9. Sophie
Sophie
The drive to Synthera gives me time to prepare for my next mission, if you could call it that.
I run through my cover story for the hundredth time, letting the words settle into my bones until they feel like truth.
Sophie Dysart. Twenty-eight years old. Business degree from a mid-tier university. Previous experience as an executive assistant at two pharmaceutical companies, both conveniently defunct.
I glance down at myself and suppress a shudder.
The outfit is aggressively feminine. A soft pink blouse with a bow at the collar, a knee-length gray skirt that swishes when I walk, nude heels that are somehow both boring and uncomfortable.
My nails are painted a cheerful coral. My makeup is natural and dewy, making me look fresh-faced and approachable instead of like someone who could snap your neck in three seconds.
Even my scent is wrong.
I’ve been on a different set of suppressants for two days, milder than my usual ones, designed to soften my scent rather than erase it.
I catch a whiff of myself and wrinkle my nose.
Faint and clean, like fresh linen. Present enough to register as omega, but so muted it barely warrants a second thought.
For the next few weeks, I’m Sophie Dysart. A woman who likes romcoms and sweet perfumes. Who does Pilates and drinks oat milk lattes and probably has a Pinterest board full of wedding inspiration.
The thought makes me want to stab something.
Kit had picked out the clothes, of course. She’d shown up last night with two suitcases and the energy of someone who’d been waiting her whole life for this. Everything soft and sweet and completely wrong for who I am. Exactly what society wants an omega to be.
“You’re going to be brilliant,” she’d said. “You always are.”
After she left, I was alone with a mountain of borrowed clothes and the lingering feeling that I was about to spend the next few weeks trapped in someone else’s skin.
The Synthera estate appears around a bend in the road, and despite myself, I slow the car to take it in.
Four stories of glass and pale stone, light pouring in from every angle, a fountain in the courtyard catching the morning sun. Wings branch out from the central structure, connected by what look like glass corridors.
Griffin mentioned the estate used to be Max Cavill’s family home. A mansion, torn down and rebuilt into this gleaming monument to modern biotech.
Of course he tore down a perfectly good mansion to build an office. That’s exactly the sort of wasteful shit people do when they have more money than sense. Why renovate when you can demolish? Why preserve anything when you can just start over with something shinier?
God, rich people are exhausting.
I pull into the visitor lot and kill the engine, letting the silence settle around me for a moment.
One last check in the rearview mirror. Pink blouse straight, coral nails unchipped, brown contacts in over my green eyes. Expression pleasant and slightly nervous, like a new employee on her first day.
Showtime.
The morning air is crisp when I step out of the car. I make my way toward the main entrance, each step soft and unhurried. Sophie Dysart wouldn’t rush. She would be taking it all in, marveling at the impressive building, feeling grateful and slightly overwhelmed by this wonderful opportunity.
I let my eyes go wide as I approach and my shoulders curve inward just slightly.
The glass doors slide open automatically, and the air inside is noticeably cooler. The lobby stretches out before me, flooded with natural light, marble floors, the sort of place that makes you instinctively lower your voice.
Two women staff the reception desk. The one who looks up first is young, maybe mid-twenties, with honey-blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and an open, friendly face. Her smile is wide and genuine when she spots me.
“Hi! I’m Lucy,” she says. “You must be Sophie? We’ve been expecting you.”
“That’s me.” I let my voice go soft, uncertain. “Sorry, am I in the right place? This building is so big, I was worried I’d get lost.”
Lucy laughs like I’ve said something delightful. “Don’t worry, it takes everyone a few days to learn the layout. I’ll show you around myself.” She says something to the woman beside her, who nods without looking up from her screen.
Lucy leads me through the lobby and into the main corridor. I follow half a step behind, letting my eyes dart around with what I hope looks like nervous wonder while taking in every detail.
The place is meticulously designed. High ceilings lined with exposed ductwork painted matte black, the industrial edge softened by warm wood paneling and living plant walls that climb toward skylights three stories up.
Security cameras at every junction, I note.
Discreet black domes tucked into corners, easy to miss if you weren’t looking.
Keycard access on most doors. A steady stream of employees moves around us, most in lab coats or business casual, with the purposeful energy of people who actually like their jobs.
“This is the atrium,” Lucy explains, gesturing upward at the open space above us.
“Everything connects through here. The four wings branch off from the ground floor, research, clinical, modulation, and the residential commons where the staff quarters and canteen are.” She points toward the elevators.
“The executive offices are on the fourth floor, along with marketing. That’s mostly where you’ll be. ”
She glances back at me with a reassuring smile, and I make sure to look appropriately overwhelmed.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Three years.”
“You must know the place inside out by now.”
Lucy laughs. “Mostly. Though this place still manages to surprise me.”
We step into the elevator and ride up to the fourth floor. The doors open onto a quieter space, the bustle of the floors below completely absent. The carpet is plush beneath my feet, swallowing the sound of our footsteps.
Lucy stops in front of a set of frosted glass doors at the end of the hall. A small brass placard reads MAX CAVILL - CEO.
“Here we are.” She turns to face me, her expression encouraging. “Mr. Cavill is in a meeting right now, but he said to send you right in when you arrived.”
She gives my arm a light squeeze, and I resist the instinct to pull away.
“Good luck,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”
I thank her and watch her disappear back down the corridor. Then I take a breath and push open the door.
I’d braced for a big office with expensive art and designer furniture.
Instead, there’s a large wooden desk by the window, shelves, two leather couches, and not much else.
No frills. Everything exactly in its place, down to the black pen lying parallel to the edge of the desk.
It feels like the office of a man who doesn’t tolerate chaos, and somehow that unsettles me more.
My eyes land on the man standing by the window.
Blue eyes. Dirty blond hair, perfectly styled. A charcoal suit that fits him like it was sewn directly onto his body.
Finn.
The world tilts.
No. No, no, no.
I freeze in the doorway as those blue eyes meet mine. The same eyes that watched me across a moonlit terrace, then darkened in his suite when I leaned in to kiss him. The same eyes that have haunted my sleep for the past two weeks, no matter how hard I tried to forget them.
Finn Preston. Pack Cavill.
He looks as shocked as I feel, but only for a moment. Then his expression smooths into something polite and distant, and he straightens from his position by the window.
“Hello, Sophie.” His voice is cool and even, nothing like the warm, easy tone that I remember so well from that night.
I realize I’ve stopped breathing. I force air into my lungs, grateful beyond words for the suppressants dulling my senses. If I could smell him right now, that sunlight and honey scent that almost made me forget myself, I don’t know what I’d do.
I glance around the office, desperately hoping someone else is here, a secretary, a cleaning person, anyone at all.
We’re alone.
“Are you—” My voice comes out strangled. I clear my throat and try again. “Please don’t tell me you’re Pack Cavill.”
“Yep.” The word is flat. “My name is still Finn Preston, and yes, I’m Pack Cavill.” He tilts his head, his eyes moving over my face slowly, like he’s trying to work something out. “Small world.”
Small world. Right.
The universe is fucking with me. There’s no other explanation. The universe looked at my life and decided it wasn’t complicated enough, so it arranged for me to be assigned to the pack of the alpha I accidentally kissed while hunting a different alpha.
“Max and Ethan are in meetings,” Finn continues. “They should be here soon.”
He doesn’t offer his hand or move closer, just stands there watching me, his eyes colder than they ever were that night.
Something about his distance makes my hackles rise.
“You said you worked in marketing,” I say, the words coming out more accusatory than I intended. “For a medical company.”
“I do.” A ghost of a smile crosses his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m the Chief Marketing Officer of Synthera. So technically, I wasn’t lying.”
Technically. The word grates against my nerves.
“And you work in accounting?” He raises an eyebrow. “Or was that also... technically true?”
I deserve that. I know I deserve that. But it still stings.
“I was undercover when we met.” The admission comes out stiff. “Working a case.”
“I see.”
Does he? I doubt it. I doubt he has any idea what that night actually was, a mission gone sideways, a mistake I’ve been paying for ever since. He probably thinks I was just some omega playing games, who changed her mind at the last second.
But what does any of it matter anyway?
He’s a billionaire alpha. Part of a pack that probably has omegas throwing themselves at them constantly. I was just another face at a gala, another pair of lips in a long line of forgettable encounters. He probably barely remembers that night.
I straighten my spine and lift my chin.