Omega’s Flaw (Prime Match #5)

Chapter 1

The headline is huge and bold against the glare of my screen: CROOKED CRANES: Three Generations of Corruption. And underneath, in smaller text that makes my stomach flip: By Jamie Dean.

That’s my byline. My work. Months of late nights and cold coffee and nervous sources. Months of dead ends and near-misses and one terrifying night when I was certain someone was following me home. Now it's real and it’s everywhere.

The Times ran it above the fold, print and digital. They gave me five thousand words and a promise of legal protection, and in exchange I gave them the story that could bring down one of the most powerful political dynasties in American history.

I’m sitting on the sofa, my laptop balanced on my knees.

On the TV on the opposite wall, CNN is running a segment on the offshore accounts.

I pick up the remote and click over to MSNBC where they have a panel discussing the bribery allegations.

Even Fox is covering it, though their angle is different.

I don't care. They're still talking about it. They're all talking about it.

They’re talking about my story. I’ve done my time in the tabloid trenches waiting for the chance to finally make it into serious journalism. It’s finally happened. Now that it’s finally here, it’s a little hard to believe.

I can't stop watching. I’ve brought down the damn Cranes.

Senator Carter Crane II appears on screen, stepping up to a podium bristling with microphones.

Senator Crane’s face has graced the front of every major newspaper and magazine in the country. It’s no secret that he’s been preparing himself for a presidential run and that his son Carter Crane III is preparing to take over his father’s seat in the senate.

The senator’s used to playing to the press with a broad grin and easy charm but today, the harsh camera lights carve deep shadows under his eyes, and for the first time, he looks every day of his sixty-two years. Despite the obvious strain he must be under, his voice is steady.

"These allegations are baseless," he says firmly. "It is nothing more than a desperate attempt by a tabloid journalist to make a name for himself at the expense of a family that has served this country for three generations."

Tabloid journalist. The words should sting more than they do. Maybe I don’t care because they used to be accurate.

Until a few weeks ago when they unceremoniously fired me, the Daily Scoop paid my salary.

I’m not particularly proud of my tabloid days but not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths.

Senator Crane is always going on about ‘hardworking Americans’ who ‘pull themselves up by their bootstraps’. Well, Senator, I did just that. I worked my ass off to expose your bullshit. If he wasn’t such a thundering hypocrite, he’d respect that.

Unlike him, I need a job to pay my bills. I inherited a lot of things from my mother – a decent work ethic, strong morals, my brown eyes – but she left me nothing financially. Every asset she had was sold to pay her medical bills.

As for my father, the last time I saw him, he was sleeping rough under a bridge upstate. I got my hair from him and my jawline, but nothing else.

Besides, the Times has my byline now. I'm not a tabloid hack anymore, no matter what Senator Crane wants to call me. He’s a corrupt megalomaniac and he should have been taken to task years ago.

My phone buzzes on the cushion beside me.

I thumb open the screen and read the text.

It’s another interview request, this one from a podcast I've never heard of.

I set it face-down again. That's the fourteenth one today. I’ve accepted seven interviews of the fourteen, all from big name media. Jamie Dean is hot stuff.

The Senator continues his statement, his wife standing just behind his right shoulder.

I did a deep dive on her early in the investigation but I didn’t find anything.

Elizabeth Crane is old money and good breeding, the kind of woman who chairs charity galas and never says anything controversial.

She watches her husband speak with a polite smile on her face that says there is nothing to worry about.

Catherine Crane—Kate—is standing slightly apart from her parents, arms crossed.

Krazy Kate, the tabloids call her, when they're not calling her worse things.

She's the one the gossip columns love to photograph falling out of clubs at 2am.

Right now she looks like she'd rather be anywhere else and slightly irritated, like they dragged her out of bed to be there. They probably did.

And there's the son.

Carter Crane III steps into frame, and I find myself leaning forward.

He's tall and broad-shouldered. Even filtered through a screen, there's something commanding about him.

He stands with his hands clasped in front of him, and he doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. His presence alone says everything: the dynasty stands united. If anything, his expression is one of slight boredom, like my story is just one more nuisance to be swatted away.

Crane the third is ridiculously good looking, just like his father. Almost too good looking. He’s even got his own fan club. Crane’s Dames.

For a split second, I wonder if he was at the same masquerade ball that I was at just before Christmas.

Nope. No chance. Forget it, Dean. It was someone else.

Finally, the press conference ends. I switch channels on the TV and open Twitter on my laptop, scrolling through the reactions.

My story is the top trend. People are calling for criminal charges. A few are calling me a hero. A few more are calling me worse things. I try not to linger on either.

The spare bedroom door creaks open, and my roommate Akari emerges wrapped in her ratty bathrobe, hair twisted up in a towel. The scent of apple shampoo and moisturizing cream wafts off of her. She peers over at my screen.

"You’re still top of the news, huh?" she asks.

I grin at her, "Oh yeah."

She drops onto the couch beside me. "You should be popping champagne and doing a victory lap. Why aren’t you out celebrating instead of sitting here in the dark?"

I don't have an answer for her. Or rather, I do, but it doesn't make sense. This is the biggest story of my career. The biggest story of most journalists' careers. I exposed genuine corruption at the highest levels of government. I did something that matters.

And I can't stop thinking about a party three weeks ago.

"I'm fine," I tell her. "Just processing. This is huge."

"Processing." She draws the word out, skeptical. "You've been 'processing' for hours. Have you eaten anything?"

I try to remember. "I had coffee."

"That's not food." She stands, heading for the kitchen. "I'm making you toast. And then you're going to tell me what's actually going on in that head of yours."

I don't argue. There's no point arguing with Akari when she's in caretaker mode. I listen to her banging around in the kitchen and let my mind drift back to the Swanson gala.

I didn’t even want to go, but my boss at the Scoop wanted gossip.

The ballroom was completely over the top: crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, politicians and donors circling each other in an elaborate dance of money and influence. The whole room reeked of alpha posturing, that particular musk that wealthy powerful men seem to exude like a territorial marker.

And then.

I'd been standing near the bar when it hit me. A scent. Beautiful and sharp like winter air before a snowfall. It cut through the cloying perfume of the crowd and wrapped around me and made my eyes roll back in my head.

I'm not registered with the Bureau. Never have been. I've had heats and I’ve managed them alone or with partners I chose myself. I've never once felt the need to let some government agency tell me who I should bond with.

As far as I’m concerned, the Omega Match Bureau is a symptom of everything that is wrong about how the government treats omegas.

But that scent. God, that scent.

I turned, searching for the source, but the room was packed. There were bodies everywhere, all of them dancing or packed in tight chattering groups. I couldn't pin it down. I tried to follow but the scent slipped away from me. There and then gone.

I can’t stop thinking about it. For the first time in my life, I’m genuinely considering registering at the Bureau, letting them take my bloodwork so they can see if there is a so-called perfect match in the system.

What if the alpha who belongs to that scent is in there? It might be the easiest way to find him.

I shake the thought away. A random scent match is the last thing I should be focusing on right now.

"Toast," Akari announces, dropping a plate onto my lap. "Eat."

I take a bite to appease her. It tastes like heaven. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. It’s gone in a couple of bites and I find myself looking at the empty plate wistfully, wishing for more.

"Better." She settles back onto the couch, tucking her feet up under her. "Now. Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Jamie." Her voice is gentle but firm. "I've known you for four years. I know when something's eating at you. Is it the story? Are you worried about blowback?"

I shake my head. "The story's solid. Every source is verified, every document authenticated. Let them try to poke holes. They won't find any."

"Then what?"

I can’t tell her about that scent. I just can’t. Akari is a beta. She won’t understand, not really.

I open my mouth to deflect again, but my phone buzzes before I can speak. I glance at the screen, expecting another podcast request. I freeze.

It’s my editor at the Daily Scoop. Or rather, my former editor, considering she cut me loose rather than risk antagonising the mighty Cranes.

"Hold on," I tell Akari, and answer the call. "Hello?"

"You backstabbing little shit.” Marjorie says, her voice shrill enough that it sends a shiver down my spine. “You gave the story to the Times? To the fucking Times?"