14. Sophie
Sophie
Imake my way back through the corridor to the marketing wing, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed, my expression pleasantly neutral.
Sophie Dysart wouldn’t storm through the hallways with her jaw clenched.
She would be grateful for the opportunity, eager to get back to work, maybe a little flustered from being in the same room as three powerful alphas.
I try to channel that energy. It’s not as easy as it usually is.
Finn’s cold stare keeps flashing through my mind. The way he barely looked at me the entire meeting, and when he did, there was something sharp behind those blue eyes. Oh, he remembers.
I wonder what he’s made of it. Whether he’s figured out I mistook him for a mark, or decided I’m some flighty little omega who lost her nerve and bolted. Or maybe he just thinks I changed my mind and lost interest. Either way, it doesn’t matter.
I’m here to do a job, not to lose sleep over what one alpha thinks of me.
Keep telling yourself that.
The office is buzzing when I get back, phones ringing and people typing away at their keyboards. Celine spots me immediately and waves me over.
“There you are, dear! How did the meeting go?”
“Fine,” I say, settling into the chair at my desk. “They just wanted to go over expectations. Make sure I understood the rotation schedule.”
“Of course, of course.” Celine pats my arm. “Don’t let them intimidate you. They seem scary at first, but they’re really quite nice once you get to know them.”
Nice isn’t the word I’d use. But I nod and smile like I believe her.
“Now,” she says, pulling her chair closer to mine, “where were we? I was going to show you the filing system, wasn’t I?”
Right. The filing system. Because that’s what I do now. I file things.
I stare at the computer screen.
The only problem is that I don’t actually know how to do most of this. My skills are in surveillance, infiltration, and taking down men twice my size. I can pick a lock in under four seconds and disarm a loaded weapon in two. But formatting a spreadsheet? That might actually kill me.
Celine walks me through the basics, how to access the shared drive, where to find templates, which folders belong to which team members. I nod along, making mental notes, trying to look like someone who finds this genuinely interesting rather than mind-numbingly tedious.
“Do you like working here?” I ask during a lull, taking a careful sip of the coffee she brought me earlier.
Celine doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, I love it. Absolutely love it. The pay is good, the work is interesting, and Pack Cavill, they really take care of their people, you know?” She leans in conspiratorially.
“Last year, I had to take six weeks off for surgery. Hip replacement, getting old is no fun, let me tell you. But they paid my full salary the entire time. Didn’t even use my sick days. ”
“That’s generous.”
“It’s more than generous. It’s...” She searches for the word. “It’s family. That’s what it feels like here. Like we’re all part of something bigger than just a job.”
Interesting. Synthera clearly invests in employee loyalty. It makes sense from a business perspective. Loyal employees are less likely to leak information, less likely to be turned by outside interests.
But it also complicates my investigation. If everyone here genuinely loves their job and feels indebted to Pack Cavill, the mole has to be motivated by something stronger than money.
“What about you, dear?” Celine asks, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Do you have family nearby?”
“Not really,” I say, Sophie Dysart’s voice light and casual. “My parents are gone, and I’m an only child. But I have friends, you know? They’re like family.”
Celine makes a sympathetic noise. “I’m sorry to hear that, dear. But you’re right, friends can be family too.”
I smile and nod.
She gives me a stack of filing to keep me busy. Simple work, organizing documents, updating spreadsheets, learning the company’s systems.
I try to look productive while quietly taking stock of the people around me. The marketing team is small, eight people including Celine. I note their names and positions, and who hangs out with whom.
The glass doors swing open and Finn walks in.
He stops at a desk near the entrance, a young woman with red hair and a nervous energy about her. She looks up and her whole face changes, brightening like someone just turned on a light.
“Phoebe,” Finn says, leaning against the edge of her desk. “Did you manage to finish that competitor analysis?”
“Just sent it to you five minutes ago, Mr. Preston.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling. “Let me know if you need me to dig deeper on any of the brands.”
“That’s perfect. Thanks, Phoebe.”
Then he smiles, and there it is, the dimples, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the warmth that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room.
The one I haven’t seen since that night on the terrace.
Phoebe practically glows under it. I grip my pen tighter and keep my eyes fixed on my screen.
He pushes off from her desk and heads toward his office, his path taking him right past me. I don’t look up, but I can feel him getting closer.
He nods once as he passes, brief and dismissive, like he’s never seen me before in his life. Then he’s gone, disappearing into his corner office.
I stare at my computer screen, my pen still clenched in my fingers.
That’s fine. I don’t care. Why would I care?
He’s punishing me because of his ego, plain and simple. He can’t stand that an omega walked away from him.
Through the glass wall, I can see him settling into his chair, already reaching for his phone. He doesn’t look my way.
Focus on the job. Find the mole. Get out.
That’s all that matters. That’s all that’s ever mattered.
I turn back to my spreadsheet and pretend I know what I’m doing.
The day passes in a blur of meetings and introductions.
By the time five o’clock rolls around, I’m so tightly wound my head is throbbing. I’m not used to staring at a screen all day. Not used to the fluorescent lights, the constant hum of conversation, the way my face aches from holding that pleasant, eager expression for hours on end.
Usually my missions take a couple of hours. Get in, do the job, get out. This, pretending to be someone else for an entire workday, is a whole different thing.
It’s... exhausting. Exhausting in a way that combat training never is.
Celine starts packing up her things, her cardigan over one arm, the container of cookies she brought in that morning.
“Heading out, dear?” she asks, glancing over at me.
“I think so.” I save my work, or what passes for work, and shut down the computer. “It’s been a long first day.”
“They always are.” She pats my arm as she passes. “You did wonderfully. Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time tomorrow.”
I follow her out, but we part ways at the elevator bank.
My room is quiet when I step inside. Quiet and still and blessedly empty.
I close the door behind me and immediately reach for the buttons of this godforsaken blouse.
The fabric has been itching all day. Every time I moved, every time I breathed, I felt it rubbing against my skin like a constant, low-grade irritation.
The buttons slip free one by one and I shrug the blouse off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. The skirt follows. Then the flats, kicked off toward the closet.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in nothing but my underwear and finally, finally, feel like I can breathe.
My hair is still down, those ridiculous waves I spent twenty minutes styling this morning using the technique Kit taught me. I gather it up and twist it into a tight ponytail, the familiar weight of it settling against the back of my neck.
Better.
I study my reflection. The face staring back at me is one I’ve never quite learned to love.
My mother’s eyes. Deep-set, with that slight upturn at the corners. Every time I look in the mirror, I see her looking back at me. Even now, hidden behind brown contact lenses, they’re still hers.
My lips, fuller than I want them to be. My fingers drift up to touch them, tracing the shape, and for a brief moment I remember the kiss with Finn. The warmth of his mouth. The way his hand came up to cup my jaw.
It feels like a lifetime ago. Like it never actually happened.
I drop my hand.
Like always, my gaze travels downward. My fingers follow, tracing the familiar map of my scars.
The one on my shoulder, thick and raised, the skin puckered and shiny where it never healed right.
The ones along my stomach, three deep gouges that have faded to angry pink but never flattened, never smoothed over.
The ones on my inner thighs, the worst of them, ragged and ugly, hidden where no one would see them unless they were looking.
Then there are the others. The thin white lines from stitching myself up in motel bathrooms and safe houses over the years, faded now to almost nothing. The puckered circle on my left shoulder where a bullet went in and came out the other side.
But it’s the ones from Detroit that I can’t stop looking at. Ten years since Pack Thorne carved their ownership into my skin, and the scars are still there. Will always be there.
I pull my hand away and meet my own eyes in the mirror.
Get your shit together, Sophie.
This assignment is a detour. A punishment disguised as a mission. The sooner it’s over, the better.
I turn away from the mirror and dig through my suitcase for workout clothes, black leggings, a sports bra, a tank top.
I wish I could use the gym downstairs. The equipment looked good, and God, I love lifting. It was one of the things that saved me, all those years ago. It made me strong. Made me feel capable. And for the first time in my life, it made me feel like my body belonged to me.
But Sophie Dysart is a sweet, harmless omega who does yoga and drinks oat milk lattes. If anyone saw her doing pull-ups and lifting weights twice her bodyweight, questions would be asked.
So I make do with what I have.
The room isn’t big, but it’s big enough. I drop to the floor and start with push-ups, fifty, then a hundred, my arms burning by the end. Sit-ups next, then burpees, then lunges until my thighs are screaming.
I use the doorframe for pull-ups. Ten, twenty, thirty. My muscles shake but I don’t stop. The burn is clarifying, grounding, a reminder that my body is mine. That I’m strong and that I survived.
By the time I’m done, I’m drenched in sweat and my lungs are heaving.
Soon, I’ll meet whichever of them shows up at the back entrance.
I grab a towel and head for the shower, my mind already turning to the night ahead.