Bred by My Ex's Boss

A dull, rhythmic throb hammered behind Easton Marks's eyes.

He sat at the head of the massive mahogany table in the Marks Tech boardroom. The air conditioning was set to a freezing sixty-five degrees, yet a thin layer of cold sweat coated his spine.

His Enigma biology was tearing him apart from the inside out.

The pheromonal dysregulation had been worsening for months. Right now, it felt like someone was dragging a serrated blade down his spinal cord. His lungs tightened with every breath he took. He needed an anchor. He needed a scent that did not make his stomach churn with violent rejection.

Instead, he was trapped in a room with twelve terrified executives.

The Chief Financial Officer stood at the projector. The man was trembling. Drops of sweat gathered at his hairline as he stammered through the quarterly revenue margins. The CFO's nervous Alpha scent-a sour mix of stale sweat and cheap cologne-flooded the room.

It made the bile rise in Easton's throat.

Easton pinched the bridge of his nose. The pain behind his eyes flared into a blinding white light. He reached for the heavy titanium fountain pen resting on the table.

He gripped the pen. His knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

The CFO stuttered over a decimal point.

A sharp crack echoed through the dead silence of the boardroom.

Easton had snapped the solid titanium pen cleanly in half. Black ink spilled across his fingers, dripping onto the pristine wood.

The CFO stopped talking instantly. The color drained from his face. Every executive at the table froze, their eyes fixed on the broken metal in their CEO's hand.

"There are three fatal errors in your projections," Easton said. His voice was dangerously low. It scraped against the quiet room like sandpaper. "You failed to account for the European tax tariffs, you miscalculated the supply chain deficit, and you are lying about the offshore retention rates."

The CFO opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked like he was going to vomit.

Before Easton could fire the man on the spot, the heavy double doors of the boardroom swung open.

The sudden movement drew every terrified pair of eyes to the entrance.

Braydon Hayden walked into the room.

Braydon was an S-class Alpha, the head of the acquisitions department. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than most people made in a year. He rolled his broad shoulders back and tipped his chin up in that arrogant, entitled way he always did.

"Apologies for the delay," Braydon said. His voice carried no actual remorse. "The merger documents required a final signature from legal."

Braydon walked straight toward the head of the table. He stopped right beside Easton's chair and held out the thick manila folder.

Easton did not look up at him. He was too busy trying to force air into his burning lungs. He reached out with his clean hand to take the file.

His fingertips brushed against the rough edge of