Chapter Three
Rhea
I slide into motion, weaving between servers balancing champagne flutes and women in silk gowns so tight they might disintegrate if anyone exhales too hard.
I duck my chin, let the crowd swallow me whole, and hope it takes the scent-trail of whatever unholy alpha-related nonsense just curled inside me.
Music hums from a corner stage. Crystal glasses flash in candlelight. Someone laughs near the bar; loud, sharp, and trying way too hard.
Click. Smile.
Compliment someone’s earrings like I wasn’t just hit with an existential wave of scent-driven doom.
Flash.
Shift angle. Chase the light.
Pretend you weren’t just tempted to purr in public.
I let my feet carry me while the camera keeps me anchored. The tension still hums under my skin like a trapped bee, but I bury it beneath autopilot and beta-face.
“Isn’t the floral arrangement insane ?” someone coos as I pass.
“I heard they flew the orchids in from Osaka,” says another.
I nod like someone who gives half a damn about internationally trafficked houseplants and lift my camera again.
I slide deeper into the crowd, my heart still unspooling -
And my instincts throw up every alarm I’ve spent seven years training them to ignore.
The second alpha steps into the room. And this one?
Oh, I know exactly who this one is.
You don't forget that kind of face.
Not when it’s been burned into half the billboards in the city.
Not when it’s featured in luxury magazine spreads.
And certainly not when it’s starred in at least three of my financial anxiety spirals.
Lucian Vale.
The name alone sounds like a threat wrapped in a brand deal.
CEO before twenty-five. Fortune bred, not built. Cold-blooded heir to a dynasty with more control issues than a medieval empire.
He's a seventh-generation alpha. Every male in his line an alpha, every daughter an omega -
And every single one raised like power is a birthright and feelings are a design flaw.
He doesn’t just walk in - he materializes .
A black-on-black suit tailored so precisely it could double as a weapon. Thick, wavy hair the color of midnight slicked back with all the charm of a closing argument.
Cheekbones sharp enough to file paperwork, a mouth that looks like it’s never once said please , and eyes so dark and stormy they should come with a weather warning.
I’ve avoided him since the day I arrived in this city. Filed him in the same mental folder as the OMB database and my unpaid parking tickets.
Too rich, too powerful, too dangerous to ever be in my orbit.
And yet -
Lately, he’s been around. Not just in news articles and gala coverage, but in my actual orbit .
Not in the gala circuits where he’s expected, but in the wrong parts of town. The café near my building. The lobby of a coworking space I sometimes shoot in. Passing me on a street and making my whole body seize up like it knew.
We’ve never spoken. Never even looked at each other.
But I’ve felt him.
That quiet, electric buzz in my spine. That bone-deep pull that feels way too personal to be random.
I tell myself it’s just instinct. Biology. A blip in my wiring.
But it feels more like fate’s playing matchmaker and laughing her ass off.
Lucian doesn’t look at anyone. He doesn’t need to.
The betas in the room orbit him like he has his own gravitational field; giggling and preening, just about managing not to drool.
He ignores them with the vague disinterest of a man allergic to small talk.
I can't help but watch him as he moves.
Not toward the bar. Not toward the stage.
But toward the man in the charcoal suit near the center table.
The one surrounded by subtle security and discreet deference.
The OMB board member.
My pulse stutters.
I know I shouldn't stare, but I can't seem to look away, either. Lucian extends his hand - all cool, calm, and rehearsed - and the official grips it like they know each other well.
The thing is, the OMB isn’t just some admin department. They’re the ones who keep the system running. They register and then track every single omega. They monitor their locations, keep track of their cycles, and place them with alpha matches deemed appropriate by scent if they don't get a move on and find a match for themselves.
All in the name of safety and order.
Nobody really knows how it works. Not from the outside.
All we really know is that that once you’re on their radar, you don’t get off.
And by the looks of it, Lucian Vale isn't just connected to them. - he’s familiar with them. Comfortable. At ease.
Of course he is.
The Mask stays in place, but I can feel the tremble just beneath the surface as Lucian lifts a glass of something expensive and amber. He nods to the board member before he says something quiet that makes the man laugh.
And then -
His scent finally hits.
God.
Refined cologne. Crushed berries. Cold smoke.
And sex. Really, really good sex.
All laced with something darker. Heavier.
Alpha.
Something that hits under the ribcage and whispers submit.
It slithers past my suppressants like silk wrapped around barbed wire; sweet enough to tempt, sharp enough to cut.
And fuck me, I feel it.
Not a crush. Not a fantasy.
A pull.
Low. Primal. Deep enough to make my knees threaten betrayal.
Stupid .
The Mask holds. The pills are working. This is just… residual heat. Adrenaline. Nerves. Phantom instinct. Hormones stirring shadows.
That’s all.
I adjust my grip on the camera and remind myself I’m invisible. Neutral.
Just another beta behind a lens.
Click.
Flash.
Mechanical rhythm. A metronome for my sanity.
Then, I feel it. That shift, that unmistakable burn at the back of my neck.
And I know before I even glance up that he’s looking at me.
I drag my gaze toward him like it weighs a hundred pounds.
Just as I inexplicably knew; Lucian Vale’s eyes find mine.
And not like a man seeing something new.
More like a man who just noticed something wrong.
His brow twitches. His mouth doesn’t move.
But his head tilts ever so slightly, just enough to say: anomaly detected.
His gaze drags over me - methodical, not lascivious. Like he’s running diagnostics. Measuring. Evaluating.
Cataloguing.
Shit.
My stomach drops, and I look away too fast, throat dry.
Back down to the camera. To the strap biting into my collarbone.
To the lens between me and the world.
I click again, even though I’m not focused, even though my hands are a little too tight around the grip.
Because I am one heartbeat away from combusting, and this close to throwing hands with my own hormones, and the last thing I need is Lucian fucking Vale narrowing his eyes at me like I’m a question worth answering.