CHAPTER 32: SUPPRESSANTS AND SECRETS.

Louis’ POV

The trip to Gloria was exhausting — even though I was flying first class.

Funny how comfort doesn’t mean much when your thoughts refuse to rest.

Throughout the flight, my mind kept circling back to another trip years ago — the first time Charles and I had ever been on a plane. I was twelve, he was eight, and I remember how his feet barely touched the floor as he kicked them restlessly against the seat. He was terrified of takeoff, clutching my sleeve so tightly that I nearly lost circulation.

"Are we gonna die?" he had whispered, voice trembling.

"No," I’d said with all the fake confidence of a twelve-year-old who’d only read about turbulence in a science magazine. "We’ll be fine. Planes are safer than cars."

He hadn’t believed me until I’d distracted him with a pack of strawberry gum — his favorite back then. By the time we landed, he’d fallen asleep on my shoulder, drooling all over my jacket. I didn’t even care.

Now, sitting in the same kind of seat, thousands of feet above the ground, I couldn’t help but smile at the memory — though it didn’t last long.

Because the Charles I remembered back then wasn’t the Charles now.

And the Alistair waiting back home... wasn’t the same either.

I leaned my head back against the seat, closing my eyes, feeling the weight of it all.

The scandal, the distance, the way Alistair’s messages had gone from paragraphs to single words.

Something had shifted, and I could feel it in my bones — that quiet, invisible drift between us.

I told myself it was nothing. That he just needed space.

But deep down, a quieter voice whispered something I didn’t want to admit.

What if someone else was giving him what I couldn’t?

----

The wheels touched down in Gloria with a jolt that rattled through me, dragging me out of my thoughts. The captain’s voice crackled over the speakers, cheerful and detached — the kind of tone that made everything sound routine, safe.

But nothing about this felt routine.

Not anymore.

The moment I stepped off the plane, a cold wind greeted me — sharper than I remembered, carrying that familiar scent of rain and jet fuel. I pulled my coat tighter around me and tried to shake off the weight in my chest.

Gloria looked the same — peaceful, calm but wealive. Yet somehow, it all felt different. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was knowing that while I was here trying to fix what the press had broken, part of me was miles away, wondering if Alistair was thinking of me at all.

I checked my phone before even leaving the terminal.

No messages.

I told myself he was sleeping. Or busy. Or just forgetting his phone somewhere, like he always did.

But I couldn’t ignore the unease crawling under my skin.

Something about the silence didn’t feel normal.

Not from him.

By the time I reached the hotel, I was running on caffeine and nerves. Michael handed me a stack of documents to review, but my mind refused to focus. I read the same line three times before giving up entirely.

Instead, I opened my messages again — scrolling through our old chats, stopping at the ones that still made me smile. The small things — Alistair complaining about my taste in music, or the blurry photos he sent of his meals with sarcastic captions.

But lately, those messages had stopped sounding like him.

They were shorter. Colder.

Almost... distant.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before I finally typed,

"I landed safe. How are you feeling?"

No response.

I stared at the screen, the three dots never appearing, the silence stretching longer than it should have.

I arrived home sooner than expected, the maid taking my luggage while Michael snuck away, probably going to go party or club. I walked towards my room, now a shared room between myself and Alistair.

I knocked on the door — silence. But when I opened it, the scent of coffee mixed with something else — faint, but distinct.

Pheromones.

The realization hit me like a punch. He was lying there on the bed, eyes shut, huddled under the bed sheets .

I could feel it, strong, distinct, my instincts recognized it — that subtle shift that said my omega was in heat.

And not alone.

Charles was staring at me, sitting on the bed holding Alistair’s hand.

It needed truth.

I stared at the silent phone in my hand, fighting the sudden rush of dread and jealousy twisting in my stomach.

He sighed, rubbing his neck, He fingers traced strange patterns on Alistair’s palm.

My thoughts circled around how distant he’d been, so foreign, it made me doubt, I wanted to believe Alistair would never—

But the way he’d been lately, the distance, the warmth in his voice when he mentioned Charles...

A quiet, ugly thought whispered through me.

What if I’ve already lost him?

He stood, placing Alistair’s hand gently by his side.

"He’s asleep," Charles said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual edge. "I gave him some suppressants."

He didn’t look at me. Not once.

For a moment, the room felt too small — too heavy. The only sound was the low hum of the air conditioner and the soft rhythm of Alistair’s breathing. His hair was damp with sweat, his face pale against the pillow.

Suppressants. That single word echoed in my mind, sour and sharp.

I stepped closer, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. "You stayed with him?"

Charles finally looked up. His expression was unreadable — not guilty, not defensive, just... tired. "He wasn’t well. Someone had to make sure he didn’t hurt himself."

"Someone?" I repeated. "And that someone had to be you?"

His jaw tightened. "You weren’t here."

The words landed like a slap. Simple. Honest. Cruel in their truth.

I wanted to argue, to demand why he didn’t call, why Alistair didn’t wait for me, why everything had spiraled without me. But the sight before me — the flushed cheeks, the faint trembling in Alistair’s hands — silenced me.

Charles took a step back, giving me space, but his scent lingered — faint traces of his cologne, mixed with Alistair’s pheromones.

He turned towards my direction, "I know what you’re thinking but I didn’t cross any lines, Alistair wouldn’t let me at least." He said staring into my eyes.

"You think I’ll believe that." I said, my own words sounded stupid, it was always like this with him.

He moved closer, too close, his arm on my chest. "I’m not like you." He muttered.

"I’m stupidly waiting for my mate to choose me aren’t I dumb." He said, I was his fated mate and that line targeted me, my betrayal, my disloyalty.

"Take care of him, when the suppressants wear out he’ll need you." His voice broke but he remained composed.

His hands returned to his side, his head was slightly raised, eyes glistening, with a sigh he walked out of the room.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, my chest tightening as I brushed a strand of hair from Alistair’s forehead. His skin was warm, his breathing steady — but the bond between us felt faint, distant, like something slipping through my fingers.

I wanted to be angry. I wanted to shout, accuse, demand.

But all I could do was sit there, staring at the two half-empty suppressant bottles on the table, and wonder when exactly I’d lost the right to be angry in the first place.