MJ Clarkson had been hosting corporate events for Maxwell Corporation. He prided himself on reading a room better than most people. Today, however, the atmosphere felt less like a business meeting and more like the tense moments before a gladiatorial match.

I should’ve faked the flu—or food poisoning. Or outright declared myself dead.

He thought miserably as the assembly hall’s holographic displays flickered to life, casting shifting lights across the polished floor.

Anything but this.

He stepped fully inside, adjusting his uniform jacket out of habit. The crowd had already formed small circles, and everyone pretended they weren’t staring at the spectacle unfolding at the far end of the room.

MJ glanced around the conference room, taking mental notes of each attendee’s expression. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Hell, it was thick enough to cut with a spoon.

I really hate these kinds of events, MJ thought, resisting the urge to run his hand through his hair. I’m going to go bald before I’m forty at this rate.

MJ spotted Jake across the hall and felt relieved.

Finally, there was someone normal to talk to.

He raised his hand, ready to call out—

But Jake’s mouth was hanging open. Not just slightly open, it was completely agape.

MJ’s brows furrowed.

"What the hell are you looking at?" he muttered under his breath as he followed Jake’s gaze.

And then he froze. MJ’s jaw nearly dropped.

Not far from the entrance stood Keaton Hewitt, the eldest young master of HW Corporation. He was holding a bouquet. Not just any flowers, but real flowers that were definitely expensive enough to cover MJ’s monthly rent.

And he was offering them to—

"Neville Hope?" MJ whispered, eyes wide.

Neville Hope, Maxwell Corporation’s rising star, stood there and politely accepted the bouquet.

But even from across the hall, MJ could see it.

Neville’s smile was perfect, calm, polite... and fake.

The kind of smile that people wore when they were forced to take something they hated.

Clearly written on his face were the words: I am thanking you because etiquette requires it, and please, for the love of all things holy, do not pursue this further.

Well, accepting a gift from a major collaborator was expected, and openly rejecting it would be rude. But the subtle downturn of Neville’s gaze made it extremely obvious to anyone who was looking at him—he wanted nothing to do with this.

MJ went closer to Jake and leaned to whisper. "Are we... going to pretend this is normal?"

Jake, who seemed to have regained his wits, whispered back, "No. But we should probably pretend we didn’t see it."

MJ nodded in agreement, but something else caught his attention.

Rather, someone else.

A few meters away, standing unnervingly still... was Grayson Maxwell, their CEO.

His silver eyes were locked—not on Neville.

Not on the expensive bouquet.

But on Keaton’s hand, which was inching dangerously close to touching Neville’s arm.

A chill crawled down MJ’s spine as he felt the danger from that menacing gaze.

"Jake," MJ whispered, "why does our CEO look like he’s about to kill someone?"

Jake, who also saw it, swallowed and said. "Because he probably is."

Before MJ could even blink, Grayson was already on the move.

In one moment, he was walking across the hall. By the next, he was already right behind Keaton. His hand latched onto the young master’s expensive collar with a tight grip.

Gasps rippled across the room, but no one moved to stop him.

Keaton stiffened, shocked. "What—!"

Grayson’s voice was ice cold.

"Your seat," he said, not even pretending to be polite, "is over there."

He didn’t even let Keaton say something and guided him—no, he dragged him to his seat. It was not violent per se; he made it clear that resistance was pointless.

Was this really their CEO?

MJ blinked rapidly.

"Since when was Mr. Maxwell... like this?"

Jake whispered, "I have no clue either."

Grayson released Keaton only when he reached one of the seats for the important guests. He didn’t even check if it was the right one and left Keaton there.

Keaton looked offended and a breath away from complaining. But with the entire board watching, he swallowed it down.

Grayson didn’t spare him another glance. He turned back and strode straight toward Neville.

Before Neville could react, Grayson reached out and gently took the bouquet right out of his hands.

"Stewart," Grayson called.

Bryan, who had been observing from the side with amusement, stepped forward.

"Yes, sir."

"Dispose of it."

Neville visibly deflated with relief. While Keaton, on the other hand, was fuming inside.

MJ’s light-brain buzzed—a group message notification.

From Sarah Gringer:

Did our boss just manhandle someone??

MJ typed back without hesitation:

I saw nothing. You saw nothing. We all saw nothing.

Dozens of likes popped up instantly.

He was about to slip through the crowd with Jake when a firm hand clamped onto both their shoulders.

"Enjoying yourselves?" Chief McCartney asked, eyebrow raised.

Both men straightened instantly.

"You mean that awkward display?" Jake said, trying to laugh it off.

Chief McCartney’s smirk was satisfied and mildly evil. "That was just the start, boys. Prepare yourselves."

MJ felt a headache coming. If today had a theme, it was suffering.

Chief McCartney motioned them to follow as the staff moved toward the VIP seating area near the board members.

MJ scanned the moving crowd and spotted Keaton slipping into a seat beside George.

George looked like he had been force-fed lemon juice.

MJ overheard him mutter under his breath, "For a lowly omega, he’d do that to his brother?"

Was he allowed to hear this?

Keaton heard it too—but he didn’t react. He calmly adjusted his suit and continued listening to the board members’ chatter, pretending George didn’t say anything.

George stared at him for another second, then shrugged and switched his attention to the files prepared for today’s agenda.

MJ exhaled slowly, starting to take his notes.

The assembly hadn’t even started yet, and a lot had already happened.

Could he really survive throughout the day?