Chapter One
Danae
Weeks ago…
The menu in front of me is simple enough…black leather binding, gilded letters spelling out “Marquis Bistro,” and a neat list of dishes.
I run my finger down the appetizers, pretending to mull over what meal to choose from the menu. In truth, I’ve already decided. A grilled sea bass with lemon butter sauce. Light, elegant, and easy to cut through.
Across from me, my date, Zack, flips through the same menu, but his brows are furrowed as if it’s written in another language.
“What is this trash?” he mutters a little too loudly. I glance up, startled by the sudden break in the quiet murmur of the restaurant.
His lips curl into something like irritation, and he flicks the menu closed. “Nothing good here. Typical for places like this are overpriced nonsense.”
I force a polite smile. The fact that he was the one who chose this place makes his words particularly ironic, but I can’t really say I’m surprised.
I’ve seen men like Zack before…brash, overcompensating. I’ve heard the tone, too, the undercurrent of someone who feels like they’re doing me a favor by being here. I knew the type before the date even began. He’s the kind of man who mistakes rudeness and entitlement for confidence. It’s familiar…too familiar.
The waiter arrives, a polite young man with impeccable timing. “Are we ready to order?”
I smile up at him. “Yes, please. I’ll have the grilled sea bass with the lemon butter sauce and a glass of sparkling water.”
The waiter nods, jotting it down, but Zack waves him off with a scoff. “Just bring me the steak. Medium. And a bottle of your best red.” He stresses the word “best” like he’s issuing a challenge, barely looking up from his phone.
The waiter’s polite facade cracks for a fraction of a second before he nods and leaves. I murmur a quiet ‘thank you’ to his retreating back, and Zack looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“Why do you do that?” he asks, his voice dripping with disdain.
“Do what?”
“Thank people like that. They’re just waiters. It’s their job.” He leans back in his chair, one hand draped casually over the backrest.
I swallow the urge to respond sharply, instead saying, “It’s just courtesy.”
He rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath, and I force myself to look down at the tablecloth.
Zack is from a family far below mine in terms of status and wealth. I knew that going in. But I’m a recessive Omega, which means my pheromones aren’t all that strong.
You see, pheromones are divided by power count. Those over the count of 70 are considered dominant, and people like my best friend Leila and her sister have counted up to 90 and above. They are the most powerful people worldwide.
Normal people are usually under 70 but above 50 on the pheromone count. Anything under 50 is recessive. I am a 48 on this scale. I’m not the worst recessive, as I am still stronger than some recessives, but for someone of my status, that doesn’t cut it.
In this world, true power is determined by how strong your pheromones are. When powerful families like mine start to bear recessive children, it is usually the beginning of their downfall. Luckily, that is not the case for us since I have 5 brothers who are all in the 80s range on the pheromone count. I am the only one who is defective.
To put it bluntly, being recessive makes me less desirable since I might sully the gene pool of the family by birthing them recessives. And so men like Zack always feel like they’re bestowing a gift just by being in my presence.
The bottle of wine arrives quickly…clearly, the staff knows better than to risk further annoyance. Zack pours himself a generous glass before I can say anything and downs half of it in one gulp. “Cheap stuff,” he declares, shaking his head. “Can’t believe they charge this much for something that tastes like it came out of a box.”
I take a sip of my water, letting his words wash over me. I stay poised because I have to. My grace is my armor. It’s bad enough being a recessive Omega. I’m more than aware of how undesirable that makes me. Couple that with my height, and I might be the perfect mate repellent. I’m not about to make it worse.
Dinner passes painfully. Zack binge drinks the entire bottle, criticizing every bite of his steak. “Overcooked,” he sneers, though the pink center is plain to see. I quietly enjoy my sea bass, nodding politely whenever he launches into another tirade about how the world doesn’t appreciate “men like him.”
When the check arrives, Zack doesn’t even glance at it. “I’m not paying for that sloppy meal,” he announces, throwing his napkin onto the table.
I can’t help the way my eyes blink, and then I look up at the waiter, whose expression flickers between shock and resignation. “It’s fine,” I say quickly, reaching for my purse. “I’ll take care of it.”
Zack glares at me as I hand my card to the waiter. “What are you doing?” he snaps. “Do you always go out of line like this?”
“The meal wasn’t bad,” I say calmly, keeping my voice soft. “And the waiter did nothing wrong.”
He scoffs, leaning back in his chair as though I’ve just insulted his honor.
I've seen that expression before…the kind men like Zack have on their faces when they feel their ego take a hit. And honestly, I’m not here for it tonight.
I pull out my phone, fingers flying across the screen as I fire off a quick text to my brother.
"This was fun," I say, tapping send on my screen before shifting my gaze back to Zack. “But I think it’s time to call it a night.”
When I stand to leave, my six-inch heels clicking against the polished floor, I can see it. That look. The flash of discomfort in his eyes as he realizes I’m taller than him.
I knew this would happen. It always happens. Men like Zack get edgy when they see me like this, looming over them. I’d even come early tonight because I wanted to be seated before he arrived so he wouldn’t notice. Not that it mattered, since he was late anyway.
“What the fuck? You’re defective,” he blurts, his face turning red. “What kind of Omega is that tall?”
I freeze for half a second, then straighten my spine. “I mentioned my height in our texts,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “You said you liked women in heels, and I tried to explain to you, but you dismissed it and told me to come in six-inch heels.”
He’s 6 feet tall. In my heels, I’m 6’2. I should have known he wouldn’t take it well.
“Normal Omegas don’t morph into giants in heels!” he spits, loud enough for nearby tables to hear. “You’re an abomination. A mountain.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t rise to it. “You’ve had too much to drink,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “You finished the whole bottle yourself.”
He stands abruptly, grabbing my wrist with a roughness that makes me stumble. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” he snarls, dragging me toward the exit.
The room blurs slightly before I catch myself, straightening my posture. People are staring…I can feel their eyes burning into my back. Heat rises to my cheeks, but I refuse to let it show. Composure is everything.
Outside, Zack whirls on me, still holding my wrist. “You should be grateful I even came here tonight,” he snaps. “You’d be lucky if I even stomach the idea of marrying you.”
I feel my eyebrow arch at his words . Well, that’s incredulous. Is he serious? He’s talking like we’re in a relationship, as if I’d ever want to see him again. I don’t respond, though. It’s not worth it.
“I can’t believe I have to educate you even on basic things like this. Not only are you a recessive omega, but you’re also some kind of mutation too. On top of all that, you don’t know how to respect your man!” He’s slurring his words as he wags his finger in my face. “I’m angry now, so don’t even think about texting me until I text you. Use the time to reflect on what you’ve done wrong. That will be your punishment.”
Before he can go any further, another voice cuts through the night. Deep, firm, and unmistakably protective.
“You seem to be a bit mistaken,” it says. “You’re the one who’ll never text her again.”
Zack freezes, his hand dropping from my wrist as he turns. My brother Jerome stands there, tall and imposing. He’s the closest in age to me out of my 5 brothers, so we’re very close. I had texted him to come get me when I started to get the feeling that Zack might create a scene. His gaze is locked on Zack with a calm irritation that radiates warning.
Zack looks like he’s going to piss himself. He stammers something incoherent, then scurries off into the night without another word, probably going to look for his car. Hopefully, the valets don’t let him drive.
Jerome steps forward, his expression softening as he looks at me. “Come on,” he says quietly, guiding me to his car.
Once inside, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My shoulders relax for the first time all evening.
“Block him,” my brother says as he starts the engine.
“Already doing it,” I reply, pulling out my phone.
As I hit the block button, all the irritation I’ve been holding in finally bubbles to the surface. Now that it’s just me and my brother, I let it out.
“What a fucking rat,” I mutter, the words sharp as I glare at my phone. “I could’ve slapped his head clean off.”
Beside me, my brother bursts out laughing, his hands steady on the wheel as he shakes his head. “You’re the one who insists on being so nice and poised all the time. If you ask me? You should’ve slapped him.” His voice is teasing, but there’s an edge of truth to it.
I manage a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Instead, I turn to the window, the city lights blurring as we pass. “Poised” is all I’ve got, really.
Zack might’ve been an asshole, but I can’t kid myself. I know what I am. A recessive Omega, built like a tree compared to all the other delicate girls. A blight on the Walker family name when I have 5 powerful alpha brothers. If I’m at least polite, then they can’t tack on “badly behaved” to the list of my shortcomings.
“Where did you even find that trash?”
“He was in one of my college classes,” I say softly.
“Don’t go out with guys like that anymore. He’s not even close to your level.”
I nod, my gaze fixed on the passing lights outside. I know Zack isn’t at my family’s level, but I’ve run out of options. No one in our circles wants me. I’ve had too many failed dates with the equally rich to know.
“Mom and Dad are handling it now. They’re working on getting you a match,” Jerome adds.
"Working on getting me a match?"
I try to sound casual, but I can’t help the worry that nags at me. These constant disappointments are draining each failed attempt feels like a fresh wound, but it's always worse when it doesn’t work out with someone my parents had in mind.
Still, I can’t help but wonder what kind of man Mom and Dad will be able to match me with.