Chapter 12: Scent of Scandal
The Dining Hall was a stage. Wei Zhao felt it the moment he stepped inside, the air changing from the private, cedar-scented coolness of the penthouse’s corridors to something charged and public. The long table was a stretch of blinding white linen, set with austere precision. Crystal and silver gleamed under the chandeliers, each piece positioned like a weapon. At the far end, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of the city, a landscape Jian’s family ostensibly owned.
A dozen people were already there.Not family. Suits. Men and women with sharp eyes, tablets perched on the table like shields. The media team. One, a woman with a severe blonde bob, was speaking in low, urgent tones to Grandmother Lin, who sat at the head of the table, her hands folded over the jade handle of her cane. She looked like a queen holding court over ants.
Jian’s hand found the small of Wei Zhao’s back, a solid, warm pressure through the fine cotton of his shirt. He’d dressed him in soft, cream-colored trousers and a simple black sweater—elegant, unassuming, expensive. “Just stay next to me,” Jian murmured, his voice barely a breath. “You don’t have to speak unless you want to.”
They moved toward the table. The low buzz of conversation died. Every head turned. Wei Zhao felt the weight of their appraisal: curious, skeptical, calculating. He was the problem to be solved, the scandal to be spun. The grainy photo from the tablet was all they knew of him.
“Sit, sit,” Grandmother Lin said, her voice cutting through the silence. She gestured to the two empty chairs beside her. “The food is getting cold worrying about headlines.”
They sat. Servers materialized, placing bowls of steaming congee, delicate dumplings, pots of tea. The aromas—ginger, scallion, roasted pork—were usually comforting. Now they churned in Wei Zhao’s stomach. He stared at the fragile pattern of gold on the rim of his bowl.
The woman with the blonde bob—Mei Ling, the head of communications—launched in. “The narrative is fragile but manageable. The photo is an issue. It suggests coercion. We pivot to romance. A whirlwind, hidden courtship. An omega from a modest background, charmed by the Alpha’s dedication.”
“Modest,” one of the other suits, a man with thin glasses, chuckled without humor. “The Zhao family are vultures. They’ll have their own angle. They’ve been silent, which means they’re preparing a demand.”
Jian’s knuckles were white where he gripped his chopsticks. “Their angle is they drugged him and tried to sell him to the highest bidder. We can lead with that.”
A ripple of discomfort went around the table. Mei Ling cleared her throat. “Allegations without proof become messy. The public sympathy lies with traditional family values. A rebellious omega who ran away… it’s a harder sell. We need to make him sympathetic. Vulnerable. The loving, expectant mate.”
Wei Zhao felt the words like little needles.Sympathetic. Vulnerable. He was sitting right here. He took a small sip of tea, the liquid scalding his tongue. The heat in the room was becoming oppressive. The clink of porcelain, the murmur of strategic voices, the sweet, cloying scent of the jasmine centerpieces—it all started to bleed together.
“...leak the pregnancy immediately,” the man with glasses was saying. “It contextualizes the rapid bonding. Focus on the heir. The Li dynasty continues.”
“He’s not a broodmare,” Jian snapped, his alpha tone leaking into the room, making a few people flinch.
“Of course not,” Mei Ling said smoothly. “But the public understands dynasties. They understand heirs. The bonding is a private matter. The child is a public legacy.”
Wei Zhao’s vision swam. The chandelier light fractured into a thousand painful shards. He tried to focus on his breathing, but the air felt thick, syrupy. He caught a whiff of his own scent, tinged with a new, cloying sweetness beneath the bamboo soap.The pregnancy scent. It was getting stronger, reacting to his stress.
“Wei?” Jian’s voice was close, a shift in his attention.
“I’m… it’s a little warm,” Wei Zhao managed, his voice thin.
Grandmother Lin’s sharp eyes were on him. “Open a window,” she ordered a server.
But it was too late. The scent was blooming now, unmistakable—omega, vulnerable, carrying. It cut through the perfumed air of the dining hall. The man with the glasses sniffed, his eyebrows rising. A photographer at the far end of the table, who had been waiting for a staged shot, lifted his camera instinctively.
The world tilted.
Wei Zhao heard a clatter, realized it was his spoon hitting the floor. The marble rushed up to meet him. Jian moved faster than thought, his chair scraping back violently as he lunged to catch him, but Wei Zhao’s legs had already given out. He slid from the chair into Jian’s arms, a dead weight, the world going dark at the edges.
A flash went off.Then another. The photographer was capturing it all: the collapse, the dramatic rescue.
Jian’s head snapped up. A sound tore from his chest, a low, visceral growl that didn’t sound human. It was pure alpha, a territorial roar of protectiveness and fury. The room seemed to shake with it. He cradled Wei Zhao against his chest, his body curving over him, a physical shield.
“Turn that off!” he snarled at the photographer, his eyes burning with a feral light. “Get out!”
The photographer lowered his camera, paling. But the damage was done. The scent of pregnant omega distress hung in the air, and the Alpha’s violent response had just been documented.Chaos erupted. Mei Ling was standing, saying something about controlling the narrative. The other suits were talking over each other.
Then a deafening CRACK silenced them all.
Grandmother Lin had slammed her cane down onto the marble floor with a force that echoed like a gunshot. She pushed herself to her feet, a small, ancient figure radiating an authority that dwarfed Jian’s primal rage.
The room froze.
She looked slowly around the table, her gaze landing on each person, the photographer, the suits, finally on Jian, who was kneeling on the floor, clutching Wei Zhao.
“Enough,” she said, her voice like ice. “You will all listen now.”
She pointed her cane at the photographer. “You will delete those photos. You will tell your editor that the next unauthorized image of my grandson or his bonded mate will result in the full legal and financial weight of the Li family coming down on your publication. You will find your story elsewhere.”
The photographer fumbled with his camera, fingers trembling.
Grandmother Lin then turned her withering gaze on the media team. “The narrative is not fragile. It is simple. This boy,” she gestured to Wei Zhao, who was stirring weakly in Jian’s arms, “is family. The pup he carries is Li blood. Any whisper, any question, any insinuation to the contrary…” She paused, letting the threat hang. “You will answer to me.Not the board. Not public relations.Me. Am I understood?”
Mei Ling nodded, once, sharply. No one else dared to speak.
“The announcement will be made today. It will state the joyous and blessed union, and the upcoming birth of an heir. It will express our profound disappointment in the Zhao family’s actions and our unconditional protection of Wei Zhao. That is all. Now get out. My grandson needs a doctor, not vultures.”
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Within sixty seconds, the dining hall was empty save for the three of them and the silent, watchful servers.
The commanding rigidity left Grandmother Lin’s shoulders. She shuffled over, her cane tapping lightly now. She knelt beside Jian with a soft grunt, ignoring the protest of her knees. Her gnarled hand came up and brushed the hair from Wei Zhao’s damp forehead.
“Little one,” she said, her voice softer than Wei Zhao had ever heard it. “You have had too many mornings.”
Wei Zhao blinked his eyes open. Jian’s face was above him, a mask of barely-controlled panic. “I’m okay,” Wei Zhao whispered. “Just… dizzy.”
“It’s the stress. The pup makes demands,” Grandmother Lin said matter-of-factly. She looked at Jian. “Call Doctor Feng.Now. And you,” she poked Jian’s shoulder with a bony finger, “carry him to the sunroom. Gently. It’s quiet there. No more performances today.”
Jian gathered Wei Zhao up, rising to his feet as if he weighed nothing. As he turned to leave, his grandmother’s voice stopped him.
“Jian.”
He looked back.
Her eyes were fierce with a love that was as formidable as her wrath. “You did right to growl. But next time, break the camera first. The lecture is more convincing.” A faint, grim smile touched her lips. “Now go. I will handle the… aftermath.”
In the quiet, sun-drenched solarium, surrounded by orchids and the hum of the city far below, Jian laid Wei Zhao on a soft sofa. He knelt beside him, his head bowed, forehead resting against Wei Zhao’s shoulder. The adrenaline was draining away, leaving his hands unsteady.
“I thought…” Jian’s voice was rough. “When you fell.”
Wei Zhao touched his hair. It was a gesture he’d never dared before. “I’m here. We’re here.”
From the dining hall, they could hear the firm, clear tones of Grandmother Lin on the phone, issuing commands that would reshape headlines by noon. She was crafting a fortress around them, stone by stone.
Jian lifted his head. The feral panic was gone, replaced by a deep, weary resolve. He looked at Wei Zhao, at the faint color returning to his cheeks. “She’s declared war on my behalf. On our behalf.”
“I know,” Wei Zhao said. He felt it, the seismic shift. This wasn’t just hiding, or managing. This was picking a side. Grandmother Lin had chosen theirs, publicly and irrevocably. The safety she offered was absolute, but it came at a cost. They were now, truly, chess pieces in her game. The only difference was, she was playing to keep them alive.
He took Jian’s hand and placed it flat on his still-flat stomach. “We have to be worth it,” he said quietly.
Jian’s fingers pressed down gently, a promise, a claim, a prayer. Outside, the first of the carefully crafted press releases began to ping across the city.