The Heartthrob Reborn as the Abandoned Omega in a Rich Family

The scene Eric found himself in seemed like a vignette detached from reality—a strange play unfolding in a realm of half-sleep and confusion. He lounged on the overstuffed couch, his mind heavy as if submerged in deep waters, a relentless force drawing him under. The scent of incense lingered, casting a hypnotic spell that weighted down his eyelids. Suddenly, a piercing beeping noise jolted him upright. Heart racing as if it might burst from his chest, Eric struggled to fit the pieces of his situation together. Wasn't he just drifting off in Catherine’s office a moment ago? Yet here he was, a heart monitor clamp attached to his pinky and an oxygen mask pressed against his face. His blurry gaze caught the frenetic dance of an EKG line on a nearby screen, a visual testament to his rapid heartbeat. "Woken up, I see?" The voice—a low, indifferent murmur—cut through the haze of his thoughts. Turning his eyes slowly, Eric saw a man seated with a kind of casual elegance, an unreadable expression on his face. Was he somehow in need of rescue? Trying to piece together the scene, Eric yanked the mask down and blinked hard to clear his vision. The man before him was all sharp contours and cold beauty—a striking figure with disdain etched into every exquisite feature. "Even if you've swallowed sleeping pills, we're still going through with this divorce," the man stated, depositing a crisp sheet of paper on the table with a deliberate motion. Divorce? Eric's mind whirled in defiance of common sense. Surely, he was caught in some fantastical dream; this couldn't be logical. With as much decorum as he could muster, he flopped back onto the bed, its springs creaking in protest. The man's eyebrows quirked at his dramatic display, yet the eyes that followed Eric to his retreat were cool, detached. As he stood to leave, he cut a striking figure—tall and athletic, the tailored ensemble hugging his form like a custom glove, exuding an air of restrained power. His presence evoked the lingering, biting aroma of S++-grade alpha pheromones—a rarity, hinting at the extremes of nature's primal theatre. Eric had encountered such an intensity only in the pages of fiction, the same indomitable essence ascribed to the protagonist in a scandalous novel he’d recently read—Brad Hagen, the name whispered as a synesthetic echo in this moment of madness. As the man strode out, leaving a wake of frost-bitten charm, Eric remained bed-bound, reeling from his encounter with the uncanny. Eventually untangling himself from the confines of medical paraphernalia, Eric approached the table. The lone document lay like a silent sentinel amidst the day’s surreal proceedings—a stark incarnation of what was once unimaginable. He picked up the paper, eyes locked on the title screaming back at him: **Divorce Agreement**. His gaze dropped to the signature at the bottom, an act that seemed to momentarily stop his heart. "Brad Hagen?!" The name, familiar and utterly disorienting, was a gut punch from reality's shadow. As Eric stood there, the sting of truth mingling with absurdity, the universe, ever-teasing, seemed content to stir the pot a bit longer.