7. Elite Deceptions
7
ELITE DECEPTIONS
~KAMARI~
T he Sacred Divine: Cardinal’s Nest Elite Club its neo-gothic architecture is a stark reminder of old money and older secrets.
Should add hidden trauma and temptation to the mix.
Last night's novel described this place in vivid detail — a playground for the wealthy where fantasies come true and fortunes are lost behind velvet curtains.
If only the author knew how right he or she was.
The club's reputation precedes it.
Whispers in high society speak of millionaires and billionaires who frequent these halls, seeking pleasures that their public personas could never acknowledge. Some say it's where dreams come true — if you have enough money to pay for them. Others claim it's where Omegas go to disappear, their own dreams crushed beneath the heel of Alpha desire.
"The Sacred Divine doesn't just host parties," the book had warned. "It hosts destinies…usually tragic ones."
My saree suddenly feels too thin against the night air as I approach the entrance.
The building seems to pulse with hidden energy, its windows tinted so dark they look like bottomless pools. Music thrums through the walls, not the typical bass-heavy club beats, but something more refined, jazz maybe , or classical with a modern twist.
The rumors say there are rooms here for every taste. VIP suites where business deals worth billions are signed between courses of gold-leafed desserts. Private chambers where Alphas can indulge their darkest desires without fear of judgment or consequence.
Even the infamous "red rooms" that no one talks about but everyone knows exist.
Just check in and leave.
That's all you need to do.
I keep repeating this mantra as I approach the reception desk. The blonde attendant behind it looks like she's stepped out of a fashion magazine; perfectly coiffed hair, expertly applied makeup, and a designer dress that probably costs more than three months' rent at the Haven.
Make it six months even.
Her blue eyes sweep over me with calculated disdain, taking in my traditional attire with a smirk that makes my blood boil. To her, I probably look like an exotic curiosity — something to be cataloged and dismissed.
"Name and invitation?" Her voice carries that particular tone of bored superiority that only comes from years of looking down on others.
I stand straighter, channeling every etiquette lesson my mother ever drilled into me.
"Kamari Prava Ahvi," I state clearly, sliding the government invitation across the marble counter.
My voice barely betrays my breathlessness from running here.
She picks up the invitation with manicured fingers, examining it as if it's something she found stuck to her shoe. Each second she spends scrutinizing it feels like an eternity, the clock on the wall behind her ticking away precious moments.
Finally, after what must be a full minute, she looks up with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"I'm sorry, but this invitation has expired."
Say what now?
"Expired?" I frown, the word not computing immediately. "What do you mean expired?"
"It's 12:01 AM," she explains with exaggerated patience. "The invitation was valid until midnight."
"I arrived at 11:59 PM!" I protest, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. "You can check with the gate attendant for confirmation."
Her smirk grows more pronounced.
"And yet here we are, at 12:01 AM. Rules are rules."
My fists clench at my sides as I struggle to maintain my composure.
"If you hadn't spent a whole minute reading the invitation like you're the one signing your life away to the government instead of just sitting behind a fancy desk, I would have checked in on time!"
She merely shrugs, sliding the invitation back across the counter with perfectly practiced indifference.
"It's expired. There's nothing I can do about it."
This fucking bitch!
The dismissal in her tone makes my skin crawl.
I recognize this game — it's one I've seen played countless times in my former life.
Find any excuse, no matter how small, to exclude those who don't fit the desired image.
Typical in a place like this…
My mind races as I try to find a solution. The consequences of missing this mandatory meet aren't just inconvenient…they're terrifying. The government's "interrogation" is nothing but a euphemism for something far darker.
It's the best way to hide the levels of rape that occur during the hours they have you captive in a room where any Alpha working can fuck and abuse you so you're reminded of how useless you are in the world.
The thought makes bile rise in my throat, but I force it down.
I can't show weakness. Not here. Not now.
"Could I perhaps speak with a manager?" I keep my voice steady, and professional. "Surely we can negotiate something."
The woman pauses, really looking at me now. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise as she takes in every detail of my appearance with exaggerated attention.
"Negotiate?" She practically purrs the word. "Do you really think you can afford to be here?"
Her gaze rakes over my saree with undisguised contempt.
"In this place, wearing those ugly tatters that probably don't even cost a hundred dollars, let alone the thousands that every single person here wears?"
I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off with a theatrical sigh, leaning across the counter until I can smell her overpriced perfume. Her smirk grows wider, but her eyes remain cold and heartless — like a predator playing with its food.
"Let me make something very clear," she whispers, each word dripping with venom. "Brown people aren't accepted in places like these. At least, not poor Omegas like you. The Indians we service here are royalty, and even they are only privileged out of status. Nothing more."
Heat floods my face as anger rises in my chest.
"Everything you just said is racist!"
She giggles – actually giggles – at my accusation.
"Oh? So if I emphasize that Omegas here are worthless, are you going to call me sexist too?" Her smile turns cruel. "Get a reality check, honey. THIS is called hierarchy. You can't be mad that you don't fit in it."
"I am of royal heritage," I snap back, though even as the words leave my mouth, I know it's a mistake. My past isn't something I should have to prove to someone like her.
Her laughter turns mocking as she starts pointing out each piece of my attire.
"Let's see...that saree, while trying very hard to look expensive, is clearly machine-made, not hand-woven. What is it, silk blend? Maybe three hundred at most." Her finger moves to my jewelry. "Those bangles – decent quality but definitely not from any luxury house. Another hundred there."
She continues her brutal assessment, breaking down every piece of my outfit like she's conducting an inventory.
"Those sandals? Please. I've seen better quality at street markets. Fifty dollars if I'm being generous."
Each word is designed to strip away dignity, to remind me of my supposed place in her world.
"All together, you're not even hitting a thousand dollars. And you want to walk into Sacred Divine?" She shakes her head with mock sympathy. "You're probably one of those helpless Omegas from the shelters or safe havens who only come to these things as a last resort because they don't want to become sex dolls for a few hours."
Her smile turns vicious.
"How amusing that you people don't value yourselves until that control is going to be taken away."
For once in my life, I find myself completely speechless.
I stare at this woman, this perfectly polished example of everything wrong with our society, and realize I've met my match. Not because she's better than me, or smarter, or more worthy, but because there's no arguing with someone who has embraced their role in others' oppression so completely.
What can you say to someone who wants to crucify you?
Who would rather see a fellow woman – an Omega who differs from her only by circumstances of birth – forced down a path of exploitation than extend even the smallest protection?
She sits behind her fancy desk, wielding her minimal power like a sword, never considering that her privileges are as fragile as the designer perfume wafting between us.
The frustrated tears begin to pool in my eyes before I can stop them, hot and humiliating. I force them back with practiced desperation, my father's voice echoing in my head like a curse.
"Omegas are nothing but weak bitches," he would say, his voice carrying that particular tone of disgust he reserved for those he deemed beneath him. "They're meant to be found by Alphas who will deem them worthy enough to keep around."
The irony of his words stings even now.
When he spoke them, he had no idea his daughter would present as an Omega. But he knew – he always knew – that his wife was one. My mother, who raised me with boundless love despite everything, and now has to turn against me because her Alpha husband has the final say.
Because he's a man.
An Alpha.
A being of power.
The thought tastes bitter on my tongue.
I come from money, from status, from a legacy that spans generations. But none of it matters because of my second gender. I can inherit my father's wealth but never his respect.
Can carry his name but never his pride.
Looking left and right, I feel the walls closing in. Every path seems to lead to the same dead end, every road circles back to this moment of powerlessness. The light at the end of the tunnel that I've been desperately chasing since I fled my wedding seems to flicker and die.
Was I fool to think I could escape?
I force my chin up, straightening my spine as years of etiquette training kick in. Let every ounce of kindness drain from my expression as I meet her gaze. This, at least, is a game I know how to play – have been playing since before I could walk.
"Alright. Thanks for your cooperation."
The words come out perfectly measured, devoid of emotion.
I watch confusion flicker across her face, followed by frustration. She expected tears, begging, maybe even anger – anything but this cold acceptance. In her mind, she was winning some sort of battle, but I've been fighting this war my entire life.
Nineteen years of constant degradation.
Even as a baby, when I should have been protected and cherished, the world was already setting me up for failure. Every "she's so pretty" carried the unspoken "she'll make a good bride someday." Every accomplishment was measured not by its merit but by how it would attract potential suitors.
The truth settles over me again, heavy and familiar. I'm not surprised – how could I be, when this has been my reality since birth? This same fear, this same suffocating certainty that I'm worth nothing beyond my biological designation, drove me to run from my wedding.
I remember that day clearly – standing before my community in a wedding outfit that cost more than most people's yearly salary, surrounded by faces that smiled while silently judging every breath I took.
I ran thinking I could escape their clutches, that somewhere out there existed a world where I could be free.
But what is freedom in a world where everything is the same?
The practices might wear different masks, and the beliefs might speak different languages, but the hierarchy remains unchanged. The same venomous individuals will turn on their own kind if it means protecting their position in the pecking order.
It's madness at its finest – a perfectly orchestrated dance of oppression where everyone knows their steps but no one dares to change the music.
Disappointing…
Just the thought of walking home suddenly seems impossible, but it'll give me time to plan. I need to pack, to figure out where to go before the government tracks me down for missing their mandatory "interrogation." The thought of what that entails makes my skin crawl.
I can't stay at the Haven anymore.
The realization hurts more than I expected.
Not just because it's become home, but because of who I'll have to leave behind. Astraea's face flashes in my mind, making my heart clench with guilt. She's worked so hard to build her empire, to become the multimillionaire songwriter known as Blair Vesper.
The last thing she needs is her runaway best friend bringing government attention to her doorstep.
She doesn't deserve that kind of disruption.
And then there's Velvet — kind, fierce Velvet who pours her heart and soul into maintaining the Safe Haven despite constant government scrutiny. I've seen the toll it takes on her, watching how she navigates endless surveillance and bureaucratic harassment with a grace I can only dream of possessing.
The Haven exists in a precarious balance, protected only by Velvet's extensive network of connections and influence throughout the city. She's built something incredible, a true sanctuary for Omegas who have nowhere else to turn. I can't be the reason that sanctuary comes under even more intense scrutiny.
They could help me. I know they could.
Between Astraea's wealth and connections as Blair Vesper and Velvet's immense influence in the Omega community, they could probably make this whole situation disappear with a few phone calls. They both have the power to pull strings, to create solutions where none seem possible.
But that's exactly why I can't ask them for help.
I've spent my entire life being a burden — to my mother, to my family's reputation, to everyone who's ever tried to protect me. I ran away from my wedding to stop being a pawn in other people's games. How can I turn around and ask my friends to risk everything they've built just to save me from my own failures?
A lump forms in my throat as I prepare to turn away from the club's entrance.
Maybe I can make it back to the Haven, pack a small bag, and be gone before anyone notices. Leave a note explaining why I had to ? —
The weight of something heavy and warm settles across my shoulders, and suddenly my senses are overwhelmed by the most intoxicating combination of scents I've ever encountered.
The first hits me like expensive whiskey; aged oak and leather-bound books, with hints of rare oud and something darker and enriched like cologne, but not the new shit they create. It’s vintage, a rarity in itself type of aroma you’d only smell around the wealthy.
It reminds me of hidden vaults filled with priceless artifacts, of board rooms where billion-dollar decisions are made over glasses of scotch that cost more than most cars. There's a complexity to it that speaks of old money and older power, but underlaid with something predatory that makes my Omega instincts stand at attention.
This is what real power smells like.
But woven through that dominant scent is something achingly familiar – the same intoxicating blend of coffee, bourbon, and sandalwood that I encountered earlier tonight when I crashed into that mysterious Alpha. The memory of that brief contact makes my skin tingle, and combined with this new scent, it's almost overwhelming.
The two distinct aromas shouldn't work together – one speaking of shadowy power and carefully cultivated danger, the other carrying notes of justice and protection – but somehow they complement each other perfectly.
Like opposite sides of the same coin, they create something wholly unique and inexplicably alluring.
I feel my body react before my mind can catch up, my Omega instincts recognizing something my conscious thoughts haven't quite grasped yet. The coat around my shoulders feels like both protection and claim, its weight significant in ways that have nothing to do with its obvious expense.
I tilt my head back, drawn by an instinct I don't quite understand, and find myself drowning in eyes the color of aged amber whiskey.
Golden brown with hints of honey and caramel, they hold an intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat. These are eyes that have seen empires rise and fall, that carry secrets darker than the shadows we stand in.
Our gazes lock, and his hand moves with deliberate grace to cup the back of my neck.
The touch is both gentle and commanding, ensuring I can't look away even if I wanted to. Not that I could – something about his presence demands attention, commands submission in a way that makes my Omega instincts purr.
From this angle, I'm acutely aware of his height – all 6'5" of him towering over my petite frame. His features are classically Italian, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw that speaks of old-world nobility. His black hair falls in perfect waves, styled in a way that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent but looks effortlessly elegant.
" Mia principessa, " he murmurs, the Italian rolling off his tongue like silk. The words carry both appreciation and possession, making my skin tingle. "Why did you come to the club first when I had every intention of picking you up?"
I blink, my mind taking precious seconds to process his words.
He's creating a cover story, offering me protection in front of the same woman who just tried to humiliate me. The realization makes me stutter, heat flooding my cheeks.
Holy shit…he’s helping me?!
"I... I knew you were busy," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't want to disturb you."
He makes a disapproving sound, his thumb trailing along my bottom lip in a touch so intimate it makes my knees weak.
"I will drop everything," he emphasizes each word with quiet intensity, "if it means ensuring my Omega gets where she needs to be in a timely manner."
Before I can process his words, he's leaning in close — so close I can see flecks of gold in those whiskey eyes. I hear the receptionist's shocked gasp just as his lips claim mine, and my world narrows down to this single point of contact.
That's twice today I've kissed complete strangers.
But this feels different from the accidental brush with the detective earlier.
This kiss carries intent, years of experience, and carefully controlled passion.
My Omega instincts surge to life, making my core clench with sudden heat as my body recognizes something my mind is still trying to comprehend.
I find myself kissing him back, unable to resist the magnetic pull between us. I'm not entirely inexperienced – arranged marriages come with certain expectations, after all — but this is different.
He deepens the kiss with such subtle skill that I barely notice until I'm completely lost in it. Each movement is calculated yet feels natural, passionate yet perfectly controlled.
When he finally breaks the kiss, he does it with a languid confidence that suggests we're alone rather than standing in the club's lobby. His thumb brushes across my now-sensitive lips as he regards me with those intense eyes.
"You're my responsibility," he reminds me, his voice carrying enough authority to make my Omega instincts want to bare her throat in submission. "I can't have our royal princess running through the streets in a saree." His gaze flicks meaningfully toward the shadows beyond the club's entrance. "You know how many would kill for merely an autograph from someone of such high status."
The way he says it makes it clear he's not just playing a role — he knows something about me, something beyond what I've shown the world. His words carry weight, carry truth, and I find myself wondering just who this mysterious Alpha is.
The coat around my shoulders suddenly feels heavier, more significant.
It's not just expensive fabric — it's a statement of protection, of possession, of power. The combined scents of him and the detective from earlier wrap around me like a shield, making me feel safer than I have since fleeing my wedding.
"Though I must ask," he says, his fingers trailing along the embroidered edge of my saree, "why didn't you wear the attire chosen for you from Maharani's Legacy?" The name of India's most prestigious luxury fashion house falls from his lips with perfect pronunciation. "Or the custom pieces I had Cartier design specifically for tonight?"
My cheeks burn hotter as I catch sight of the receptionist's dropped jaw.
Her earlier smugness has been replaced by something close to horror as she watches our exchange. The sight gives me a surge of courage as I turn back to meet those whiskey-colored eyes.
"I didn't want to upset you," I confess, letting vulnerability seep into my voice. "The delivery...there was an incident. They called to inform me that their truck was attacked." I bite my lip, watching his expression darken. "The attackers didn't manage to steal anything…you know how heavily armed those transport units are for luxury items, but the delay..."
I gesture helplessly.
"They offered to still deliver, but with the invitation's time constraint, I wouldn't have made it. So I..." My hand touches the fabric of my family's saree, generations of history woven into each thread.
Turning slightly toward the receptionist, I continue my performance, though every word carries a kernel of truth.
"I managed to arrive at 11:59 and presented my invitation as required, but..." I let my eyes go wide and doe-like as I look up at him. "She said I was late because she took a full minute to review my documentation."
My voice drops lower, intimate.
"I know we haven't informed the government yet of our union with the rest of the pack, but this complicates things. They'll require me to attend interrogation tomorrow." I pause before adding softly, "Mio Amore," the Italian endearment I recall from countless mafia romance novels flowing naturally from my lips.
The mention of interrogation makes something dangerous flash in his eyes.
The anger radiating from him is controlled but palpable, like a storm building on the horizon. When his gaze turns to the receptionist, she lets out a quiet squeak of fear.
"I-I was just following protocol!" she stammers, her earlier confidence evaporating. "And based on her attire…I mean, she's clearly not from..." She gestures vaguely at my saree. "She's wearing rags compared to our usual clientele!"
"Rags?"
The word falls from his lips like a death sentence.
His hand trails down my body in a possessive caress that sets every nerve ending on fire. Slick pools between my thighs as his touch ignites something primal in me, something that recognizes the predator beneath his expensive suit.
"This is what you call rags?" His voice carries a dangerous sort of amusement. "Cultural fabrics passed down for generations that quadruple in value every year they're maintained?" He lets out a dark laugh that sends shivers of both fear and desire racing along my spine. "From someone of 'British' heritage, I find it rather grand that you claim to know more about my mia principessa's culture and principles when you haven't lived a day in her shoes."
He moves to stand between me and the desk, and I can't help but admire how his height and presence seem to fill the entire space. The protective aura he emanates makes my Omega instincts purr with satisfaction.
"I don't need to experience anything to know that attire is old," the receptionist argues, though her voice wavers. "Even if it's passed down, the value doesn't…ugh. As a contributing worker at this establishment, I have every right to make my assessments of guests!"
Instead of the fury I expect, he chuckles.
The sound carries none of its earlier warmth.
"Oh really?"
The two words hang in the air like smoke before a fire. I can feel something brewing in his mind, can sense the gathering storm in how the atmosphere thickens until it feels like we're breathing molasses. The tension builds until it feels physical like it could reach out and choke us all.
His hand finds mine from behind, fingers intertwining with deliberate possession. The contrast between his gentle touch and the menace radiating from him makes my head spin.
This is a man used to power, used to wielding it with precise control.
A new presence behind me draws my attention, but it's the scent that truly captures me – a complex aroma that seems to embody both comfort and sophistication.
Notes of rich cappuccino blend seamlessly with buttery toffee and the distinct sweetness of London fog tea. Hints of lavender weave through it all, creating an unexpectedly soft profile that's grounded by masculine musk and subtle hints of aged leather-bound books.
It's like walking into a luxury café tucked away in an ancient library.
When I turn slightly to look at him, I'm immediately struck by his eyes – or rather, their stunning peculiarity.
Heterochromia makes his left eye a mesmerizing swirl of brown shot through with green and gold, while his right is nearly black with barely perceptible hints of deep brown.
The effect is hypnotic, made even more striking by how his snow-white hair falls in perfectly tousled waves that probably took an hour to look so effortlessly elegant.
His attire speaks of old money and meticulous attention to detail.
The simplicity of his black suit only emphasizes its perfect tailoring, every crease exactly where it should be, every line speaking of an upbringing where anything less than perfection was unacceptable. Even the way he holds himself carries an air of refined grace that makes my finishing school training look amateur in comparison.
A slight smirk plays at his lips as he raises one finger to them, signaling for my silence.
The gesture is both conspiratorial and commanding, making me feel like I'm part of some elaborate dance whose steps I'm only beginning to learn. I nod almost imperceptibly, trying not to draw attention away from the Alpha still standing protectively before me.
With movements that seem choreographed in their fluidity, this newcomer sinks to one knee beside me. The leather-bound book he was holding – something that looks antique and probably priceless – is set aside with careful reverence.
In its place appears a box that makes my breath catch.
It's clearly a shoe box, but calling it that feels like calling a Rolls Royce a car. When he opens it, I have to bite back a gasp. The sandals inside sparkle like captured starlight adorned not with mere Swarovski crystals but with Argyle pink diamonds – the rarest and most expensive diamonds in the world.
Each stone must be worth more than most people's homes.
A modern Cinderella story, but with diamonds instead of glass.
He lifts my feet with gentle efficiency, seemingly unbothered by their dampness from running through puddles. The interior of each sandal feels like clouds against my skin, perfectly molded as if they were crafted specifically for me.
I silently thank whatever impulse made me accept Astraea's insistence on that pedicure – the cat-eye sparkle of the teal polish complements the white and blue diamonds perfectly.
The entire exchange happens so quickly and smoothly that I barely have time to process it. One moment he's carefully fitting the sandals to my feet, the next they're secured and my old ones have vanished into the box, which itself seems to disappear as he rises gracefully to his feet, book back in hand as if he never set it down.
I open my mouth to question this bit of elegant sleight of hand, but another voice cuts through the lobby – male this time, carrying authority despite its nervous tremor.
"M-M-Mister Castellano!" The man's voice cracks slightly on the name. "One of our best VIP exclusive guests!"
The way he says it – like someone announcing royalty while simultaneously apologizing for breathing the same air – makes me realize just how much trouble the receptionist has caused.
This isn't just any wealthy Alpha putting on a show.
This is Castellano – a name that carries enough weight to make even the club's management stutter.
And I, for that matter, have no clue who he is...
"Who's that?" The receptionist's voice carries a mixture of confusion and disdain that makes my blood run cold.
Even I, with my limited knowledge of this world, can sense the magnitude of her error.
The sharp crack of skin meeting skin echoes through the lobby as the manager's hand connects with her face.
I jerk back in horror, a small gasp escaping my lips. My eyes dart to the white-haired man beside me, but his calm expression suggests this kind of violence is nothing new in their world.
"This," the manager's voice trembles with barely contained rage, "is Damon Castellano."
Damon…Castellano?
The manager launches into what sounds like a well-rehearsed litany of praise as if he's given this speech many times before.
"Mr. Castellano's influence extends through every level of business in this city. From the highest echelons of legitimate enterprise to the...more discrete operations that keep establishments like ours running smoothly."
The way he says it makes it clear there's more beneath the surface, darker dealings that polite society pretends not to notice. His hands gesture animatedly as he continues listing accomplishments: successful mergers, strategic acquisitions, territorial expansions – each achievement more impressive than the last.
Then his eyes land on the man standing next to me, and I swear he nearly chokes on his own tongue.
"And Mr. Blackthorn!" The name comes out like a prayer. "Kieran Blackthorn himself, the king of market manipulation!"
The white-haired man – Kieran – merely raises an eyebrow, but even that subtle movement carries enough authority to make the manager stammer.
"His financial advisory firm handles portfolios worth billions. The way he moves money through markets..." The manager shakes his head in apparent awe. "They say he can predict market crashes months before they happen, that he's never made a bad investment."
A modern-day Midas, then.
I watch as the manager's face grows increasingly panicked, as if he's just realizing the full magnitude of the situation.
"You're incredibly fortunate that the entire pack isn't present," he tells the receptionist, whose cheek still bears an angry red handprint.
So these two men are just part of this superior power house of a pack…
"Your display of ignorance and disrespect toward the most powerful men in our industry..."
He trails off, seemingly unable to find words strong enough to convey his displeasure.
"But I'm afraid the damage is already done."
The way he says it makes my skin prickle with unease. These men – Damon with his dangerous charisma and Kieran with his quiet power – a re clearly accustomed to a world where consequences are swift and permanent.
A world where a single misstep can end more than just a career.
What strikes me most is how naturally they wear their power. Damon commands attention with every movement, every word carrying the weight of unspoken authority. Meanwhile, Kieran's presence is more subtle but no less potent – like a stiletto compared to Damon's broadsword.
And somehow, through some twist of fate or cosmic joke, I've landed squarely in the middle of their world.
Me, a runaway Omega who barely escaped an arranged marriage, now stands between two of some of the most powerful Alphas in the city.
If this was some sort of dark omegaverse novel that I enjoy reading, you’d think I was the main character.
I wish…maybe that would mean they’re my pack and I wouldn’t have to keep running away in this world. Wouldn’t that be swell for a few damn chapters.
"Speaking of expertise," Damon's smooth voice cuts through my literary daydreams, "you seemed quite confident in your assessment of my Omega's attire ranking in the hierarchy of richness." His tone carries a dangerous sort of amusement as he tilts his head slightly. "Rags, was it?"
The receptionist's face goes pale as she stumbles over her words.
"I-I didn't mean... that is, I was just?—"
Damon moves to my right side, his hand still firmly clasped in mine, while Kieran maintains his position on my left. The formation feels deliberate, protective in a way that makes my Omega instincts purr with satisfaction.
"These," Damon gestures to my traditional garments with his free hand, "are what you deem as rags? Royal attire passed down through generations of wealth?"
"Even if it is generational," the woman argues, desperation making her bold, "those sandals were hideous! Worse than what you'd find in flea markets in the heart of India!"
"Have you been there?" Kieran's quiet question cuts through her rant like a blade.
"I...well, no, but?—"
"Fascinating," he continues, his mismatched eyes studying her with clinical interest. "You speak with such authority about the history and symbolism of traditional footwear, yet you fail to recognize one of only two pairs in existence."
"Two?" she scoffs, pointing at my feet where the edge of my saree drapes. "Those ugly pieces of sh?—"
Her words die in her throat as I lift the fabric slightly, revealing the diamond-encrusted sandals Kieran had so carefully placed on my feet. The manager lets out an audible gasp of horror while the receptionist continues pointing, her hand trembling.
"Those...those aren't the ones she was wearing!" Her voice rises in panic. "She was definitely wearing some handed-down pieces when she arrived!"
A deep chuckle rumbles from Damon's chest, the sound both amused and predatory.
"Does it make logical sense to wear such precious sandals outdoors when it's raining and muddy?" His free hand moves to rest possessively on my lower back. "If you knew and respected the culture, you'd understand the importance of indoor and outdoor shoes, would you not?"
The question hangs in the air like a sword dangling by a thread.
Every word he speaks further exposes not just her ignorance, but her willing prejudice. She didn't just make assumptions — she chose to see what she wanted to see, to justify her own bias against someone she deemed beneath her.
The receptionist's silence speaks volumes as she finally runs out of excuses.
The marble lobby is perfectly silent during this crucial moment, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Before anyone can say more, the manager — a man who probably hasn't kneeled before anyone in years — rushes forward with such desperation that his expensive leather shoes squeak against the floor.
He drops to his knees before us, pressing his forehead to the marble in a display of complete submission that makes my stomach twist. His perfectly tailored suit crumples against the floor as he prostrates himself, all dignity forgotten in his panic.
"Mr. Castellano, please forgive this grievous oversight," he pleads, his voice trembling with genuine fear. "I take full responsibility for my employee's behavior. Whatever compensation you require, monetary or otherwise, I will personally ensure it's handled with the utmost discretion and haste."
Sweat beads on his forehead despite the lobby's careful climate control. His hands shake as they press against the cold marble, and I can see his wedding ring catching the light.
A reminder that his livelihood isn't the only thing at stake here.
A dark chuckle from Damon cuts through the groveling. The sound carries enough menace to make the manager's trembling increase visibly.
"I believe," Damon says with deadly softness, "you're apologizing to the wrong individual." His hand squeezes mine gently as he continues, "You should be bowing to my mia principessa , whom your employee dared disrespect in an establishment I pay very handsomely to frequently attend when I need to think."
The way he says it makes it clear that this isn't just about tonight's insults. This is about systematic prejudice, about assumptions and biases that have no place in his world.
His voice takes on a contemplative tone that carries more threat than any shouting could.
"Perhaps I should take my business elsewhere? Somewhere that understands the value of respect?" The suggestion hangs in the air like a guillotine blade. "I'm certain our associates would be interested to know why we no longer consider this establishment...suitable."
A domino effect in the form of one bad review…
This place would close down in a heartbeat.
The manager's face goes from red to ashen in seconds as he scrambles to redirect his prostration to my feet. His movement is so sudden that his glasses slip from his nose, clattering to the floor unheeded.
"My deepest, most sincere apologies, my lady!" His voice cracks with desperation. "Please forgive this unforgivable transgression! I will personally oversee sensitivity training for all staff. We'll implement new protocols, stricter screening processes?—"
He turns sharply toward the receptionist, nearly losing his balance in his haste.
"Victoria! On your knees! Apologize to her ladyship immediately!"
Victoria – whose name suddenly seems as fake as her designer perfume – stares at us with barely concealed revulsion. Her stubborn expression speaks of prejudices too deeply rooted to be swayed by even this display of power. The designer clothes and carefully crafted image of sophistication can't hide the ugliness beneath.
"That won't be necessary," Damon interjects smoothly, though his tone suggests this mercy isn't for her benefit. "Our Omega deserves genuine remorse. Not the false contrition this woman would offer."
"I'll terminate her employment immediately!" The manager declares, still bowed so low his words are partially muffled by the floor. "She'll be escorted from the premises within the hour. It'll ensure she never works in any establishment of this caliber again?—"
"No!" Victoria's composure finally cracks, her voice rising to a near-shriek that echoes off the marble walls. "I need this job! Without it, I'll be sent back to England. I don't have a pack?—"
Her words hit me with stunning irony.
This woman, who just spent the last several minutes deeming me worthless, is herself in an even more precarious position than I am. No pack, no papers — just prejudice and desperation wrapped in designer clothes and false superiority. She clings to her perceived status like a shield, using others' perceived inadequacies to hide her own vulnerable position.
"Rajkumari, " Kieran's voice carries the Hindi word for princess with perfect pronunciation, making my eyes widen in surprise. "Perhaps instead of termination, she should experience what she attempted to arrange for our Omega?"
How does he know that word?
The question circles in my mind as I process his suggestion. The term isn't just the literal translation for princess — it carries cultural weight and speaks of respect and tradition in ways that transcend simple vocabulary.
It's the kind of word you learn from immersion, respecting, and understanding our culture. It’s not from some quick translation app. It’s also not something one would be quickly searching up in an intense situation like this.
Then again, this is from an Alpha that seemed to show up from nowhere with a pair of embezzled sandals that actually fit my feet.
His mismatched eyes hold a calculating gleam as he continues.
"After all, what better way to learn empathy than through experience?"
Victoria's throat works visibly as she swallows, her earlier confidence evaporating under Kieran's suggestion. Damon's smirk grows predatory as he tilts his head, considering.
"A brilliant idea, caro mio ," he purrs, the Italian endearment rolling off his tongue. "But perhaps we should offer saving grace first?" His attention shifts to Victoria, who seems to shrink under his gaze. "Victoria, was it? A simple chance to correct your...assessment."
He gestures elegantly toward my feet, where the diamonds catch the lobby's ambient lighting.
"Tell us the brand and estimated cost of these sandals. A range will suffice. I wouldn't be so cruel as to demand exact figures for something so rare."
All eyes turn to Victoria, whose makeup suddenly seems too heavy, her designer outfit too try-hard. She licks her lips nervously, eyes darting between the sandals and Damon's expectant expression.
"They're...they must be..." She fumbles for words, clearly out of her depth. "Jimmy Choo's latest collection? N-No, custom obviously…maybe fifty thousand?"
The silence that follows her guess is deafening, broken only by approaching footsteps. A new figure emerges from the shadows of the club's interior, flanked by two imposing bodyguards in black suits.
His complexion is a rich mahogany, his bearing undeniably royal.
"House of Mehrota's Celestial Collection," he announces with quiet authority. "One of two pairs ever created, valued at 4.2 million dollars. The twin pair resides in the Royal Museum of Jaipur."
Holy shit.
The fact this dude just came out of nowhere and is able to answer such facts that must not be easily accessible knowledge, leaves me feeling a tad nervous as to who he is.
"How would you even know that?" Victoria blurts out, earning an immediate horrified gasp from the manager.
"How dare you address Prince—" the manager begins, but the newcomer cuts him off with a raised hand.
"Prince Rajveer Singh Rathore of the House of Jodhpur," he introduces himself, dark eyes scanning me from head to toe with uncomfortable intensity. "Though I'm surprised to see the Princess in such an establishment."
Shit…
My heart stops.
There's only one reason he would know me, only one connection that would bring that knowing look to his eyes. He must be connected to the pack I fled from, to the marriage I rejected.
He knows my ex…
I try to keep my expression neutral even as Damon's hand finds mine again, Kieran's gentle squeeze of my other hand providing additional anchor. Their touch feels protective, though they couldn't possibly understand the full weight of this moment.
Prince Rajveer steps closer, his smile not reaching his eyes.
"Your husband is rather bold, sending you here with a different pack. Like some sort of joke." His expression hardens slightly. "But he should remember, the Rogues always collect what's owed to them."
The threat in his words is clear, but something in me snaps.
Years of being proper, of being the perfect submissive Omega my family wanted.
It all falls away.
"I'm not married," I state firmly, causing him to pause mid-turn.
"What did you say?" His voice carries dangerous quiet.
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze directly.
"I said, I'm not married to Maharaja Adhiraj Vikram Singh or associated with his pack." The name of my almost-husband tastes bitter on my tongue. "I left them at the altar because I refuse to be some weakly tamed bitch of an Omega, following a set of cowards who would rather use me as collateral than marry me for the value an Omega can bring to the table."
Prince Rajveer's frown deepens at my defiance, but before he can respond, Damon slides his arm around my shoulders. The weight of his coat settles more firmly around me as he leans in to press a kiss to my temple.
"Such boldness," he murmurs against my skin, making me shiver. "I only want women who won't bow to anyone.” He pauses on purpose, earning my lifted gaze that locks into his darkened eyes that are focused only on me. As if I could be his world. “ Not even me."
Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us.
Without overthinking, I follow my instincts, rising slightly on my toes to press a tender kiss to Damon's jaw. His skin is warm against my lips, and I catch the subtle intake of his breath at my boldness.
" Mere Raja, " I whisper against his skin, knowing Prince Rajveer will understand the Hindi term for 'my king.' The words carry weight beyond their meaning; a declaration of allegiance, a subtle shift in power dynamics that everyone in the lobby can feel.
Damon's eyes darken as he looks down at me, the amber in them seeming to glow with inner fire. For a moment, the rest of the world fades away — the nervous manager, the seething Victoria, even Prince Rajveer with his thinly veiled threats.
In this suspended moment, there's only us, only this strange connection that feels both new and ancient.
Like finding something I didn't know I was missing.
"As entertaining as this lobby drama has been," Kieran's smooth voice breaks through our shared trance, "perhaps we should stop standing here like commoners?" His mismatched eyes hold amusement as he glances at his watch. "It's already fifteen minutes past midnight, and we've wasted enough time on... unnecessary distractions."
The manager practically leaps from his position on the floor, his expensive suit now wrinkled beyond saving.
"Yes, yes, of course!" He straightens his askew tie with trembling fingers. "Please, allow me to escort you to our finest VIP section!"
Damon's hand finds mine again, his fingers intertwining with deliberate possession. The gesture feels natural now, as if we've done this a hundred times before. He leads me forward with the kind of confidence that parts crowds – not that anyone would dare stand in his way.
Kieran moves ahead of us, his voice carrying back as he details their preferences to the manager.
"We'll start with the '82 Macallan, three glasses. For appetizers, the wagyu tataki and..." He glances back at me with a knowing smile. "The paneer tikka, prepared traditionally. No fusion nonsense."
How does he know all of this? Does he go to India often? Studied there? He and Damon both seem rather comfortable and knowledgeable about the terms and language. Maybe someone in their pack is of my culture? No…that’s too rare.
Interracial packs are so hard to find these days, I’d actually be deemed lucky if that was the case.
And I’m never lucky.
The casual way he orders Indian cuisine, pronounced perfectly and with a clear understanding of authenticity, adds another layer to the mystery of his cultural knowledge. But before I can ponder it further, an instinct makes me look back one last time.
My eyes meet Prince Rajveer's across the lobby.
His expression has shifted from earlier anger to something more calculating, more dangerous. I know with bone-deep certainty that this won't be our last encounter — that his threats about collecting debts weren't idle words.
When will Adhiraj and his pack try to match their move?
My almost-husband and his family aren't known for accepting defeat gracefully. Their reputation for vengeance is as well-known as their wealth. And now, seeing me with not just another Alpha but Damon Castellano himself...
The diamond sandals catch the light as I walk, each step a reminder of how quickly my world has changed.
Fifteen minutes ago, I was running through rain-slicked streets, terrified of being late and dealing with government interrogation. Now I'm walking into Sacred Divine's VIP section with two Alphas I’ve barely met, while a prince plots revenge for a pack I rejected.
If this were one of my romance novels, this would be the moment where everything changes.
Damon's thumb strokes across my knuckles as if sensing my thoughts, drawing my attention back to him. The way he looks at me from over his shoulder for just a few seconds makes me feel as if I'm something precious.
Someone wildly perfect in his eyes and whom he’d want to protect but never tame.
I must be dreaming to think such a simple check-in with those beautiful eyes could mean something so meaningful and raw, but it doesn’t stop from making my heart skip.
Maybe everything already has changed.