Chapter Two
Rhea
I hate heels, but I hate looking out of place more, so I walk like I was born in four inches of black suede and passive-aggressive elegance.
Shoulders back, chin lifted, weight adjusted to a practiced curve of the spine.
Tonight, I’m all clean lines and soft edges. Curated femininity: sharp enough to belong, soft enough to avoid questions.
The look says beta with opinions , not omega with a secret stash of blackout-level suppressants.
It's camouflage by contour.
Mascara war paint, and posture so practiced it could run for public office.
Lexi is already outside the venue, waiting like a glitter-drenched goddess of chaos. Her sequin jumpsuit catches every beam of light like it’s trying to summon a disco ball from another dimension, her heels could double as weapons, and her champagne flute is already halfway to empty.
She’s a walking headline, and she knows it.
“Rheeeeaaa,” she sings, dragging out my name with dramatic flair. She scans me head to toe. “Happy birthday, you elegant little weapon. You look like you’re about to ruin a marriage and leave lipstick on the divorce papers.”
“Only if the prenup has loopholes,” I mutter, smoothing my dress like I didn’t already lint-roll it so hard it nearly disintegrated.
Lexi laughs, looping her arm through mine. “God, I love when you dress up. All this power, this mystery - it’s giving rich cousin with a secret.”
“It’s also giving heart palpitations and possibly heel-related death.”
She grins and lifts her glass. “Perfect. You brought your camera?”
I tap the strap over my shoulder. “Never leave home without my most expensive limb.”
“Thank god . The other guy’s shooting on something that looks like it came free with a cereal box.”
She pulls me into a champagne-scented hug that leaves glitter on my face.
“Go make art, birthday girl,” she whispers. “And maybe snap some photos of that Apex executive in case I need leverage later.”
Before I can ask whether she’s joking, Lexi’s eyes flick toward the entrance.
“Heads up: we’ve got some very shiny guests tonight. One of the OMB board members just walked in.”
My stomach tightens. “Seriously?”
She nods, eyes gleaming. “Yep. Can’t imagine what the hell he’s doing here - probably just showing face for the press or whatever - but I am thrilled. I mean, come on: high-profile charity gala, lots of cameras, excellent lighting? Of course they all want in.”
I force a smile. “Lucky us.”
“Honestly, I hope half the Board shows up. I want them all on that step-and-repeat looking like overpaid Bond villains.”
I snort under my breath. “Not sure they’re your demo.”
“Everyone’s my demo if I’m working the angle right.”
She doesn’t notice the way I’ve gone quiet. Doesn’t clock the way my hands tighten slightly around the strap of my camera bag.
She’s too busy scanning the courtyard, too buzzed on champagne and political clout to see past the sparkle.
“You’re good though,” she says, already distracted. “You’ve got that ice-queen thing going on. Quiet, competent, slightly intimidating. Sexy but make it mysterious. Seriously, you're the poster girl for flying under the radar.”
“Right,” I murmur. “That’s me. Quiet. Sexy. Untraceable.”
She winks. “Exactly. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a venture capitalist with commitment issues standing too close to the fountain, and I feel like ruining someone’s night.”
And then she’s gone; glitter flashing, heels merciless, disappearing into the chattering crowd with the speed of gossip.
I’m left standing in her slipstream; breath tight, camera in hand, heels steady -
And Mask locked into place.
One hand on the grip, the other pressed just above the quiet flutter beneath my ribs.
*
The ballroom unfolds like a stage no one’s quite sober enough to perform on.
Vaulted ceilings. Chandelier light humming. Jazz music snaking through the air.
Everything shimmers. Everyone is overdressed, underfed, and pretending not to notice each other’s scent trails like they’re above it all.
They’re not.
Every smile is curated. Every laugh is a performance. There’s so much Botox and backhanded compliments floating around, I’m surprised the walls haven’t staged a rebellion.
Tonight, the stakes are higher than ever. Government officials litter the corners of the room like polished surveillance equipment: apex executives, two senators, and somewhere near the champagne fountain -
An OMB board member, holding a flute and pretending he doesn’t want to sterilize the guest list.
I keep to the edge, camera in hand, lens doing all the socializing for me.
Click.
Smile caught mid-fake.
Click .
Overcompensating cufflinks and generational wealth trauma.
Click. Flash. Pivot.
I’m the ghost in the room, and it’s perfect.
Nobody sees the photographer, and nobody questions the beta in the black dress blending into the wallpaper.
Exactly how I like it.
Exactly how it has to be.
Until the air shifts.
Not with sound - with pressure.
My skin prickles. My spine goes straight. Something ancient and hormonal rolls up my back like instinct's cold hand, and I turn -
Too late.
H e doesn’t enter. He arrives .
Tall, broad, and cut from shadow and repressed violence; the kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice because you’ll already be apologizing for the thing you haven’t done yet.
His face is all hard edges and old tension. There’s a scar beneath his left cheekbone that says I’ve seen worse than you - and the way he carries himself says he caused most of it. There’s nothing soft about him: not the buzzed fair hair, or the hands tucked loosely in his pockets, or the quiet awareness in every step.
No tux. No flair. Just a charcoal suit so sharp it might file your taxes and stab you in the same evening.
No tie. Top button undone, as though he's giving just the slightest concession to breathable air.
He’s got a soldier’s posture. Not the parade kind - the dangerous kind.
Like he’s calculating exits and vulnerabilities even while pretending to glance at the bar.
A beta standing near the champagne does a double-take that borders on felony. Her friend follows her gaze, murmurs something, and suddenly they’re both giggling like a pair of hormone-drunk academy girls.
I look too.
I shouldn’t.
But I do.
Just long enough for my heart to give a soft, traitorous thud.
Ugh. Rude.
I shift my weight. Suddenly the fabric clinging to my back feels too tight, too obvious. I drag in a breath, slow and measured -
Mistake.
His scent slips under the neutralizers like it owns the place.
Burnt whiskey. Warm leather. Steel left to cool in the dark.
It hits the inside of my mouth like heat after frost and settles low in my stomach, coiled and golden and completely unwelcome.
Alpha. And not just any alpha -
Ash.
I don’t know that name - not in the way that makes sense - but it comes to me anyway. It’s not memory, nor logic; it's just the kind of truth that lives in the blood.
I’ve been around alphas. Plenty .
I’ve taken portraits of board members so dominant they barely let their assistants speak. I’ve shot three state-sponsored weddings where the grooms tried to out-growl each other at the altar. I once spent forty-five minutes stuck in an elevator with a man who smelled like bourbon, ego, and upper management, and I lived to tell the tale.
So no, this isn’t my first rodeo.
But this?
This is something else.
This is why betas sigh into their wine and whine about alpha energy like it’s both a curse and a kink. Why they talk about alphas like they’re walking lottery tickets - just wrapped in broad shoulders, perfect jawlines, and enough scent to knock you out in a grocery store.
“Ugh, imagine being an Omega and getting one of those,” they say, dreamy-eyed and vaguely unhinged - like it’s a spa day with light bondage and good dental insurance.
The irony practically writes itself.
I’ve spent years pretending I’m one of them - just another scentless beta with a camera and a caffeine addiction - while they sit around wishing they could glow like a biological Bat Signal and get chased down by six-foot-four pheromone dispensers with control issues.
Sure. Sign me up. Sounds awesome.
What could possibly go wrong with being chemically magnetized to someone who thinks communication means pinning you to a mattress and grunting?
Still. Despite all that cynical wisdom, there’s something in me that wants to step closer.
To him.
And it’s not just instinct. It’s annoying.
The Mask holds, of course. I’ve worn it too well, too long. But under the surface, something rustles. Something quiet.
Something ancient .
A ripple through still water. A shift beneath skin.
A silent thread, pulling gently.
I ignore it, and focus on steadying my hands.
I lift the camera, focus the lens right on his stupid, handsome, objectively photogenic face, and -
Click.