The air in the Kim Models atelier thrummed with a creative energy that was uniquely Siwoo’s. It was a space where art and commerce met, a symphony of rustling fabrics, the soft click of heels on polished concrete, and the low murmur of stylists and models. For Minho, whose world was one of silent offices and precise financial reports, it was both alien and intoxicating. The main draw, however, wasn't the chaos; it was the calm, commanding figure at its center.

Siwoo moved through the room like a conductor, his presence a steadying force. Dressed in a dark, tailored jumpsuit that highlighted his lean frame, he adjusted a collar here, offered a soft word of encouragement there. His sandalwood scent, usually a soft, creative whisper, was more potent here, woven into the very fabric of his empire. It was a scent that now called to Minho on a cellular level.

Leaning against a steel beam near the back, Minho observed it all. His arms were crossed, his expression the usual mask of detached assessment, but his senses were wholly tuned to one frequency: Siwoo. His own spiced amber scent, a note of possessive authority, subtly permeated the space around him, a silent, instinctual marking of territory. He watched as the final adjustments were made for the "Celestial" gala runway show.

His gaze followed Siwoo as he approached one of the lead models, Minho, a tall, strikingly handsome Beta who had been a cornerstone of Kim Models for years. The "Orion" cuff, a bold, masculine piece of woven gold and rubies, was being secured to Minho's wrist.

"It needs to sit higher, on the muscle," Siwoo instructed, his voice calm. He stepped close, his fingers—elegant and sure—brushing against Minho's forearm as he adjusted the heavy cuff. He was so close that his breath could have ghosted over the model's skin. It was a professional, necessary proximity.

But to Minho’s Alpha instincts, it was a provocation.

A low, guttural sound vibrated in Minho’s chest, a rumble so deep it was almost subsonic. The stylist standing nearest to him flinched, glancing nervously at the CEO. Minho’s jaw was a hard line, his knuckles white where he gripped his own bicep. The logical part of his brain knew this was Siwoo’s job, that the touch was clinical, impersonal. But the primal, possessive part of him, the part that had awoken on that hilltop and now recognized Siwoo as his, saw only a threat. His scent spiked aggressively, the warm amber turning sharp and smoky, a clear warning to any who could sense it.

Across the room, Siwoo’s hands stilled. He felt the shift in the atmospheric pressure of the room, the sudden, potent wave of Minho’s dominance crashing over him. A shiver, hot and immediate, raced down his spine. It wasn't fear that coiled in his stomach; it was a thrilling, visceral response. His Omega preened under the intensity of that focused attention, his own scent sweetening in instant, involuntary answer, the sandalwood blooming with notes of vanilla and warmth—a scent of welcome and belonging.

He finished adjusting the cuff, his touch becoming deliberately more brisk. "There. Perfect, Minho-yah. You'll open the show with this." He gave the model a brief, professional smile before turning away, his entire awareness narrowing to the magnetic pull of the Alpha at the back of the room.

He could feel Minho’s gaze like a physical weight, a brand. Excusing himself from a conversation with a designer, Siwoo began to walk, his steps measured and sure. He didn't stop until he was deep within Minho’s personal space, so close he could see the flecks of gold in his dark, burning eyes.

"Problem, Mr. Jeon?" Siwoo asked, his voice a low, velvety challenge. He deliberately used the formal title, a playful taunt that dared Minho to break his own professional facade.

Minho’s eyes flashed, the control he was so famous for visibly fraying at the edges. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate whisper that was for Siwoo’s ears alone. "You know exactly what the problem is, Mr. Kim. I don't like other men's hands on you. Or my jewels on them while you're standing that close." His gaze flickered to Minho and back, the unspoken threat clear. He is wearing what is mine, while standing near what is mine.

Siwoo’s breath hitched. The raw, unfiltered possessiveness should have been overwhelming, but it only stoked the fire building within him. It made him feel coveted, protected. Seen.

"He was just a model, Minho-ah," he whispered back, his lips curving into a small, defiant smile. He took a half-step closer, erasing what little distance remained between them. "But if it bothers you that much... perhaps you should do something about it. Make sure there is no doubt in anyone's mind who I belong to."

The challenge hung in the air between them, audacious and electric. The noise of the atelier faded into a dull roar, the people around them becoming mere shadows. It was just the two of them, caught in a silent battle of wills and wants.

Minho’s predatory smile was slow and devastating. His eyes dropped to Siwoo’s lips, then back to his eyes, dark with promise. "Oh, Siwoo-ah," he vowed, his voice dripping with intent. "At the gala. In front of everyone. They will all see. They will all know."

The promise was a vow, a seismic shift from secret kisses to a public declaration. The air crackled with the anticipation of it. The professional collaboration was now inextricably tangled with a primal, passionate claim, and both of them were racing headlong towards the point of no return.