Chapter Four
Rhea
A nother clink of champagne glasses. Laughter where there shouldn’t be any.
After recovering from my slight internal meltdown, I orbit the edges of the gala like a well-dressed ghost with a bad attitude. My heels ache, my dress is clinging to places I didn’t ask it to, and my camera strap is trying to carve a permanent groove into my collarbone.
I’m not hiding. I'm just keeping a respectful distance from things I don’t need to touch.
Alphas included.
My skin still hasn’t cooled down from Ash'sarrival, and Lucian entering the room like he was auditioning to ruin my life on a tax-deductible budget didn’t exactly help.
Neither does the knowledge that somewhere in this glitter-drenched ballroom is a high-ranking OMB official sipping champagne and likely making polite conversation about public safety while his presence alone makes my spine lock.The scent-neutralizers buzz above; too quiet to do anything useful, too loud to ignore now that I’m paying attention - like the world’s most passive-aggressive mosquito.
I shift my weight. Adjust the strap of my camera.
Breathe in. Hold. Let go.
I’m fine. I’m calm. I’m invisible.Just another beta with a camera and a very reasonable fear of government oversight.
I spot Lexi practically glowing by the bar, surrounded by a circle of rich beta men trying to impress her and women trying to figure out if they’re jealous or in love. She sees me and lifts two fingers - a barely-there flick that means you alive?
I make my way over, and she leans in, her voice pitched low beneath the music. “You good?”
“Golden," I nod. "Glitter and ego and overpriced champagne - just how I like it.”
Lexi arches a brow. “You look like you’re two seconds from setting a chandelier on fire.”
I smirk. “I’m surviving.”
“You know,” she says casually, “you don’t have to just survive. You could be the main character of this whole event. Sparkle more. Start a scandal. Flip a table.”
“I prefer the shadows. Better lighting. Less bullshit.”
She sips her drink, eyes dancing. “ Tragic . Think of the chaos you could unleash.”
“Oh, I think about it. That’s why I stay behind the camera.” I gesture to the crowd with my chin. “Temptation in sequins still doing numbers?”
She hums, amused. “One of the board members called me dangerous ,” she says. “I told him danger is my middle name.”
“Is it?”
“It is now.”
I laugh - soft, sharp, and way too easy. My pulse is still somewhere north of normal, but Lexi grounds me, as always.
The only sane person in a room full of expensive delusions.
She leans in closer, eyes gleaming. “You see him?”
My stomach dips.
I don’t have to ask who.
“You mean the alpha-shaped war crime at nine o’clock?”
Lexi grins. “The Devil himself.”
We both glance over.
Lucian Vale stands exactly where I left him: in a halo of power suits and champagne flutes, still speaking with the OMB official.
But now, they’re not alone. Three more have joined them.
Two men in navy suits with state pins on their lapels, and a sharp-eyed woman in a dress that definitely says senior advisor to someone who signs laws into effect.
Lexi follows my gaze, lifting her brows. “Impressive, right?”“What are they?” I ask, too casually. “Politicians?”
She hums. “Mostly. City council, state infrastructure, education board - I think one of them’s attached to the Governor’s re-election team.” She sips. “Lucian Vale doesn’t breathe unless it benefits five of his companies and two of his legacy contacts.”
I force a smile. “Subtle.”
“He’s practically royalty,” she adds, watching him with a kind of amused admiration. “Old money. Old rules. Gets invited to every boardroom and black-tie gala in a hundred-mile radius. And the man knows everyone.”
“And... the OMB guy?” I ask, letting the words slip like I don’t care.
She shrugs. “No idea. But judging by the fact he didn’t blink when Lucian walked up to him, I’d say they’ve at least played golf together. Or done blood magic. Whatever powerful men do.”
I snort. “Comforting.”
Lexi turns back to me, her grin sly. “Why so curious?”
“I’m not.”
“Oh no,” she drawls, “don’t do that thing where you lie with your eyebrows. I know you, Rhea. You’ve got a little glint.”
“It’s not a glint. It’s caution.” I lift my camera. “He’s just… loud.”
“Loud and rich and brooding,” she sing-songs, clearly delighted. “Tell me you wouldn’t risk a felony for one night with that jawline.”
“I’d rather risk tetanus.”
“You can have both, knowing him.”
I laugh, despite myself.
“Look at them all,” she says as her eyes scan over the room. “Every beta here is practically vibrating on sight. You’d think he was giving out orgasms with the dessert trays.”
“He probably could. Monetize it, too.”
“Oh, absolutely. Alpha NFTs or some shit," she scoffs. Then, she nudges me. “Take good photos of him, will you? The best ones could probably buy me a beach house.”
I raise my camera. “Easy enough.
I’d bet good money that the man’s never taken a bad photo in his life.”
“I’d pay real money to know if the rumors are true.”
I try not to look too interested. “What rumors?”
She arches a brow. “About what he’s like in bed.”
“Oh.” I blink. “Right.”
“I’m assuming: intense, communicationally questionable, very expensive sheets.”
I shrug. “I’m not interested.”
“So you keep saying. But if you were?”
“I’d still be furious about it.”
Lexi laughs again, a sharp glittering thing, and tips her flute toward me.
Then she softens. Just a little. “Hey. You’re okay, right?”
I nod, focusing on the weight of the camera strap across my chest. “Better with you.”
She doesn't look convinced, but she smiles all the same.
“Alright. If you say so. But - text me if you need an emergency. I’ll trip a waiter or throw wine at someone who deserves it.”
“You’d ruin a dress for me?”
“Babe, I’d ruin a bloodline for you.”
I grin. “Now that’s tempting.”
She winks, already turning back to her crowd, heels slicing the marble like she owns it, and I’m left facing the ballroom.
*
The scent-neutralizers hum, the board members laugh at something I can’t hear -
And Lucian Vale doesn’t look my way again.
He's exactly how I like my problems: expensive, distant, and ignoring me.
So why the hell can’t I stop looking?
And why is my body vibrating like a tuning fork with the sudden, feral urge to launch myself at him like a heat-drunk moth with no survival instincts?
I shake the thought away. Raise my camera again.
Back to work. Back to sanity.
Orchids. Floating candles. Napkins folded into tiny birds that probably took some poor intern six hours and a minor existential crisis.
Click.
Soft focus. Clean composition.
Beautiful. Forgettable. Perfect for disappearing.
Click. Smile.
Breathe.
But the air still hasn’t settled. There’s a buzz in my skull; my instincts banging pots and pans in a language I almost understand.
I move again. Find a new angle. Pretend I’m focused. Pretend my palms aren’t damp on the camera grip and that I’m not seconds away from hyperventilating into a bread basket.
But the night isn’t done with me yet.
Because that's when the next alpha collides with the room - not entering, not gliding, but literally crashing through it like a live wire.
Kai Reed.
I feel him before I see him: that strange, second-skin sensation of being seen before being noticed.
It’s not subtle. It’s not patient.
It’s a thrum behind my ribs.
A full-body jolt like the universe just leaned in, smirking, and whispered good luck .
And when I turn, my eyes lock onto him; and holy shit , he’s…
Yeah.
Impossible to miss.
Tousled brown hair. A black button-down hanging open over a plain white tee that fits a little too well. A leather jacket that looks like it’s taken punches, and given worse.
Jeans. Boots. Broad shoulders. Biceps that could bench press your ex for fun.
And a wicked grin that says he’s about to flirt with your sister, ruin your credit score, and somehow still get invited to dinner after.
He doesn’t belong here. Not in a room this polished. Not under lights this soft.
Too real, too wild, too hot in that wrong side of the law, right side of the bed kind of way.
A woman at the bar adjusts her bra like her life depends on it.
The beta man beside her frowns into his drink like it just betrayed him.
A server trips over his own tray trying to get another look.
Kai Reed is not subtle. He’s a spark thrown onto silk; a chaos demon with the shoulders of a Greek statue and the moral restraint of a wolf raised in a frat house.
I’ve seen him before, riding through the city on his motorcycle, weaving through traffic like physics are a polite suggestion.
He moves like the world was built for him to disobey, and hell, if I were a beta - if I were anyone else - I’d probably already be halfway to climbing him like a jungle gym.
Because Kai Reed is the kind of alpha built for heat with no strings, no promises, and no regret. He’s the midnight laugh with morning amnesia; all hands, mouths, and motion.
A wink and a lie. I’ll call you, even when you already know he won’t.
But I’m not a beta.
And this? This isn’t funny.
Because my skin is burning .
His scent hits me like an uppercut: cinnamon, ozone, and the spark before a thunderstorm. It sizzles straight down my spine, and every nerve ending lights up like it’s just remembered how to scream.
Across the room, Lucian turns.
Slow. Controlled.
Icy.
His gaze cuts toward the entrance where Kai’s just swaggered into the crowd, utterly unbothered.
The OMB official beside Lucian goes still, his lips thinning with polite disdain. One of the other officials mutters something to the woman with the advisor-eyes. She doesn’t respond, just watches Kai with a kind of pointed quiet.
Lucian’s jaw shifts once. Barely.
But the message is clear.
What the fuck is he doing here?
The whole group looks at Kai the way museum curators might look at a raccoon that’s chewed through a priceless tapestry.
And Kai?
He just grins wider.
I fight the twitch of a laugh - because my body doesn’t know whether to run, collapse, or kiss him until I forget my own name.
This isn’t just scent. It’s not even just lust.
It’s recognition.
And I -
Am not reacting. I refuse.
I am neutral.
I am boring.
I am a very tired beta with a camera and no interest in this walking, smirking, cinnamon-scented mistake.
And I am absolutely not making eye contact.
Not again.
Not until I can trust my knees.
Still, I swear - I swear - I can feel him smirking from across the room.
Click. Flash.
Keep. It. Together.
I exhale through my nose and lift the camera again.
Focus . Pretend .
But I’m pretty sure the scent-neutralizers are wheezing for help, now.
This is fine. This is totally fine.
It’s just three alphas -
Three extremely different, extremely illegal thoughts wrapped in tailored fabric -
And something in me that’s starting to ache like it just woke up from a coma and is deeply pissed it missed the party.