will deal with the federation. Let them fine me. Let them suspend me. I do not care.”
Charles propped himself up on his elbow. “You care about racing. It is your life.”
“You are my life now.”
Charles shook his head. “Do not give up your career for me.”
“I am not giving it up. I am reprioritizing.”
Charles looked at him for a long moment. “You are impossible.”
“I am determined.”
Charles lay back down. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not treating me like property. For seeing me as a person. For remembering the boy I used to be.”
Max pressed a kiss to Charles’s hair. “I will always remember that boy. And I will help you find him again.”
“He is already coming back.”
“Good.”
Charles closed his eyes. “I want to go back to racing.”
“Then we will find a way.”
“Omegas are not allowed to compete.”
“Then we will change the rules.”
Charles’s eyes opened. “Do you really think we can?”
Max looked at him. “I think if anyone can, it is you.”
The next day, they went to the health office, the compatibility screening a simple blood test, the results coming in two weeks.
As they walked out, Charles stopped on the steps, the sunlight hitting his face.
“I want to open another gelato shop,” Charles said.
Max raised an eyebrow. “Another one?”
“The first one was taken from me. I want to build a new one. Here, in Monaco.”
“Then we will build one.”
Charles smiled. “You keep saying we.”
“Because it is we now. You and me. Together.”
Charles took Max’s hand. “Together.”
They walked down the steps into the crowded street, people passing without looking twice, just two men, holding hands, walking into the future.
It was not a perfect world, Charles still an omega bound by laws that limited his rights, Max still an Alpha burdened by the privileges and responsibilities of his designation, the system still pressing down on them.
But they were together.
And together, they would fight.
“I am hungry,” Charles said.
Max laughed. “What do you want to eat?”
“Carbonara.”
“There is a place around the corner.”
They walked, the sun warm, Charles’s hand steady in Max’s.
“Thank you,” Charles said again, softly.
“For what this time?”
“For buying me.”
Max squeezed his hand. “Best million I ever spent.”