Chapter 5
ANITA
Morning sunlight streams through the bedroom window, and I actually pause to appreciate it.
No snow. No mist. Just clear, bright sunshine that makes the harbor sparkle like someone scattered diamonds across the water.
It must be a good omen.
Or maybe it’s the universe’s way of giving me one perfect moment before everything goes spectacularly wrong.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror propped against the wall and take a deep breath.
“All right, Anita. Time to become someone else.”
The suppressants are laid out on the bed behind me.
I took the first dose last night, and now I down the second pill with a gulp of water, feeling it slide past my throat.
Then I peel open the patch, the kind designed for Omegas who need to mask their scent for medical reasons or personal safety, and press it against my inner wrist. The adhesive is strong, and within seconds, I can feel it working, a slight coolness spreading across my skin.
Next comes the spray. Beta-Blend, the bottle says in discreet lettering.
Masculine pheromone enhancement for scent modification.
It smells like cedar and something vaguely citrus, clean and neutral.
I spray it on my neck, my wrists, behind my ears.
The scent mingles with the suppressants and the patch, and suddenly I don’t smell like myself anymore.
I smell like a stranger.
Good.
Now for the hard part.
The wig sits on the dresser, and I pick it up carefully.
It’s human hair, expensive, styled in a short cut that’s longer all around, coming to my neck—that adorable, messy look guys wear.
The color is a medium brown, just a few shades lighter than my natural chestnut.
I tuck my own hair up carefully, pinning it flat against my skull, then settle the wig into place.
It takes a few adjustments to get it right, smoothing the edges near my temples, making sure the hairline looks natural.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
Already, I look different. More angular. The shorter hair changes the shape of my face, makes my jaw appear stronger.
Next, the facial hair. I’ve practiced this a dozen times, but my hands still shake slightly as I peel the first piece from its backing.
It’s a small patch of stubble, carefully crafted to look like a few days’ growth.
I press it along my jawline, smoothing it down, then add more along my chin and upper lip.
Not a full beard. Just enough to suggest masculinity without looking like I’m trying too hard.
The eyebrows are next. Mine are naturally arched, feminine. I apply the fake brow pieces carefully, making them thicker, straighter, more severe.
Then the contacts. I blink them into place, and my hazel eyes with their gold flecks disappear, replaced by a muddy green that looks nothing like me.
I step back and assess.
Holy shit.
I look like a guy.
Not just any guy. An attractive guy. Ash Monroe, Beta male, cute in that soft-featured, artistic way. The kind of guy who probably writes poetry and knows how to make a good latte.
“Damn, Ash,” I mutter. “You’re kind of hot.”
I pull on the chest binder next, wrapping it tightly around my ribs. It’s uncomfortable, restrictive, but it does the job. With the binder and the right clothes, I can pass as semi-small-chested. Looks like I might work out a bit.
The clothes are a fitted shirt, layered under a navy blue flannel shirt left unbuttoned. Dark jeans that sit lower on my hips than I’m used to, changing my silhouette. Thick socks. And boots, masculine work boots with good tread.
I tuck the top in slightly, letting the flannel hang loose, and study the effect.
Yeah. This works.
Then I grab the brown leather wallet from the dresser, worn and boring and absolutely nothing like the floral fabric one I usually carry, and shove it into my back pocket. Keys go in my front pocket. My phone, in a plain black case instead of my usual pink one, goes in the other pocket.
Running my hand through the wig’s hair, I mess it up slightly so it looks more windswept, more natural.
Then I practice walking.
This is the part that always trips me up. Literally.
Women carry their weight differently. We move our hips, keep our steps smaller, take up less space. Men stride. They swagger. They move like they own the ground they’re walking on.
I take a few steps across the room, trying to loosen my hips, widen my stance.
Too much. I look like I’m doing a bad cowboy impression.
I try again. Smaller adjustments. Shoulders back. Chin up. Steps longer but not ridiculous.
Better.
I walk back and forth across the bedroom, testing the weight of each step, counting beats in my head like that’ll help burn this into memory. I’ve done it before, so I’ve got this.
Less sway, more stomp, Marcy said, arms crossed, sipping her overpriced oat milk latte while I paced around the studio hallway like a confused backup dancer. Alphas don’t float. They claim the space.
Wide stance. Relaxed shoulders. Confident without looking like I’m trying too hard.
I adjust again, roll my shoulders once more, and take another lap across the room. This time it feels almost natural. Not totally me. But close enough to pass.
Hopefully.
“Okay,” I say out loud, then wince. My voice is too high.
I clear my throat and try again, dropping my register. “I can do this.”
Better. Still not perfect, but close enough.
I move to the mirror and practice expressions. No smiling too wide. No tilting my head. No fidgeting with my hair.
“I’m Ash Monroe,” I state in my deeper voice, staring myself in the eye. “I’m here for the marketing position. Nice to meet you.”
The reflection stares back at me, and I almost laugh. But it’s also kind of working.
“Seriously, you look damn good,” I tell myself. “Like a cute guy. You’ve got this.”
My scent is different now, heavily masked. That’s what matters. No one will be able to tell I’m an Omega. And with the visual changes, no one will connect me to Anita.
I’m ready.
I grab my jacket, a dark olive utility style that’s appropriately masculine, and head for the door.
The hallway is quiet when I step out, and I’m almost to the stairs when I hear a door open behind me.
“Morning!”
I turn and find an older man emerging from apartment 3A, a sausage dog waddling at his feet on a leash. The dog is the exact shape and color of a bratwurst, all brown and long and ridiculous.
And absolutely adorable.
“Oh my God,” I squeal, crouching down. “Who’s this precious little—”
Wait.
No.
Guys don’t squeal.
I catch myself mid-crouch and straighten abruptly, clearing my throat. “I mean. Uh.” I lower my voice. “Strong dog you got there. Very… brown. Does it eat other dogs?”
Words hang in the air.
The old man stares at me.
The sausage dog wags its tail, oblivious to my social death.
“Does it… eat other dogs?” the man repeats slowly.
“For dominance,” I add, because apparently my mouth has disconnected from my brain. “You know. Establishing territory. Very Alpha behavior. For a dog.”
Stop talking, Anita. Stop talking.
The man’s expression suggests he’s reconsidering his choice to live in this building. “His name is Biscuit. He eats kibble.”
“Right. Of course. Kibble. Very sensible. Protein rich. Good for muscle development.” I’m nodding like this is a normal conversation about things.
“You just moved in?” he asks, still eyeing me warily.
“Yes! Yesterday. With my sister. Anita. She’s sleeping right now. Works late at night, you know how it is.”
His eyebrows rise. “Works at night doing what?”
Oh, no. That sounded really bad.
“She’s a graphic artist!” I say quickly.
“Digital illustration. Very time-consuming. You know how those artsy people are. I mean—” I lower my voice again, trying to sound more masculine.
“Art devotees. Very dedicated to their craft. Lots of late nights. The muse doesn’t keep normal hours, you know?
Very temperamental. The muse, not my sister.
Though, she can be temperamental too. But in a creative way. Very creative.”
He’s still staring at me.
Biscuit sniffs my boot.
“Well,” I say, backing toward the stairs. “I’d better head to work. First day. Don’t want to be late. Good day to you, sir. And to Biscuit. May he dominate many territories.”
I turn and take the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering.
Once I’m outside on the snowy sidewalk, I lean against the building and exhale.
“Okay. That didn’t go too badly. Good practice.”
The lie sounds hollow even to me, but I’m choosing to believe it.
I straighten my jacket and head toward The Flour House. Jasper told Anita to have Ash meet the team there this morning. Coffee and introductions.
The café appears even more charming in the morning light, the windows glowing warm, the smell of fresh pastries drifting onto the street. I push through the door and immediately scan the space.
The café is busier than yesterday afternoon. There’s a group of older women at a table near the fireplace, laughing over tea. A young couple sharing a croissant by the window. A man in a business suit, typing on a laptop near the—
My breath catches.
Corner window spot.
No.
Mason Grey sits with his back to the wall, sandy-blond hair catching the morning light, short beard neatly trimmed.
He’s wearing a cream-colored cardigan over a white T-shirt, paired with dark jeans, and somehow makes it look effortlessly put together.
His golden-brown eyes are focused on his phone, and even from across the room, I spot the concentration in his expression.
Is he checking out my Instagram account?
When I woke up this morning, that post had blown up with hundreds of comments, thousands of likes.
My phone practically melted down. I still can’t decide if I should be mortified or thrilled.
Part of me wanted to delete it, but… I’ve never had anything go viral before. So, yeah. It’s kind of exciting.