The Omega and The Arrogant Alpha (by Kylie) novel Chapter 280

Sally doesn’t bother with preliminaries.

She corners me just outside my office, late afternoon bleeding toward evening, the building thinning out in that way that always makes conversations sharper. I’m halfway through shrugging on my coat when she steps into my path and plants herself there like she’s prepared to stay all night.

“You’re punishing yourself,” she says.

I blink once. “I’m managing.”

“No,” she replies, flat. “You’re withdrawing. There’s a difference.”

I slide my arms into the sleeves anyway, slow and deliberate. “You’re projecting.”

She snorts, soft but not amused. “Try again.”

I finish adjusting the coat, smoothing the front like the motion might give me distance. “I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been avoidant,” she corrects. “You’ve changed your schedule, cut conversations short, stopped sleeping properly. You skipped dinner three nights in a row.”

“I ate.”

“You picked at food standing up like you were afraid of the chair.”

I turn to face her fully. “What do you want, Sally?”

She doesn’t flinch. “I want you to stop pretending this is strategy.”

Silence stretches. I can feel my jaw tighten, a familiar pressure. Control clicking into place.

“I’m fine,” I say. “This isn’t about punishment.”

Her eyes sharpen. “Then what is it about?”

I hesitate. Just a fraction. Enough.

She sees it and presses.

“You shut down after the envoy,” she says. “Not politically. Personally. You pulled back from Ben like proximity suddenly became a liability.”

“That’s not—”

“You equate desire with vulnerability,” she cuts in. “And vulnerability with loss of control.”

The words land too cleanly. Too accurate.

“That’s not fair,” I say.

She tilts her head. “Isn’t it?”

I look away, down the hall where the lights hum softly, where no one is watching us. “I don’t punish myself.”

“You deny yourself,” she counters. “There’s a difference. One feels deserved. The other feels safer.”

I exhale slowly through my nose. “You’re reading too much into this.”

“Am I?” she asks. “Because from where I’m standing, you took one look at how power was trying to use you and decided the safest response was to make yourself colder. Untouchable.”

That night, sleep refuses to cooperate.

I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, counting breaths, listening to the compound settle into its nocturnal rhythms. My body is exhausted. My mind isn’t. Thoughts slip loose, uninvited.

Control.

It’s the word everything keeps orbiting.

Control of space. Control of timing. Control of how close anyone gets.

I remember learning early which reactions cost too much. How desire could be used as a handle. How wanting something meant someone else could decide whether I was allowed to have it.

Survival was simple then. Don’t want. Don’t reach. Don’t need.

The memories surface without ceremony. Small moments. Choices that hardened into rules.

I roll onto my side, then my back again. The sheets are twisted. Too warm. I throw one leg out, then pull it back in. Restless. Irritated with myself.

Sally’s voice echoes anyway.

You equate desire with vulnerability.

And vulnerability with loss of control.

I sit up, rub a hand over my face, and swing my legs off the bed. The bathroom light is too bright. I brush my teeth mechanically, stare at my own eyes in the mirror. Sharp. Alert. Tired in a way that doesn’t show.