CONAN Group was one of the most powerful corporations in the country. As its CEO, Dashiel Nilsson intended to keep it that way.

He'd taken the helm at twenty-five. Now, at forty-eight, he had grown the company his grandfather had fought to build into something far greater than the old man could have imagined.

"Sir, President Wilson from SILEM has requested a meeting to discuss the joint venture between our two companies." His assistant's voice drifted through the intercom. The man had deep circles under his eyes and a look of permanent fatigue — there had been too much work lately for anything resembling rest.

"Call him and tell him I'll meet with him in three hours," Dashiel said, his voice low and steady. At forty-eight, he still looked younger than his years, though the toll of relentless work showed in the sharpness of his features. His pale blue eyes carried faint shadows beneath them, and his black hair — threaded with silver at the temples — was slightly disheveled.

"Sir, are you sure three hours is best? You have three other meetings to attend, and you know how those tend to run long," the assistant ventured cautiously.

Dashiel lifted his gaze from the documents spread across his desk, glanced at his watch, then stood and reached for his jacket.

"Call him. Tell him we'll meet at his office in three hours. As for the other meetings, I'll make sure each one ends on time." He pulled on his jacket and headed for the door.

The assistant sighed in resignation. He had a feeling he'd be working himself into the ground again today.

As they walked toward the conference room, employees — women especially — couldn't help staring at Dashiel's tall frame. Most of them couldn't fathom how a man that handsome hadn't found a wife and started a family by now. Then again, they had to admit they wouldn't be eager to marry someone who seemed surgically fused to his company.

Dashiel entered the conference room where the executives were already assembled. The low buzz of conversation died the instant he walked in. He crossed the room without glancing at anyone, took his seat, checked his watch once more, and let his blue eyes sweep over the people sitting around the table. Their expressions tightened under his gaze.

When they saw him check his watch, every executive in the room understood: the clock was already ticking.

"Gentlemen, each of you has a maximum of five minutes to present the topics that need to be addressed. Now that we're clear on that — let's begin." The words drew a collective look of we saw this coming before the first speaker launched in.

Over the next three hours, Dashiel and his assistant moved from one meeting to the next in quick succession. By the time the last internal meeting ended, the poor assistant wore the expression of a man who'd been raised from the dead. Three hours didn't sound like much, but the pressure had been intense enough that he was sure he'd collapse at any second.

"Sir, Mr. William's assistant informed me that he's reserved a private dining room at a restaurant for your meeting. I'm sending you the address now."

"Tell him we'll be there as soon as possible." Dashiel was already in his office, gathering the documents he'd need for the meeting with Mr. William. As he finished loading them into his briefcase, his phone buzzed with a message. It was from his sister. An invitation to a family dinner. Dashiel didn't finish reading it before he turned off his phone.

He didn't have time for that sort of thing.

In an elegantly appointed private dining room, Dashiel sat across from Mr. William. After receiving his sister's message and shutting off his phone, he'd headed straight to the restaurant with his assistant in tow.

Mr. William was a man of about sixty, his hair entirely silver, his face carrying the expression of a wise and kindly grandfather. Beside him sat a woman in her fifties — poised, with a warm smile and a professional bearing. According to what Dashiel knew, she had been Mr. William's assistant for years.

"Dashiel Nilsson, it's been a while since we've spoken. I believe the last time we saw each other was at CONAN Group's fiftieth anniversary celebration — I was invited, what, four years ago?" Mr. William studied Dashiel as he spoke. He had known Dashiel's parents. The late Mr. and Mrs. Nilsson had been an enviable couple, both successful, supporting each other in every aspect of their lives. Tragically, they had left the world too soon. Fortunately, their children had proven more than capable of continuing — and improving — the legacy they'd left behind.

"That's right, it has been a long time. I'm glad we're meeting again with the aim of having our companies work together," Dashiel replied with a measured smile.

Mr. William laughed. "You're just like your father when it comes to business — neither of you wastes a second before getting straight to the point."

"I suppose you're right about that," Dashiel said, his expression unchanged. He had no taste for idle conversation. He preferred to steer things toward the topics that actually mattered.

"Mr. William, I've brought the documents we'll need for our discussion. Why don't you take a look?" He handed a set of papers to his assistant, who passed them along.

Mr. William sighed with a hint of resignation as he accepted the documents.

After reaching an agreement on the terms of their collaboration and the benefits both companies would reap, they sealed the conversation with a handshake.

"I'm surprised Mr. Dashiel Nilsson still isn't married," Mr. William's wife remarked as they walked to the car.

"As I said — he's just like his father. If the late Mr. Nilsson ever managed to get married, it was entirely thanks to the late Mrs. Nilsson's initiative." Mr. William chuckled at the memory of the Nilsson wedding. The bride had marched down the aisle with the bearing of someone who'd just won a hard-fought campaign. Many had predicted the marriage wouldn't last, but time had proven them all wrong. Somehow, the two had become a remarkably harmonious couple.

"I'm afraid the only way a Nilsson man will ever end up in a happy marriage is if the right partner finds him first," Mr. William said, patting his wife's hand gently. She smiled at his words and thought he was probably right.

Dashiel was in his car heading back to the office when his assistant took a call. The general manager had failed to report certain irregularities, and the resulting problems — while not critical — had caused delays.

"Sir, what should we do?" the assistant asked, his voice flat with resignation. He was absolutely certain he'd be getting home extremely late tonight.

"Tell everyone I want them back in the conference room. Nobody leaves until this is resolved," Dashiel said, his voice hard as he pressed his fingers against his temples. These kinds of trivial problems hadn't happened when Ciel Cowell held the general manager position. And if they had, Cowell would have handled them without Dashiel needing to lift a finger. Unfortunately, Cowell was long gone. Dashiel had already cycled through three replacements, and while none of them were incompetent, none of them met his standards.

When they arrived at the office, Dashiel didn't even stop by his private suite. He went straight to the conference room.

The rest of the day dissolved into paperwork, meetings, and an endless stream of fires to put out. Instead of going home, he stayed in the small apartment built into his office — a bedroom with an oversized bed and a bathroom, plus a modest sitting area. He was so exhausted that after showering, he skipped dinner entirely, collapsed onto the mattress, and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

The rest of the week was more of the same. The entire company was buried under an avalanche of work. By six o'clock on Friday evening, most employees had finished their shifts and gone home.

At the building's entrance, a striking woman with blonde hair and blue eyes walked through the lobby with the confidence of someone who owned the place. Every person she passed greeted her with respect — they all knew exactly who she was.

Dashiel Nilsson's younger sister, Cristina Nilsson.

Her blue eyes swept the reception area like a hawk scanning for prey, locking onto Dashiel's assistant.

The assistant felt a chill run through him the moment he caught her gaze. His boss could be terrifying on occasion, but he didn't sustain that piercing stare the way Cristina seemed to, even among family.

He walked over and greeted her respectfully.

"Good evening, ma'am. How can I help you?" he asked, already knowing the answer. He was certain she'd come for his boss — and that brought a wave of relief. It had been days since Dashiel had pried himself away from his desk. At this rate, the man was going to collapse.

"Good evening. I'm here to see my brother," she said, already striding toward the elevator. The assistant hurried to follow.

"Allow me to escort you, ma'am—"

"That won't be necessary. I know the way." She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for Dashiel's floor. As the doors closed, Cristina checked her watch and ran a hand through her blonde hair with a sigh.

She had called Dashiel roughly forty times and sent about sixty messages over the course of the week. He hadn't deigned to respond to a single one. She didn't doubt he was busy with the company, but she knew that when he went completely silent — not even a cursory reply — his obsession with work had spiraled past the point where someone needed to physically drag him out of the cycle.

The elevator doors opened. Cristina stepped out and headed for Dashiel's office. She knocked once, waited five seconds, and opened the door.

Just as she'd expected, Dashiel was completely absorbed in his work. His desk was buried under papers while he typed away at his computer without pause.

She cleared her throat loudly. He didn't look up.

"Cristina? When did you get here?" Dashiel asked, finally noticing his sister standing in front of his desk.

Cristina couldn't help rolling her eyes. The word work was tattooed on this man's brain, rendering everything else meaningless.

"I'm here to take you to dinner at my house tonight. And I'm not taking no for an answer," she said, fixing him with that piercing stare.

Dashiel sighed when he heard his sister's words.

"I'm busy right now, Cristina," he said, pulling off his reading glasses and rubbing his eyes.

"Busy? Tell me something, Dashiel — when's the last time you went home to rest? Have you even looked in a mirror? You look terrible. Like some kind of work-obsessed maniac. I'm saying this for your own good — you need to stop running yourself into the ground, or you're going to destroy your health." Cristina walked around the desk and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"So stand up, grab your jacket, and let's go. I have clothes for you at my place. You can shower and have dinner with us."

"How about I finish this first and catch up with you later? I really do need to get it done." He regretted the words the instant he saw Cristina's blue eyes fill with tears.

"Do you want to spend the rest of your life making me worry about you? Dashiel, I'm sure the company won't go bankrupt if you step away long enough to rest. I run Mom's cosmetics company, and on top of that I have time to raise my kids and take care of myself — and you know perfectly well I've done a good job of it. How is it possible that you can't take even a little time for yourself? I don't want to lose you too." She pressed her hands to her face as tears streaked through her makeup.

Dashiel couldn't bear to see her like that. Watching people cry had always been one of his weaknesses, especially when those people were close to him.

"All right. I promise I'll start resting more often." He meant it, though even he wasn't sure he'd keep the promise.

"Perfect! Then let's go — everyone's waiting for us at home." Her voice was bright with enthusiasm, as if the melodramatic crying scene from moments ago had never happened. Dashiel rolled his eyes at the whiplash. Tears were one of Cristina's most reliable tools for getting what she wanted from him. He shook his head with a private laugh, pulled on his jacket, and followed her as she strode triumphantly toward the door.

After a ten-minute drive, they arrived at Cristina's house — a modern two-story home in one of the safer neighborhoods in the city.

When they stepped inside, they were greeted by her younger son, who was around twelve. The boy hadn't seen his uncle in a while and immediately launched into a breathless recap of everything happening in his soccer practice until Cristina cut him off.

"Mateo, can you come help me set the table? Mom would really appreciate it."

The boy scurried off to help.

"And you — go take a shower. There are clothes in the guest room you can use." She pointed Dashiel toward the stairs before heading to the kitchen for plates.

Dashiel didn't argue. He went to the room she'd indicated and straight into the bathroom. After his shower, he noticed his stubble had gotten out of hand. Luckily, there were fresh razors of his usual brand waiting for him. Dashiel smiled — his sister really had thought of everything. He picked one up and shaved.

Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist, found clothes in the closet, and got dressed. Once he was satisfied that he looked presentable, he stepped into the hallway.

As he passed his niece's room, he saw the door standing wide open. The walls were painted purple and white, the floor covered in plush carpet, and every available surface was plastered with images of Asian pop stars and animated characters he didn't recognize in the slightest. Seated at her desk with her back to him, his niece appeared to be reading something.

Dashiel walked up behind her. Years of scanning dense corporate documents had trained him to read a page at a glance, so absorbing the two pages open in front of her took no effort at all.

What he read, however, made no sense.

"What's an omega?" he asked without thinking.

"AAAHHH!" Felicia screamed, startled by the sudden voice behind her. She relaxed when she realized it was her uncle. "You scared me! When did you get here?"

"A few minutes ago. Your door was open, so I came in to say hello. But tell me — what's this omega business? And what do they mean in that book when they say he can be pregnant?" Dashiel frowned, genuinely confused.

Felicia, in her fifteen years of life, had never once imagined that her workaholic uncle would ask her this kind of question. Still, there was a certain thrill in knowing she could lecture him on a subject where he was completely clueless, and she couldn't resist playing the expert.

She cleared her throat and launched into an explanation of the omegaverse with the gravity of someone defending a thesis — complete with diagrams and mind maps on the small whiteboard in her room.

By the time she finished, her throat dry from talking, she caught the look on her uncle's face: completely serious and deeply unsettled.

She worried she might have short-circuited his brain with too much information.