Unbreak Me (Fate’s Choice #3)

DAY

The first person I saw upon entering the auction-and-fair building was Storm Nolan. He was waiting for me by the VIP gates on the side, like some self-appointed greeter to the gates of hell. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine—elegant, polished, unnecessarily handsome—and my irritation instantly spiked. He was the only reason I ended up in this horrible place, and rightly so I had come here with an attitude.

The employee of the matchmaking agency fixed me with his strange luminescent eyes and a well-practiced smile. He maintained an air of civility, but our last encounter had been anything but warm. Yet here we were, both stuck in this awkward charade of cooperation because my deal with Fate's Choice was circling the drain.

"Good morning, Mr. Sanderson. Pleasure to see you," he greeted me, keeping it official.

"Doubt that," I muttered under my breath. Predictably, his perfect smile didn’t falter. It was like he’d spent years perfecting that exact expression in a mirror.

"I’m thrilled to report that I’ve arranged a nice, secluded spot for you in the hall," he continued, gesturing vaguely toward the area where the freak show—I mean fair—was about to begin.

Instead of peace, I chose war.

"A secluded spot? Is that your idea of helping my case? Hiding me in the back row while your precious, flawless omegas take center stage?" Sure, it was a bit much, but who cared?

This man had practically blackmailed me into showing up, so I wasn’t about to make his day pleasant.

For the briefest moment, I saw a flicker of frustration cross his face. Good.

"That’s not it," he still managed to sound conciliatory. "It’s actually a good spot—just less crowded. More comfortable for you."

I grimaced and looked away. Sure, let’s call it comfort, not damage control . I still found it hard to believe he genuinely wanted to help me. The guy showed up here because his company was desperate to fix their colossal fiasco of matching me with a partner, not because I mattered to him—all he cared about was salvaging their reputation. And saving them money.

Storm hesitated as if he wanted to add something, then thought better of it. My sour, hostile expression wasn’t exactly an invitation to friendly conversation. With a resigned sigh, he waved me along.

"Let’s… just get the formalities over with," he muttered.

I followed him silently through a side corridor to his office, where I was expected to sign even more meaningless paperwork for my already doomed deal. But Storm was my case guardian, and unfortunately, I was obligated to at least pretend to cooperate.

Outside his office, a line of client assistants attended to a crowd of alphas, betas, and omegas, all of them looking tight-faced with anxiety. No doubt, most of their big dreams of landing the perfect marriage contract were about to collide with reality—except for a lucky few.

We bypassed them and slipped through a side door into a dimly lit office.

As we entered, I flinched slightly under the glare of two sharp daggers—a pair of dark eyes. In the corner, on a small sofa, sat an omega radiating as much hostility as I was, if not more. Unlike me, though, he had something going for him: a gorgeous body, long platinum hair, and flawless features. A walking advertisement for winning the genetic lottery.

We exchanged glances, and I attempted a small, polite nod, only to be met with… nothing. His face remained as unmoving as carved stone. Seriously? Screw this guy.

"Mr. Sanderson, this is Star Daniels, another client I’m assigned to," Nolan explained, clearing his throat. The omega didn’t so much as blink. He seemed more like an ice sculpture than a living person. "Mr. Daniels is waiting here for the fair to start, since he traveled a long way and had to arrive early—"

"Sure, sure, don’t care," I cut him off, refusing to look at the human icicle. He hadn’t nodded back at me, so I didn’t owe him anything. Besides, everything about him annoyed me already—his perfect face, his aloof vibe, and the fact that he could probably sneeze and still look like art. "Let’s just get this over with."

Storm blinked, his eyes darting between me and Daniels, who seemed unfazed by my rudeness. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he turned to his desk.

There, he bent down to rifle through a drawer, looking slightly ridiculous given how absurdly tall he was. After a moment, he pulled out some documents and handed them to me. I couldn't help but notice that he was wearing super-thin, skin-colored gloves, which struck me as odd.

I signed the papers without a word, making sure to thoroughly wipe my hands on my pants afterward. Who knew why he wore those gloves? Maybe he had a fungal infection on his nails or something—I wasn’t taking any chances.

Storm filed the signed documents neatly into a folder, sealing my fate. Not that I had much choice. My deal with the matchmaking agency was tricky, and without attending this fair, Fate’s Choice could refuse to pay the penalty they owed me. That didn’t change the fact that in six months, they hadn’t found me a single decent match, let alone a husband. And I was furious.

A few days ago, Storm had shown up at my house to deliver an ultimatum: my last chance was to participate in an open marital contract fair they organized monthly. It was clear how ridiculously desperate they were to avoid paying the fine.

The idea of sitting in a glass booth while people gawked at me like a circus exhibit was horrifying. It felt too much like an old-fashioned slave auction. Sure, marriage contracts weren’t the same—they were modern business agreements with rules, expectations, and lawyers to keep everything tidy. Still, the whole setup screamed a dehumanizing spectacle.

That said, I took some small comfort in the legal protections. At least I was shielded from mistreatment plus secured financially, and that was the main reason I’d agreed to use their overpriced services in the first place.

At the end of the weekend, if no one showed interest in me, Fate’s Choice would have to pay me a hefty sum. I came here, right? No legal loophole would allow them to wriggle out of paying the fine now. That was the bottom line.

I crossed my arms with an impatient grimace. Storm gave me one of those measured looks that probably came straight from his training manual.

"I see you’re not very positive about this fair, but please try to muster some optimism. Body language, a smile, even your attire—they make a big difference. They really affect how many potential candidates might show interest."

Should I make things harder for him? Absolutely.

"Again with the suggestion that I’m not good enough as I am to attract a husband?" I asked with a sly grin. "Sorry I’m such a gruesome sight. I guess I have to accept that we’re not meant to be." And… I even threw in a fake sob for good measure.

Storm’s glowing eyes darkened slightly. I was really making him work for his paycheck.

The first time he’d pitched this fair to me, a few days ago, he’d had the nerve to suggest I stop taking pheromone suppressants to ‘improve my chances’. It was a rather insolent observation that my looks weren’t enough to catch anyone’s attention. There was no way I was letting him forget that slip-up.

Then came a brief pause as he tried to maintain his professional facade with every ounce of his strength.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "I’m not saying that. But you know… there’s always room for improvement. For everyone." His gaze flickered to my sneakers, then back to my face.

Automatically, my eyes shifted to Star Daniels, who was scrutinizing me like I was some old nag that had wandered into the big city. His outfit was the polar opposite of mine: a sheer black mesh blouse paired with leather pants so tight they could’ve been painted on. And his makeup? Impeccable.

Then I glared at his elegant mid-calf boots. They were shiny.

Oh, well.

"We have spare suits here if you’d like," Nolan muttered, "and some shoes…"

"Not interested. I’m perfect as I am!" I pouted, just to rub it in.

Okay, fine—his concern wasn’t entirely unwarranted. I was rocking a dull gray sweater, black sweatpants, and sneakers that had seen better days. The whole drab ensemble did absolutely nothing for me—my complexion already hovered somewhere between ‘sickly’ and ‘zombie-like’.

But why should I even bother? This stupid fair was their idea! There was no way any of the wealthy, vain alphas searching for pretty virgins would want to buy out my matrimonial contract. And they were the main contract buyers at such events—not exactly my type! This was all ridiculous, and I came here with a certain mindset already. Fate’s Choice would pay me the penalty. I was gonna make sure of that!

Nolan stared at me for a moment, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something, then closing again. He probably knew deep down that I was a hopeless case, and he wasn’t wrong.

"Well, it’s your decision," he said at last, with the tone of a man washing his hands of a problem. "In any case, I’ll try to direct suitable candidates your way. But, you know… a lot depends on your, um, attitude."

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered. "Since I’m just oozing charm, I’m sure finding my ‘prince charming’ will be a breeze. Now let’s get to it."

Those unnaturally bright turquoise eyes locked on me again, like he was trying to see past my snarky exterior. Maybe he could? I was hardly a mystery: a leftover omega in my thirties with a weird past and a grumpy personality—not exactly a dream package. He probably pitied me, seeing that bitterness had basically become my defining character trait.

But who wouldn’t be a little cranky after what I’d been through?

My fingers wandered unconsciously to my chest, where under my sweater I wore a pendant with eight holographic images. But I quickly lowered my hand, clenched my jaw, and kept my eyes fixed on the annoying case guardian.

Nolan sighed—again—clearly deciding that another pep talk would be wasted on me. Instead, he launched into the technical details. "The schedule for today is as follows: Between 9 am and 11 am, contractees will sit in glass booths in the hall while potential counterparts walk around to view them. At 11:30, there’s lunch, but the cafeteria can get pretty crowded, so some people choose to eat in their booths. Then, from 12:30 to 3 pm, it’s back to the booths. After a short break, you’ll finish the day in the booths again from 3:30 to 6 pm."

He paused, waiting for questions, but I just stared at him blankly. He’d had enough of my sass for now.

"Tomorrow’s schedule is the same," he continued, undeterred. "The only difference is that it ends at 5 pm. Now, for every five booths, we’ve assigned one temporary employee to assist. They’ve had only basic training, so anything more complex will be handled by the case guardians—like me. I’ll monitor your booth via surveillance cameras." He gestured to the laptop on his desk. "If I see someone approaching, I’ll come over to assist you immediately."

The enthusiasm in his tone sounded fake, but who could blame him?

"That’s not necessary," I muttered grimly. "You don’t have to treat me like a special case."

For a moment, my gaze landed back on Star Daniels, who had been silently sitting through all of this. Why was he even here? Why wasn’t he already in his booth? The fair was starting soon.

"Mr. Sanderson," Nolan said, slipping back into his polished, professional tone, "you’re very important to us, and we want to help bring this to a happy conclusion."

"Oh, a happy conclusion where you don’t have to pay me and still make a tidy profit from brokering the contract? How generous of you!" I smiled, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

Maybe I should let it go? But then again, they sooo deserve it.

Six months of waiting, only to end up in this humiliating meat market!

To my surprise, Nolan returned my smile, his just as ironic. "Well, Mr. Sanderson… you’re right, in a way. But then again, isn’t it better if all parties win? Wouldn’t that be the most satisfying outcome?"

I hesitated, biting back an even ruder response. After taking a deep, calming breath, I admitted with dangerous honesty, "All I want is to leave this fair with a full bank account. There’s no chance it will work." The moment I said it, I regretted it. He didn’t need to know I wasn’t giving this fair a real shot.

Storm Nolan fell silent for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk absentmindedly, pondering over my words.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost a whisper.

"Maybe your priorities should shift. I’m quite optimistic about it, Mr. Sanderson. Please keep an open mind about the potential candidates. I think, despite everything, luck will be on your side… Call it a hunch."

I didn't bother to comment. His optimism was meaningless, and I didn't care about his stupid ‘hunch’.

And once again, my gaze flickered to Star Daniels, whose cold eyes were, interestingly, fixed not on us but on a small window in the corner. His face—still like a mask—and yet, on some level, I could sense he shared my sentiment, distrust radiating off him. He and I were almost certainly in the same boat, forced to be here at the last minute, skeptical about Storm Nolan’s empty promises and vague intuition.

Suddenly, he turned toward the icy omega and said, "Mr. Daniels, please forgive me, but I’ll take Mr. Sanderson to the hall first. It’s better to join Section A as late as possible, even a little after the gates open. There’s a bit of commotion at the front right now, and I’d rather save you any unnecessary nerves."

Star Daniels responded with… silence. Not a word, not a blink. What a friendly guy. Sure, I was a bitch, but at least I knew how to keep a conversation interesting, right?

With nothing more to do, Nolan nodded, and we left the small office, heading toward the main hall where the fair was taking place.

As we walked, Nolan’s phone rang.

"Hello? Mr. Ferro, I was worried you might be late—" he paused, listening. The surrounding noise drowned out the caller’s words.

"Okay, but the fair is about to start," he continued. "Once the gates open, it’ll get chaotic. Please call me when you arrive, and I’ll lead you to one of the staff entrances. It’ll be safer that way."

He ended the call with a sigh.

"Sorry, another client of mine is on his way."

"How many clients exactly do you have here today?" I asked, more out of boredom than genuine interest.

"Four," he replied. "One is already in his booth in the beta sector. I’m only waiting for one more, but he’s late due to traffic."

"Four poor souls? Let me guess, all their deals come to an end very soon and still no sweet matches?"

Nolan didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to; I could guess that much. Four unlucky guys came here today hoping for a miracle… Screw Fate’s Choice!

There wasn’t much left to do here. My annoying case guardian guided me toward the hall entrance. After passing through a small side security checkpoint, we stepped into the main hall.

This place was massive—overwhelming, almost. The organizers had divided it into three sections, separated by high metal barriers. The largest area was for omegas, while smaller sections housed the betas and alphas wanting their contracts to be bought.

We bypassed the side sections without a glance. Indeed, some wealthy omegas, betas, and alphas bought contracts here, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I had enough on my plate—like calming my racing heart and not throwing up.

Finally, Nolan and I entered the omega section—it was gigantic. Hundreds of glass booths filled the space, a demeaning cattle market vibe hanging in the air. This was my fate for the next two days: sitting in a booth, being judged, ogled, and probably laughed at.

Attentively, I scanned the space. The youngest omegas, who had never been contracted before, were in Section A at the front of the hall. Star Daniels would almost certainly be there; he didn’t look a day over twenty-two. This section would be the busiest, swarming with eager alphas, their wallets thick, their hopes high.

Section B housed omegas aged 25 to 30, and Section C—my section—was for omegas aged 30 to 35.

Beyond that, there were three other areas for older omegas: Section D for omegas over 35, Section E for omegas past 40, and the sixth—and last—section for omegas beyond 50, marked with the letter F. These were the smaller parts of the hall but still fairly frequently visited.

Older alphas sometimes came there looking for a companion for their golden years—or perhaps, more practically, for nurses and caregivers. Although it was more common to purchase betas’ contracts for that purpose because older omegas often had children whom the buyer would usually be obligated to support. Yet, some alphas still stuck to omegas regardless. Lucky us.

Those who wanted to start a family rarely ventured beyond Section E. While omegas could naturally bear children until around the age of 60, the odds of successful fertilization decreased considerably, along with the likelihood of a healthy pregnancy.

Nolan and I walked along the long rows of glass booths. It felt like a walk of shame for me.

Some cubes were still empty; latecomer omegas were just gathering, and visitors hadn’t been given access to the hall yet.

As I walked, I exchanged glances with a few omegas from Section C, already sitting in their booths. They were all very elegantly dressed, probably in their best outfits. Clearly, I stood out with my appearance, but, as we already established, I couldn’t care less.

The air was filled with their nervousness and hope. Everyone wanted their contract to be purchased by someone they liked and who would be well-matched with them. So much silly hope—it sickened me.

Or maybe it wasn’t that silly? I had to admit, many omegas in this section still looked youthful, some very attractive. They might have a real chance with the kind of alphas who frequented such fairs.

Glaring at them, all dolled up and smiling, I could believe that probably close to a third of these guys would leave with a new contract husband—at least in theory. There were rumors circulating that on some days, at some fairs, especially those held in the countryside, even half of the contractees could secure a marriage deal! But… we were in a big city. People here were much pickier.

My booth was roughly in the middle of the third section. A pretty good spot, I must say—just around the corner from the main aisle, but not right at the corner, avoiding too many people staring at me. Nolan indeed chose a good place for me.

Next to my spot stood an informational board, but I decided not to look at it. It was way too embarrassing seeing my personal info out there for everyone to read.

Both my neighbors were already sitting in their glass cubes. The one on the left was in a wheelchair—it seemed like both of his legs had been amputated. The one on the right? Ridiculously attractive, with long black curls. I quickly looked away—no need to ruin my mood further.

Almost in a hurry, I entered my booth, half-expecting it to feel stuffy, but I was pleasantly surprised. The glass cubicle was small, but the ventilation ducts stuck up from the floor, keeping the air fresh. In the middle was a pretty comfortable armchair, so I slumped into it right away, rested my head on the headrest, and shot Nolan a challenging look.

"Well, what’s more to say? I’m ready! Let the freak show begin!"

Nolan locked his stupidly pretty eyes on my face and remained silent for a long moment, appearing as if he were pondering something way too seriously.

"Do you know why I was hired by this company?"

"I have no idea, and I couldn’t care less," I grumbled, averting my eyes and directing them at the main entrance, where I noticed the first group of visitors crowding near the security checkpoint, some already coming inside. My throat suddenly felt strangely dry.

Fuck, it was really starting. Humiliation alert!

"But I want to tell you anyway, Mr. Sanderson. I was hired because I had a very high rate of finding good pairings for my clients before. High Mate pairings."

Still uninterested in his spiel, I simply shrugged.

Visitors were heading toward the first section, though a few were getting closer and closer…

Since Nolan was silent, as if waiting for my reaction, so I sighed. "That’s all well and good, Mr. Nolan, but no matter how adept you are at scrutinizing the details of submitted forms and questionnaires from your clients, or how skilled you may be at psychoanalyzing their personality traits and preferences… you can’t control who walks into this hall. Two different cases."

He averted his gaze, also noticing the group of visitors, and cleared his throat before admitting, "I’ve never made these pairings based on a detailed analysis of my clients’ personalities."

Silence fell. What? I even felt a slight wave of curiosity.

Tilting my head, I asked, "So, on what basis? You’ve got my attention now!"

Nolan smiled enigmatically. "I have a certain gift, a very powerful intuition. Almost, one might say, supernatural. Sometimes, I just glance at people and sense who their ideal partner would be, and this has proven successful in many cases. I have every reason to believe that my intuition won’t let me down this time, either."

"Well, for now, I don’t see any candidates around!" I spread my arms and made a sour expression. "And I don’t know how you can even attempt this… magical intuitive matching, or whatever you want to call it!" My tone couldn’t stop being sarcastic. It just spilled out of me—my coping mechanism for feeling shitty.

Two alphas walked past my booth and barely glanced in my direction. They stopped by my neighbor’s cubicle, the pretty, black-haired omega with caramel skin and tight yoga pants. He was sending them sweet smiles. Perfect. But so… not me.

Nolan had a sly smile on his face. "My talent isn’t just about matching candidates. I think it has become something more. I can now sense the right circumstances when a person may meet their perfect match."

I snorted with laughter; the guy sounded downright delusional.

"Well, pardon my limited optimism until it’s proven otherwise, Mr. Nolan. For now, I’ll stick to being a skeptic of your ‘magical’ abilities. But hey, let’s see how things unfold! Today and tomorrow, right? You’ve got a two-day window to summon my ideal prince charming!"

I flashed my teeth and waved my hand in the air, as if conjuring up some mystical energy with an imaginary wand.

Nolan smiled with a hint of sadness. "That’s fair. I understand your skepticism. Truth be told, I would have big doubts myself because it does sound like magic bullshit. But… I have one request: if I send someone to you and personally insist that you consider them, will you try to trust me?"

We locked gazes for a moment. It seemed very important to him, so I hesitated. For once, I could rise above my usual attitude and try to be civil. Rolling my eyes as if giving up, I muttered, "We’ll see, but I make no promises."

He nodded and headed toward the exit of the booth.

"Good luck, Mr. Sanderson. I hope this day won’t be too unpleasant for you. It’s a pity you didn’t prepare cards infused with your pheromones; they increase your chances of finding a highly biologically matched candidate."

Letting out a huff, I instinctively glanced toward my informational board. It had a blue LED lit up on top, signaling to potential counterparties that I was on hormone suppressants.

"It also widens the pool of my candidates, don’t you agree? Nobody is excluded. Isn’t that what you want? To find me a husband no matter what? No penalty for you!" My voice rose higher than I intended.

Nolan studied my face for a while, and I responded by narrowing my eyes in warning.

Oh, he shouldn’t dwell on this. He wouldn’t like knowing what my real plan was.

I knew that omegas who chose to use suppressants from the start were usually over forty and no longer interested in childbearing. These cases were common, especially among people over fifty, the blue LED on the informational board was almost the norm.

But the situation was different for young omegas interested in having children. A match with a biologically incompatible alpha could result in children with genetic defects, so omegas attending open fairs typically didn’t use pheromone suppressants. Such unfit pairings were socially condemned, as ABO society was already struggling with a narrow genetic bottleneck. Bringing more children with serious genetic disorders into the world wasn’t any parent’s dream.

So, everybody wanted to find compatible matches—preferably Half Mates or even High Mates.

Only a few used pheromone blockers—people desperate for a relationship at any cost.

I supposed I could be considered one of those cases, at least in Nolan’s eyes, given my use of suppressants, but of course, he didn’t know the uncomfortable truth.

So, what was my story?

Originally, I signed up for this matchmaking agency hoping to receive proposals for matches and proceed in a typical way. Matchmakers would select one person at a time for me; we’d go on a few dates, get to know each other, and then decide if we wanted to pursue it further. In such a controlled, calm situation, I would stop using suppressants. I wasn't crazy, I wouldn't dare to have children with an incompatible alpha and risk their health.

But at a fair? There was simply no option to get to know people better. It was a madhouse. I was absolutely repulsed by the whole rush and craziness of picking a life partner in a matter of minutes . An idiotic concept!

Without suppressants, there was a very real chance I’d be pressured into a relationship with the first guy who showed up—someone who might be my Low or Half Mate—knowing nothing about him, with Nolan breathing down my neck and pushing a pen into my hand to sign the deal.

No way in hell. Nope, I came here to reject all these people, grab the penalty fine from Fate’s Choice, and start over with another matchmaking company where I could be matched in a proper way.

Fairs were just a terrible idea, and Nolan was doomed to fail with me. And suppressants? They were just a simple tool to strengthen my sense of control and make it easier to reject these people. No biological pull, no sweet Allure scents messing with my head.

Perfect situation.

Fate’s Choice, get ready to fill my bank account with loads of juicy money!

Since Nolan kept staring at me, I sighed. I probably shouldn’t say it out loud. I had already admitted to him, I wanted the money. Maybe I shouldn’t repeat it and highlight the fact that I planned to sabotage his efforts?

So I cleared my throat, and stated, "I’m not betting my life on such slim chances of finding a person with a high mateship at this fair." I managed to keep my voice quite calm this time. "And if there were a willing candidate biologically incompatible with me—without suppressants—I wouldn’t stand a chance. So I prefer to have more options," I added, averting my gaze. I was never good at lying to people while looking them straight in the eyes.

"Well, that’s your right to make such a decision. It certainly increases the chances of finding a partner but involves genetic risks to possible offspring."

Ugh! Did he have to mention it? I had to keep pushing forward with more explanations and lies just to make him back off.

"Yes, but there are methods for artificial insemination to select healthy embryos, so—"

"That does not sound like a recipe for a good heat experience."

I winced. "As a surrogate, I’ve been through eight such procedures. I don’t mind."

Nolan mirrored my grimace. I was pretty sure he didn’t believe my bullshit. "But the satisfaction of having a highly biologically compatible mate still isn’t something to disregard lightly. It’s a wonderful thing. I can attest to that!" And he smirked.

Since I was in such a horrible mood, I chose not to comment or ask about his personal experiences.

Nolan sighed once more, then raised his hand in a goodbye gesture as he left the booth.

A sigh escaped my lips too. Finally! It was a relief that he had left—no more lies, just sticking firmly to the plan. No more forced explanations or excuses. Fate’s Choice was not going to escape the penalty!

With a furrowed brow, I watched Nolan walk away. He was really tall and impressive—almost absurdly big, probably around 7’2". I wondered if he truly had a highly compatible mate, as he hinted. In any case, alphas like him didn’t have much trouble finding cute omegas eager to jump on their monster dicks.

Looking around the hall and noticing it slowly filling with more people, I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, disregarding the total smoking ban. Screw them. I wasn’t concerned about how disrespectful I looked to visitors—my mind already tunnel-focused on my goal. This insolent scammer company forced me to be here—so here I was, scamming them!

Besides, with my pheromone suppressants, nobody could smell me anyway—so surrounding myself with a gray cloud of smoke gave me some much-needed comfort.

I laid my head against the headrest and closed my eyes, puffing on my cigarette. I had a long day ahead. Tomorrow would probably be even longer… with diminishing hope for success.

Wait, did I just say that?

What hope?! Scratch that. I couldn’t wait for it to fail! I’d be rich again.

A million dollars was waiting for me.