[BL] Transmigrated as the Villain CEO's Mermaid Secretary Chapter 65: The Weight of Pheromones and Confusing Feelings

More robots erged, placing small buckets beneath a cluster of bell-shaped flowers that hung from nearby vines. The flowers were heart-shaped—or rather, the bells were heart-shaped, creating a romantic silhouette against the foliage.

Is it the flowers?

The humming intensified, and Neville watched in fascination as the flowers began to... cry.

Transparent liquid welled up inside each bell, gathering at the bottom before spilling over. The droplets fell into the waiting buckets with soft plinking sounds, and as they did, a scent filled the air.

Vanilla. Pure, sweet vanilla.

"Vanilla?!" Neville shot to his feet, excitent overriding caution.

His knees hit the table before them. Pain radiated up his legs, but montum carried him forward anyway. He stumbled, arms windmilling, balance completely lost—

—and fell directly onto Grayson’s lap.

Ti seed to slow down. Neville beca acutely aware of several things simultaneously:

One: He was straddling Grayson’s thighs, his legs on either side of the man’s hips.

Two: His hands had landed on Grayson’s chest to catch himself, and he could feel muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt.

Three: Their faces were once again impossibly close, close enough that he could see the slight dilation of Grayson’s pupils, the barely perceptible hitch in his breathing.

Four: Grayson’s hands had automatically moved to steady him, gripping his waist with familiar ease, and the touch was burning through his clothes like a brand.

Five: He slled really, really good up close.

"I—" Neville’s voice ca out strangled. "This isn’t—I didn’t an to—"

Grayson’s thumbs moved in small circles against his waist. The gesture seed unconscious, soothing, completely at odds with the serious expression in his silver eyes.

"The Fanilya1 flowers," Grayson said, his voice deeper than before, "bloom once every three days. The sap they produce is one of the few natural sweeteners that doesn’t require processing."

Neville couldn’t process the words. His entire existence had narrowed to the point of contact between their bodies, the warmth seeping through his clothes, the way Grayson’s gaze kept dropping to his lips before dragging back up to et his eyes.

"You can order so if you want," Grayson continued, as if they were having a normal conversation. As if Neville wasn’t currently sitting in his lap in a position that could only be described as compromising. "Though the harvest is already underway, you might need to wait for the next bloom."

"Right." Neville swallowed hard. "The next bloom. Three days. Got it."

He should move.

He needed to move.

Any second now, he would definitely move.

Composing himself, Neville scrambled backward off Grayson’s lap, nearly falling again in his haste. Only Grayson’s steadying grip on his arms kept him upright.

"Sorry," Neville gasped. "I’m sorry, that was—I—the table was there. I didn’t see it, and then I tripped—"

"Hope." Grayson cut off his rambling with a single word. "It’s fine."

It wasn’t fine. Nothing about this was fine.

Neville’s face felt like it had been set on fire, and his heart was trying to escape through his chest. He was fairly certain his pheromones were leaking badly again that he was sure Grayson had slled them.

The butterfly-like creatures that had been hovering at a distance suddenly sward closer. They seed to have been attracted by the pheromone that had leaked slightly. One landed on Neville’s shoulder, its wings brushing his neck.

Grayson’s expression changed—sothing dark passed through his eyes before disappearing. He stood smoothly, plucked the butterfly off Neville’s shoulder with surprising gentleness, and released it back into the air.

"We should continue," he said nonchalantly. "There are still a few dos you haven’t seen."

Neville nodded mutely, not trusting what kind of voice would co out of his mouth.

They left the gazebo, left the crying Fanilya flowers, and their curious butterfly-like creatures. But Grayson didn’t reach for his hand again, and the absence left his heart at a loss.

He unconsciously frowned, but didn’t let it get into his head. He kept up a front and mindlessly followed behind Grayson.

...

The rest of the walk through the facility blurred into the scene. All the pink bubbles before seed to be just his pure imagination. Neville could hear himself aninglessly replying to anything that Grayson said and explained.

His mouth moved, words would form, but none of it registered to him. His mind disconnected from reality, deeply reflecting on his actions.

Grayson, who was walking beside him, caught a few things in his expression. He stopped, and Neville walked mindlessly until he bumped into him.

Typically, when Grayson looked at Neville after so close contact, Neville would have so kind of reaction. But today was different, Neville acted differently than before.

Before Grayson could even ask, Neville said, "Is this the end?"

Grayson closed his mouth and just nodded.

When they got out and walked towards the parking lot, Grayson called, "Hope."

"Yes, sir?" Neville turned back and smiled politely.

Grayson stared at Neville but could only say, "Nothing."

This atmosphere didn’t end with them leaving the facility. Neville climbed into the passenger seat with chanical movents.

Buckle fastened. Hands folded in lap. Eyes forward.

Grayson slid into the driver’s seat, and the engine humd to life. Earlier, Neville found this sound to be soothing. But right now, it only served to emphasize the heavy silence between them.

He pressed his temple against the cool glass. The vibration of the hovercar’s engines thrumd through his skull in an almost ditative rhythm. If he focused on that sensation—just that and nothing else—maybe he could stop thinking about everything he didn’t want to think about.

Neville clenched his fists in his lap, fingernails digging crescents into his palms. The small pain helped him, gave him sothing to focus on. He resisted the urge to massage his temples. The last thing he needed was Grayson asking if he was alright.

Because he wasn’t alright.

According to the original tiline, Grayson’s "love" for Elliot had been a pheromone dependency dressed up in romantic packaging. The high pheromone compatibility might have drawn them together initially, but what Grayson had felt wasn’t real affection.

It was imprinting—that alpha instinct to bond with a compatible oga—amplified by circumstances and proximity until it beca an obsession. In the end, Elliot chose Xavier and bonded, leaving Grayson to fend for himself. Dealing with the aftermath of an imprint that had never been real in the first place.

The system had been frustratingly vague about the small but important details, but Neville still knew that the process didn’t go as well as expected.

Grayson had spiraled. The tiline had collapsed under the weight of too many wrong choices compounding into catastrophe. Ultimately, the world ended in the hands of the ntally unstable Grayson.

So if Neville’s leaked pheromones affected Grayson now, if he let his traitorous oga traits do what it was apparently designed to do and lure in compatible alphas like Grayson... The thought of it made him feel despicable.

Sure, it might raise that favorability percentage. Might trigger whatever biological responses would make Grayson feel drawn to him, connected to him, possibly even imprinted on him. Easy route to mission completion, right?

Except that would make him no different from Elliot.

He would be using pheromones—intentionally or not—to manipulate Grayson’s feelings. Creating a false bond based on biology rather than genuine affection. Setting up another dood relationship that would eventually collapse when reality snapped back and Grayson realized his feelings weren’t actually his own.

The thought made him feel sick.

The hovercar began its descent, angling towards the dormitory.

For a mont, neither of them moved.

Neville’s hand found the door handle. He paused, so ingrained sense of politeness warring with his desperate need to escape.

"Thank you," he managed, the words coming out flatter than intended.

He didn’t wait for a response. He opened the door, turning on his heel and striding toward the building entrance. He didn’t look back. Didn’t let himself wonder what expression Grayson had, watching his employee flee like sothing was chasing him.

Neville made it approximately three steps into his apartnt before his legs gave out. Not dramatically—no collapsing or fainting—just a sudden absence of will to remain upright. He sat down hard on the sofa, then toppled backward to stare at the ceiling with unfocused eyes.

The ceiling was white. Smooth. Entirely unremarkable.

He stared at it like it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

Honestly, he was just tired.

His body was tired.

His mind was tired.

But most importantly, most devastatingly, his heart was tired.

That was the part that really got him. The emotional exhaustion went deeper than physical fatigue or ntal strain. The weariness that ca from caring too much about things he shouldn’t care about, feeling too much about people he needed to keep at a professional distance.

They had a good thing going already. Boss and employee. Professional colleagues with mutual respect and compatible work styles.

Grayson valued his competence. Neville appreciated Grayson’s direct communication and reasonable expectations. It was a functional relationship built on actual rit rather than pheromone compatibility.

Recklessly diving into confusing romantic signals would just muddy those waters. Would introduce variables neither of them needed. It would turn their stable professional dynamic into sothing ssy and complicated and probably dood from the start.

Better to maintain boundaries. Keep things clear and simple.

So what if he had developed feelings sowhere along the way? So what if working closely with Grayson for just a short ti had given him an appreciation for the man beyond his role as a target? So what if seeing Grayson had carved out a space in Neville’s chest that ached whenever Grayson was near?

It didn’t matter.

Feelings could be managed. Ignored. Suppressed with the sa determination Neville applied to everything else in his life.

"Let’s just say that I have a crush on him and be done with it," Neville muttered to the uncaring ceiling.

End of story. Moving on.

He could rest here.

Just for a mont.

Just until his heart stopped aching.

It looked like a heart-shaped bellflower, but it produces a clear sap that is vanilla.