He let out a long, jagged sigh, rubbing his temple with one hand as he stared at the sofa. "You have got to be shitting me," Kit deadpanned. "You know, just looking at you is giving me a migraine. Will you please tell me what you're doing here? Because for a trillionaire like yourself, Mr. Refrigerator, this isn't exactly a high-end, fancy club. So, out with it. If this is about your stupid receptionist, I don’t regret giving her the beating of her life. She deserved every second of it."

Maksim didn't flinch. He slowly pocketed his obsidian-black phone, his movements as fluid and chilling as a Siberian winter. A ghost of a smirk played on his pale lips as he watched Kit’s frustration boil over.

"I got bored," Maksim answered simply, his voice a deep, resonant baritone. "So I came here."

Kit’s jaw tightened so hard he thought it might actually crack. 

His cynical smile twitched as he processed the sheer audacity of that statement. He’s serious? He’s actually serious?

Kit crossed his arms over his sheer mesh top, shifting his weight defiantly. "If I'm not mistaken—and I know I'm not, because everyone’s heard the stories—the great Maksim Sokolov, the 'refrigerator' in front of me who owns the Compatibility System, changes Omegas almost every single day like they’re pieces of cloth. You fuck a different person every night or day. So if you were bored, you could have just snapped your fingers. Why come here to disturb the five minutes of peace I just found?"

Maksim’s smile broadened, though his eyes remained like shards of glass. "Persicheck... do you realize that my pheromones are currently saturated in every corner of this room? My molecular pressure is at a point where I could suffocate any other Omega. Normally, they would be in the middle of a seizure or passing out at my feet by now."

Kit just looked at him, unimpressed, letting out a sharp tsk. "So? What's your point? You want a trophy for being a walking biohazard?"

Maksim stood up slowly, his massive frame unfolding with predatory grace. He approached Kit, hands shoved casually into the pockets of his tailored trousers. He stopped inches away, his shadow completely swallowing Kit’s smaller frame. He tilted his head down, looking into Kit’s rebellious eyes from his towering height.

"My point," Maksim murmured, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous velvet, "is that you’re the first Omega to stand in my presence with my pheromones this high and remain upright. Not only are you standing, but you're calling me a kitchen appliance. Is that my new nickname, persicheck?"

Kit didn't back down. "Why should I care whether I can tolerate your pheromones or not? It doesn't change the fact that you're a prick or tbe fact that I hate Alphas like you"

Maksim leaned in closer, his scent of cold Ozone and expensive tobacco swirling around Kit’s senses, heavy enough to drown out the cheap club perfume.

"It Matters because," Maksim said, his gaze locking onto Kit’s with a possessive intensity that made the air in the room turn still. "I want you to be my boyfriend."

Kit’s face went blank for a split second before a sharp, jagged sound ripped from his throat. He started laughing—a loud, hysterical sound that echoed off the soundproofed walls of the VIP suite. 

He laughed so hard he had to bend over, clutching his stomach as if his ribs might actually snap under the strain. A stray tear of pure disbelief pricked at the corner of his eye, and he swiped it away with a trembling finger before finally straightening up.

Maksim hadn't moved an inch. He stood there like a statue carved from ice, his expression unreadable, watching Kit’s breakdown with a terrifyingly calm patience.

"Wait, wait," Kit gasped, his voice breathless and sharp. "You’re actually serious? Holy shit, sorry—I genuinely thought that was a punchline. I thought you were just taking the piss."

"I am entirely serious," Maksim replied, his voice a low, steady hum that vibrated through the small space.

The smile vanished from Kit’s face as quickly as it had appeared. He stepped closer, closing the distance until he was staring Maksim dead in the eyes, his head tilted back to meet the Alpha’s towering gaze. The air between them crackled, heavy with the weight of Maksim’s suffocating pheromones, but Kit didn't flinch.

"And what exactly makes you think I would ever accept that?" Kit’s voice was cold now, dripping with a venom he’d been holding back since the penthouse. "Firstly, you should consider yourself lucky that you’re basically the Alpha who runs the whole of Russias , because that’s the only reason I haven't clawed those crystal eyes out of your skull yet. I don't know if anyone has ever told you this, but I despise Alphas like you—especially the ones who think they’re above the laws and everyone else."

He poked a finger hard into Maksim’s expensive silk lapel. "The way you treated me that day... like I was some freaking broken doll you could just leave on your bed and command to stay put while you went about your billionaire business? You didn't see a person, you saw a fucking. toy."

Kit stepped back, a look of pure, unadulterated loathing crossing his features. "So, Mr. Refrigerator, I don't care about your molecular pressure, your status, or how fucking bored you are. I wouldn’t consider being that close to you in a million lifetimes. And for a person who doesn't know how to stick to one partner—who changes Omegas like they're disposable tissues? You 100% disgust me."

Maksim’s expression didn’t shift, not even a flicker of the anger Kit had been trying to provoke. He simply adjusted shifted slightly, his hands still in the pockets of his suit. 

"The payment for the dance you were supposed to perform is on the table," Maksim said, his voice a low, steady drone that made Kit’s skin crawl. "Along with the money you never collected from our first encounter. Consider it settled."

Kit’s jaw let out an audible crack. He had been bracing for a shout, a grab, or even a growl—anything but this clinical, detached dismissal. He watched as the Alpha turned with agonizingly slow grace and walked toward the heavy oak door.

"Wait—" Kit started.

But the heavy oak door clicked shut with a sound that felt like a gavel striking a death sentence

 The air in the VIP suite was still thick with the suffocating, arctic scent of Maksim’s pheromones—a cold, metallic Ozone that made Kit could smell but had no effects on him.

Kit didn't move. He stood in the center of the dim, amber-lit room, his high heels digging into the plush carpet. He looked down at the small marble table. 

The check was there, a crisp, white rectangle resting mockingly against the condensation of the champagne bucket.

He approached it slowly, his hands trembling so violently he had to tuck them into the folds of his sheer leggings for a moment to steady himself. When he finally picked it up, the ink of the signature—Maksim Sokolov—seemed to sear into his retinas.

1,000,000 Rubles.

A choked, wet sound escaped Kit’s throat—half-laugh, half-sob. It was a lot of money obviously. It was rent, it was food, it was enough money to use for a whole two year or two. It was everything he had been crying for two days ago.

And it felt like ash in his mouth.

"You arrogant, cold-hearted fucking machine," Kit whispered, his voice cracking and raw. "You really think... you really think I’m just a transaction to be balanced?"

He thought about the "boyfriend" proposal. It wasn't a request; it was a purchase order. Or at least that's what kit told himself.

 Maksim didn't want a partner; he wanted a permanent resident for that expensive, lonely bed. He wanted a doll that wouldn't break, a toy that could survive his "rut" and molecular pressure of his pheromones and still stand up to call him a kitchen appliance.

"I didn't dance for you," Kit hissed, his eyes burning with hot, shameful tears that finally spilled over, carving tracks through his expensive stage makeup. "I didn't give you a single second of 'Peaches.' I stood here and I hated you with every breath, and you still... you still think you can just pay me like some damsel in distress?"

The rage flared up, hot and jagged, fueled by the memory of the thirty rounds that had left him branded and the robbers who had left him barefoot. Maksim was just another predator, only his teeth were made of diamonds and his cage was made of gold.

"Come back and take it!" Kit yelled at the closed door, his voice breaking into a jagged scream. "Take your goddamn million rubles and buy yourself a soul, you fucking iceberg! I’m not a line item in your fucking budget!"

His fingers gripped the edges of the check. He looked at the paper—the physical proof that to Maksim Sokolov, Kit was worth exactly one million rubles and not a single bit of respect.

RIIIIIIIIP

The sound was small, but in the silence of the suite, it sounded like a gunshot. Kit’s breath came in ragged, hitching gasps as he tore the paper again. And again. 

He didn't do it quickly; he did it methodically, feeling the resistance of the high-quality parchment against his skin.

"You think just because I work in a club you can pay me off like this you piece of shit?" he sobbed, the words tumbling out in a messy, vulgar stream of curses. "You think you can just fuck me into a coma, leave me in your bed like a piece of forgotten luggage, and then show up here to buy me? You absolute, pathetic, arrogant dipshit!"

He tore the signature into tiny, unrecognizable bits. He tore the "1,000,000" until the zeros were nothing but white confetti.

"I'd rather starve," Kit whispered, his head bowing as the adrenaline began to ebb, leaving him hollow. "I’d rather sleep on the sidewalk with Jihoon than be the one Omega you successfully bought! Do you hear me!"

He opened his palms, letting the white scraps flutter down like a mockery of snow. They landed on his high heels, on the carpet, and on his sheer, see-through leggings. He stood there in the center of a million-ruble graveyard, his chest heaving, feeling the cold weight of his pride and the terrifying reality of his empty pockets.

"You don't own me," he breathed into the empty, scent-stained room. "You don't get to own me."

The heavy door creaked open, and the thrum of the club’s music bled into the room for a split second before the door clicked shut again.

Jihoon stepped inside, immediately stumbling as his hand flew to his nose. Even with Maksim gone, the air was thick with the remnants of that arctic, metallic Ozone—a scent so sharp and authoritative it felt like a physical weight pressing against Jihoon’s chest.

"God... haaa," Jihoon gasped, his knees buckling slightly before he steadied himself against the doorframe. "Who the hell was in here? It smells like a blizzard hit a tobacco factory. I can barely breathe."

He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim amber glow, and then he saw Kit. Kit was standing in the center of the room, chest heaving, surrounded by hundreds of tiny white scraps of paper that looked like a million-ruble graveyard.

"Kit? Baby?" Jihoon rushed over, his concern overriding the suffocating pressure of the lingering pheromones. He looked down at the shredded mess, then up at Kit’s flushed face and smeared eyeliner. "What happened? Where’s the Alpha you were performing for? Did he hurt you? Tell me right now so I can tear his head off."

Kit let out a long, shaky sigh, finally dropping his defensive stance. He wasn't crying, he just looked hollow, like a fire that had burned itself out.

"That freaking Sokolov was here," Kit said, his voice flat. "He was the client."

Jihoon’s jaw didn't just drop; it practically hit the floor. His eyes went wide, a slow, disbelieving smirk spreading across his face as he grabbed Kit’s shoulders. "What? Maksim Sokolov? As in the Maksim Sokolov? He came here and specifically asked for you? Oh my god... did he come to apologize for the penthouse? Was he begging for forgiveness?"

Kit looked at Jihoon with a look of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. "No, Hoon. He said he was 'bored.' He sat there and told me I’m the only Omega who can stand his molecular pressure without having a seizure. And then... that fucking piece of shit actually asked me to be his boyfriend."

Jihoon froze. His grip on Kit’s shoulders tightened. "Wait, what? Maksim Sokolov, baby? As in the Maksim Sokolov who owns Russia's infrastructure? The same guy who broke your back with thirty rounds? That guy asked you to be his boyfriend?"

Jihoon’s expression shifted from shock to a radiant, expectant smile. He looked at the shredded check on the floor, then back at Kit. "And? Did you say yes? Tell me you said yes! Oh god what was your answer baby?"

"Of course I didn't!" Kit snapped, pulling away and gesturing wildly at the white confetti at their feet. "Why the fuck would I? I'd rather become the boyfriend of a sewer rat than that red flagged, arrogant prick! He thinks he can just buy me? He thinks he can treat me like a toy one day and a 'partner' the next because he's bored, we don't even fucking know each other?"

"But Kit... a million rubles?" Jihoon whispered, looking down at the torn signature of the most powerful man in the country. "You shredded a million rubles?"

"I’d shred ten billion if it meant I didn't have to look at his stupid, handsome, frozen face ever again," Kit hissed, though a small part of his stomach twisted at the thought of the rent. "He doesn't want a boyfriend, Hoon. He wants a pet that can survive his presence. He wants a toy he can command. I'm not doing it. I'm not being another statistic in his stupid life soulless."

Jihoon let out a long, low whistle, finally realizing the depth of Kit's rage. He stepped back into the 'money snow' and pulled Kit into a tight, grounding hug.

"You're a maniac, you know that?" Jihoon murmured into his hair. "A beautiful, stubborn, broke-ass maniac. But you're my maniac. If we're going to be homeless, at least we'll be homeless with this kind of pride, right?"

Kit leaned into the hug, his head resting on Jihoon’s shoulder as the adrenaline finally left his system, leaving him cold. "We're not going to be homeless. I'll just... I'll just work double shifts. I’ll dance until my feet bleed."

"Well," Jihoon joked, trying to lighten the mood as he pulled back to wipe a smudge of makeup from Kit’s cheek. "If you change your mind, tell him I’m available. I can’t handle the pheromones, but for a million rubles, I’ll happily pass out in a silk-sheeted bed every night. Maybe with less of the thirty rounds."

Kit let out a weak, watery laugh. "Shut up, Hoon."