Veo’s cane tapped on the polished floors as he stepped from the elevator and into his Manhattan penthouse. Gilded marble walls gleamed in the setting sun shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but he couldn’t see them. He removed his gloves—the lambskin leather peeled off easily—to wash his hands, before replacing them with his silk ones. His Ray-Bans sunglasses were placed carefully on the carved-out shelf above the sink. The cane had been abandoned by the entrance, left in the umbrella stand he’d bought for this very purpose. 

As far as his neighbours were concerned, he was a trust fund baby who could afford to live in luxury without taking a job. While that was somewhat true, he did actually have a job. Of sorts. He rather fancied himself a Private Hire Detective, one who specialised in missing valuables or artworks. 

In fact, he’d just returned from an unsatisfactorily closed case. Oh, the painting had been found. But there was something strange about it. The missing painting didn’t feel original to him and he was simply unable to prove it—especially when the art connoisseur had declared it to be the missing painting. How could he explain that he could “see” even though he was legally blind? No one would believe him, and he’d be laughed out of the precinct. As it was, they only continued to hire him despite their blatant disbelief of his abilities because of his perfect track record. 

He scowled, remembering how artificial and devoid of emotion the fake artwork had felt. But the aura of the expert had taken on an excited reddish hue as soon as he’d examined the painting. That part was genuine. The painting must have appeared original enough. He had no doubt that if he could see himself, his own aura would be a sickly chartreuse of annoyance. He ignored the buzzing of his phone.

It was probably his mother, calling to bug him about settling down or coming home or wasting his time playing detective again. Usually, he’d argue about the “playing detective” thing, but lately, all his stolen art cases had been closed equally displeasing. Was there a new way of handling stolen artworks that changing the way they felt? If so, he would have to brush up on his research. 

The buzzer rang. He tsked impatiently. What now? 

Veo pressed the intercom. “Yes?” he snapped. 

“Sir, there are two men in black suits here to see you,” the receptionist spoke nervously. 

He sighed. It wouldn’t do to cause a scene and Mother would only get more persistent. “Alright, send them up,” he said, before picking up his phone.

“Why are your men here?” he asked as soon she answered. 

“To pick you up,” she replied coolly.

Veo gritted his teeth. “And why are they here to pick me up?”

“Because I expect you to show up at my birthday party, dear.” There was a pregnant pause. “I only turn sixty once, you know.”

Truthfully, Veo had been so vexed at his recent cases and the incessant criticisms from his mother that he’d forgotten entirely about her upcoming birthday. Otherwise, he would have packed his bag and disappeared already. And no one would be able to find him here.

It was too late now. She had sent her personal bodyguards—who were entering his apartment—and they would ensure he got on the plane with them. 

“Fine,” he bit out and hung up. He waved the two alphas to his couch. They hesitated until he irritably snarked at them. “I need to pack my bags. You can either sit down or stand there waiting.”

They sat. 

~

Veo didn’t necessarily know what his penthouse looked like to outsiders, but to him, the four walls were cold and unfeeling. He didn’t particularly enjoy it, hence the fluffy slippers on his feet. His furniture, on the other hand, was an eclectic mix of handcrafted items made very lovingly. He’d tested them with his own hands. 

They must look strange, he mused. Handmade quilts and carved bookshelves weren’t very likely to fit in with the luxurious modern classic interior that the estate agent had described to him. Whatever. He only saw silhouettes anyway. Veo also felt the emotions of the crafter and the textures of the items if he touched them with bare skin. Sometimes, he wondered if he should have gotten a different apartment. The New York skyline was absolutely wasted on him. 

He dumped a few sets of underwear, pyjamas and extra gloves into a suitcase. After throwing his travel bag of toiletries in the pile and grabbed his shades, Veo stepped out of his bedroom. “Let’s go,” he said. “I’m sleeping on the plane.” 

The two men got up and he handed the luggage over to them. He hadn’t bothered with packing more clothes since his destination would have more of those. And Mother would expect him to dress appropriately as well. Angkovian fashion wasn’t quite as modern or outlandish as New York’s. If he refused to give up his pyjamas and underwear though, that was no one’s business but his own.

As the elevator door opened with a quiet ding, Veo grabbed his cane and entered. The two men followed silently, wheeling his luggage with them. 

The ride to JFK airport was far longer than the time it took for them to take off. And as soon as the plane was cruising at high altitude, Veo unbuckled and sequestered himself in the private plane’s bedroom. No one would disturb him there and since it was nighttime in New York, he was going to bed. 

Eight hours later, there was another two more to go and just enough time for breakfast. New York’s sunrise would be in about an hour and his in-flight meal would be lunch in Angkova. It all worked out. Veo nodded to himself in approval. Having an undisturbed good night of sleep had drastically improved his mood and his appetite and he ate enough to make up for forgoing dinner.

The omega stewardess cleared the silverware fifteen minutes before the pilots began their descent and Veo fastened his seatbelt. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes. 

It was time to see Mother.