Please Divorce Me, Alpha! {BL}

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"I haven’t done anything." he said, but for some reason I could hear the silent...’yet.’

"You complimented me." I said.

"Would you prefer I insulted you?"

"Actually, yes. That would be more comfortable."

He offered me his arm, the dark fabric of his sleeve stretching slightly over the solid line of muscle beneath. I stared at it.

Then at him. Then back at his arm. The invitation hung between us, polite yet completely non-negotiable.

The quiet strength in the way he held the arm out made refusing feel both childish and inevitable.

"This is unnecessary." I said.

"Probably."

"Then why are you still holding it out?"

"Because you’re going to take it."

I narrowed my eyes.

He waited, perfectly patient, the quiet confidence in his posture suggesting he had already predicted the outcome. I took his arm.

The warmth of him pressed against my side the moment my fingers settled on his sleeve, and the faint brush of his scent, between us despite the blocker.

The solid line of his forearm beneath the fabric felt far too steady, and the light pressure of his free hand briefly covering mine as he adjusted our linked arms sent a spark of awareness I refused to acknowledge.

"I hate when you’re right."

"I know."

The gala was held inside a grand historic hotel that looked like someone had asked a palace to become a museum and then accidentally given it a champagne budget.

Crystal chandeliers spilled light across marble floors, and the air itself shimmered with the collective wealth of everyone there.

Photographers were everywhere. The moment we stepped out of the car, Lorenzo’s hand settled against the small of my back and I stiffened.

His fingers pressed lightly through the fabric of my suit, the heat of his palm steady and guiding as he led me toward the entrance. Cameras flashed in a blinding sequence.

The pressure of his hand was firm enough to steer me without force, and the quiet heat of it burned through the expensive fabric in a way that felt far more intimate than the public setting should have allowed.

"Mr Castelli! Over here!"

I smiled...not because I wanted to, but because my face apparently had a mind of its own.

Lorenzo leaned closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear over the crowd noise.

The soft brush of his breath against my ear made the already chaotic entrance feel even more charged.

"You’re doing so well for me, Alex." he murmured.

You’re doing so well for me...

My brain went off at that statement.

My stomach fluttered some more...why was that little praise doing something to me that I couldn’t understand?!

Had my Omega instincts awoken finally?

I smiled wider, the expression stretching until my cheeks ached.

The forced brightness of it felt brittle, but the cameras continued to flash regardless.

"Better?"

"Much."

Inside, the room was filled with glittering dresses, tailored suits, expensive jewelry, and people who’d probably never checked their bank balance before buying anything.

The air was thick with competing fragrances and the low murmur of conversations revolving around money, power, or both.

I accepted a glass of champagne. Then another. Then something stronger, the burn settling in my stomach with a promise of temporary courage.

By the time I reached drink number three, I was convinced the entire evening was some elaborate social experiment to see how long it took an Omega to lose his mind.

Apparently, the answer was forty-seven minutes. The crystal glass felt cool against my fingers, and each sip sharpened the edges of my resolve to make the night as difficult as possible.

A woman approached us with a bright smile, her diamonds sparkling with every little movement.

The light caught every facet as she moved, turning her into a walking advertisement for excess.

Lorenzo had mentioned on a passing that she was the Omega to a pretty powerful CEO.

"Mr. Castelli, it’s so good to see you." she beamed

.

Lorenzo greeted her politely before introducing me, his hand still resting lightly on my back.

The casual possessiveness of that touch never left, a quiet constant amid the glittering chaos.

"This is my Omega, Alex."

My husband. The words sounded strange, like they belonged to someone else’s life.

The woman smiled warmly, her gaze flicking between us with open curiosity. The way she looked at us made the title feel heavier, as if the entire room had already decided what we were.

"It’s lovely to finally meet you." she said.

I rose an eyebrow, "Is it?"

Lorenzo shot me a glance, the quiet warning in his eyes almost gentle. I smiled sweetly, the champagne already softening my restraint.

She chuckled uncertainly. The uncertain laugh only encouraged me further. "You’re funny."

"I hear it’s a defense mechanism."

Lorenzo’s hand tightened just a bit against my back, the pressure of his fingers a reminder that he was still there. I glanced at him.

He looked completely calm, which annoyed me. I took another sip, the bubbles sharply tickling my tongue.

The subtle increase in pressure from his hand felt less like a warning and more like a promise that he was paying very close attention.

For the next hour, I committed myself to being just irritating enough to bother him without causing a major scene.

When someone asked how married life was treating me, I replied, "Expensively."

When another guest asked if Lorenzo was romantic, I said, "He owns about six hundred shades of silence."

When someone complimented our relationship, I smiled and said, "Thank you. It’s been very educational."

Lorenzo never corrected me. That was starting to irritate me more than if he had.

He simply stood by my side, answering questions whenever my responses got too risky and steering conversations elsewhere whenever I wandered too close to saying something truly scandalous that’ll ruin the year spent on our perfect couple performance.

The steady presence of his hand on my back became a constant reminder, one I kept trying to lean away from, yet somehow kept coming back to.

Every time I shifted, his fingers adjusted with quiet precision, maintaining contact without ever appearing forceful, and the quiet heat of that touch began to feel less like restraint and more like a deliberate claim he had no intention of releasing.

At one point, I deliberately stepped away from him. He followed. I moved again. He followed again, the persistence almost admirable.

Eventually, I stopped, turning to face him in a quieter corner near one of the towering windows.

The city lights glittered beyond the glass, and the relative quiet of the corner made the space between us feel more intimate than the crowded ballroom.

"What are you attached to me?" I said.

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