Chapter 3 DROWNED IN CONFUSION

Zadkiel exhaled, a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding, the tension only easing after the thunk of the office door signaled Micha's exit. But her words – "Are you a man?" – lingered, a poisonous barb lodged deep, stirring a disquiet he'd never experienced.

It wasn't the insult; it was the question. He'd always defined himself by his ambition, his control, his detachment from emotional entanglements. Romance, relationships… they were distractions. Micha's utter failure to elicit any physical response, his internal void where desire should have been, was terrifyingly new. He'd never questioned his sexuality. It had simply been a non-issue. Until now.

'Nonsense,' he thought, the word a desperate denial rather than a conviction. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the unsettling thought. 'She's just a bitter, rejected employee.' He was Zadkiel Axton Mortel, CEO. He didn't have identity crises.

He was a man. And he had a date. A blind date, orchestrated by his mother, but a date nonetheless. Perhaps this was the universe's way of silencing Micha's words, of proving his… normality. He needed this date, not for romantic connection, but for self-validation.

"You've got a message!"

His younger brother's childish voice, captured years ago as his message alert, broke through his turmoil. A faint, genuine smile softened his lips. The recording was a link to a simpler past before the Mortel empire became his sole focus. It reminded him of a bond, strained by time and responsibility, but deeply cherished.

The message was from his mother:

AMC Hotel at 7:00 sharp.

The smile widened, tinged with a nervous anticipation. This date, however contrived, was an escape. A chance to step outside his rigid world and, perhaps, reconnect with a part of himself he'd suppressed. He checked his Patek Philippe – a symbol of his achievements, but also a marker of the relentless march of time. Time to go.

He meticulously straightened his desk, aligning the remaining documents with almost obsessive precision, then locked them in his hidden vault – a physical manifestation of his need for control, a control that felt increasingly precarious. He moved to his private lounge, a sanctuary adjoining his office.

His gaze landed on the television remote. He usually kept it tuned to financial news, a constant stream of data fueling his strategic mind. Occasionally, those reports were interrupted by entertainment segments, often gossiping about the wealthy and famous. He usually found these interruptions irritating, a waste of time.

"News flash!" a crisp, female voice announced. "The CEO of the AMC Group, Arkael Mitchel Casimiro, was spotted at one of his hotel establishments with someone in his arms…"

A photograph appeared: Arkael Casimiro, strikingly handsome, a man exuding power and a raw, almost magnetic charisma, carrying someone – their identity obscured – through a hotel lobby.

Zadkiel stared, and something shifted within him. A sensation, unfamiliar and unsettling, coiled in his gut. 'He's… beautiful,' his subconscious whispered a thought that sent a jolt of panic through him. He shook his head violently, a physical rejection of the thought.

Why am I even thinking that? The question was a terrified whisper in his mind. He'd never felt anything like this for another man. Never. This… this was a betrayal of everything he thought he knew about himself. A sharp, throbbing pain erupted behind his eyes. He pressed his palms against his temples, a desperate attempt to contain the internal chaos.

"Time to go!"

His brother's voice, his alarm, startled him. He needed to leave. This date, once a dreaded obligation, now felt like a desperate attempt at normalcy. He needed to focus on something, anything, other than the terrifying implications of his thoughts.

'Focus on the date,' he commanded himself. 'Be charming. Be… straight.'

He entered his private bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, staring at his reflection. His neatly trimmed hair, his sharp features, the intensity of his dark eyes… He looked the part of a successful, eligible bachelor. He was a successful, eligible bachelor. He just needed to act like one, to feel like one.

"Goodbye, Mr. Mortel, sir!" the security guard called out as Zadkiel exited his private elevator.

A curt nod was his only response, his mind a battlefield of conflicting emotions. He strode towards the private parking garage, where his Aston Martin waited – a symbol of his status, a shield against the world.

He retrieved his keys and started the engine, the powerful roar a temporary distraction. As he drove towards the AMC Hotel, his thoughts were a tangled mess.

A massive billboard loomed: Arkael Casimiro and his wife, smiling, radiant, close. "HAPPILY MARRIED!" the caption screamed.

Zadkiel's jaw clenched. 'Happily married, yet carrying someone else in his arms?' A surge of anger, disproportionately intense, flooded him. He scoffed.' Hypocrite.' But beneath the anger, a sharp, undeniable pang resonated in his chest. A pang of… jealousy?

The thought was so foreign, so wrong, that he almost swerved the car. 'What is happening to me?' He dismissed it, desperately clinging to the idea that it was righteous indignation on behalf of the betrayed wife. He had to. The alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.

He arrived at the AMC Hotel, his mood a volatile cocktail of anger, confusion, and a growing, terrifying self-awareness.

A valet, in a crisp uniform, signaled him forward.

"Good evening, sir," the valet greeted him.

Zadkiel stopped, opened the door, and stepped out, tossing the keys to the valet without a word. His abruptness was a reflection of his inner turmoil.

"Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?" the receptionist asked, her smile professionally unwavering.

"Reservation under Zadkiel Mortel," he replied, his voice tight, his gaze sweeping the opulent lobby, searching… for what, he couldn't say.

"One moment, please," the receptionist responded, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

Zadkiel's eyes caught sight of a couple embracing passionately near the entrance. The sight, normally unremarkable, ignited a fresh wave of something dark and complex within him. His blood felt like ice, then fire.

"Sir," the receptionist said hesitantly, "there is a table reservation for two, but it's under the name Axton Mortel…" She lowered her voice, nervously biting her lip.

"That's still me," Zadkiel snapped, his patience at its breaking point.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir, but… could I see some identification, please?" The receptionist stammered, her eyes wide with fear. "It's… standard procedure."

"Are you accusing me of identity theft?" Zadkiel's voice rose, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

"No! No, sir, of course not! It's just… hotel policy…" the receptionist trembled, her face ashen.

"What's the problem here?" a deep, resonant voice intervened.

Zadkiel's fists clenched tighter. He knew that voice. He slowly turned, his eyes meeting those of Arkael Mitchel Casimiro.

Him. The man from the news. The man from the billboard. The man who, inexplicably, was the epicenter of this emotional earthquake within him. The man his body, betraying his mind, seemed to recognize.

"Talk to your receptionist, Mr. Casimiro," Zadkiel said, his voice dangerously low, the words a struggle against the turmoil churning inside him. "She seems to believe I'm an imposter."

Arkael stepped forward, his expression apologetic. "I apologize for the inconvenience, sir. Please understand, it's standard procedure…" He hadn't recognized the man at first. But now, looking closer, at the sharp jawline, the intense, dark eyes… a jolt, a visceral thrum of recognition, shot through him.

Zadkiel, still seething, reached for his wallet, extracted a gold-plated identification card, and practically threw it onto the reception desk.

The receptionist's eyes widened to saucers as she read: Zadkiel Axton Mortel, CEO, Mortel Group. Her face went completely white.

Arkael picked up the card, his gaze lingering on the name. Zadkiel Axton Mortel… A name that whispered from a past he'd thought lost, a name that echoed with a forgotten intimacy. He looked up, meeting Zadkiel's eyes, and recognition slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. The eyes, the jaw, the faint scar above the left eyebrow… It was him. It had to be.

"Zadkiel…?" Arkael said, the name a breathless whisper, a question, and a revelation all at once. He saw the confusion in Zadkiel's eyes, the blankness. Of course. He wouldn't remember. He'd been just a kid.

"You're Mr. Mortel, of the Mortel Group," Arkael said, forcing a neutral tone, masking the emotional tsunami that had just crashed over him. His brother. His lost brother was standing before him, radiating an anger and a… something else… that Arkael couldn't quite decipher, but felt drawn to nonetheless.

"I am," Zadkiel replied curtly, his confusion deepening. Why was this man staring at him with such intensity? Why did his voice hold that… strange quality? "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a reservation."

"Uh, yes, the sixth floor, Mr. Mortel," the receptionist stammered, her head bowed in shame.

Zadkiel snatched his ID back, shoved it into his shirt pocket, and turned to leave, every muscle tense, every nerve on high alert.

"Wait!" Arkael called out, reaching out a hand instinctively, desperate to stop him. He couldn't let him just walk away. Not now. Not after all this time.

Zadkiel stopped, turning back, his expression a volatile mix of annoyance, confusion, and something else… something that made Arkael's breath catch in his throat. "What?" he asked, his voice sharp, almost a challenge.

"I… I apologize again," Arkael said, improvising, struggling to maintain a calm facade. He needed time. He needed to figure out how to navigate this… this miracle. "Let me… personally escort you to your table."

"I can find my way," Zadkiel retorted, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. This man, this stranger, was affecting him in ways he couldn't comprehend, arousing feelings he'd never experienced, and it terrified him. "I don't need your help." His body, however, seemed to disagree, a subtle tremor running through him.

"Come on," Arkael persisted, forcing a casual tone, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "aren't we both men? No need to be so… defensive." He gestured towards the elevators. "Follow me." He pressed the button for his private elevator, a detail that registered even through Zadkiel's inner chaos. But when Arkael turned around, Zadkiel was gone.

Arkael stood there, staring at the space, a whirlwind of emotions – disbelief, joy, frustration, and a profound, aching sense of loss – crashing over him. His brother. After all these years… He'd found him. And he'd let him slip away.

That man… he's my brother, Arkael thought, the realization solidifying, a truth that resonated deep within his soul. And he has no idea. He needed a plan. He needed to tell him, to bridge the chasm of years, of lost memories, of separate lives. He was, after all, his older brother. But there was something else, too. A pull, an attraction, that he couldn't deny, an attraction that complicated everything.

Meanwhile, Zadkiel was pressed against a wall in a secluded alcove, trying to control his breathing, to make sense of the emotional maelstrom that Arkael Casimiro had unleashed. He couldn't understand his reactions. The anger, the confusion, the undeniable, terrifying attraction. It was all so foreign, so wrong, so… intense.

He closed his eyes, and took deep breaths, trying to regain control.

'I am a man,' he repeated like a desperate mantra.' A straight man.' He just needed to get through this date. He needed to prove it. To himself, more than anyone.