A Reluctant Nest (Tying the Knot #2)

1. Cassidy

CASSIDY

Omegas don’t get called to HR unless we’ve already become a problem.

Apparently, I have.

Subject: Mandatory Conduct Review

Miss Hargrove,

A formal complaint has been raised regarding your behaviour and professional conduct.

You are required to attend HR at 10 am on Wednesday, 19th September.

I fold my hands neatly in my lap, ankles crossed, spine straight.

If I look composed enough, maybe nobody will notice I’m already a problem.

The waiting room is larger than I expected for HR, and being the only one sitting in it feels less like privacy and more like being on display.

This floor feels sterile—filtered air scrubbing all scents away, cameras watching my every move, and policies that probably won’t protect me.

The email was sent yesterday afternoon, and I’ve replayed it so many times I can’t tell whether I’m analysing it—or punishing myself.

My behaviour has been exemplary. I’ve never missed a deadline. Never been late. I’ve made myself useful in every way I know how.

Because useful people don’t get sent away. Because useful omegas don’t get labelled difficult.

“—Hargrove. Cassidy Hargrove,” a soft voice calls.

I startle, and the air thickens—another omega’s scent bursts against my senses.

It’s subtle at first, then suffocating as my body reacts to her scent. My pulse skips as I stand, my scent glands warming with nervous awareness as I lift my hand in answer.

As if I’m not already the easiest person in the room to single out.

“Here,” I reply.

A woman with dark brown, glossy hair is standing in the doorway, a warm smile on her face. She looks a little older than me. Late twenties, maybe.

The woman is roughly my height, and if that weren’t signal enough, her scent confirms it instantly—cherry and almond, warm and sweet, held tight behind professional restraint.

Distinctly omega.

“Hi.” I cross the space towards her with measured steps. “I’m Cassie.”

Her brown eyes sweep over me with gentle curiosity, and it eases something tight in my chest.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she breathes. She’s soft spoken, and quiet. Her accent is hard to place. “I’m Milena, but you can call me Millie.”

She offers me her hand, fingers slightly curved, a practiced gesture that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I see the expectation in her posture, and my wrist glands pulse, traitorous with the urge to please—my scent, ready to sweeten the air, whether I wanted to or not.

Milena has mastered the careful choreography of an omega who learned early to suffocate her instincts to survive in professional spaces.

I hesitate, torn between the professional handshake she’s offering and the instinctive need to connect more genuinely.

I choose authenticity. Begin as you mean to continue, as Papa always says.

And if I start by shrinking, I’ll spend the rest of my career folded in half.

I step closer, giving her time to move away. She doesn’t.

So, I wrap my arms around her for a quick, warm hug. Her cardigan is soft against my cheek, smelling faintly of lavender, office coffee, and the comfort and sweetness of another omega.

It’s brief, but intentional.

The scenting is subtle, but it’s there—our wrist glands brushing just enough to exchange reassurance. Two omegas swapping comfort the way the world pretends we don’t.

Instinctive.

The contact settles something tight in my chest, unravelling the knot that’s been there since the email landed in my inbox. I can breathe again now, oxygen finally reaching the bottom of my lungs, like the air remembers how it’s meant to behave.

Touch is the quiet language I’ve been trained to speak—soft, comforting, and willing to soothe others before we’re allowed to soothe ourselves.

For a heartbeat, Milena’s professional facade dissolves as she returns the embrace, then she remembers herself with a small throat-clearing sound and steps back.

My smile blooms, genuine after the hug.

“Everyone calls me Cassie,” I tell her.

“You’re… enthusiastic,” she says carefully, though there’s a flicker of fondness in her expression. “Come on through, and we can chat in my office.”

I nod, slowly following after her. She leads me into her office, and I immediately fall in love.

The office is all pastels—calming and pretty—and my throat vibrates with a soft purr before I can stop it.

I swallow hard and choke it down, my cheeks warming at the loss of control. My body recognises the safety before my mind does.

Her desk is pastel pink, and the bookshelves along the back wall are washed in baby blue.

Soft. Sweet. Gentle.

I want to be grateful for Millie being the one to greet me—for her softness, despite my fuck-up—but gratitude is impossible when I don’t know the depths of my mistake.

“This is gorgeous,” I murmur, brushing my hand over the soft fabric of the chair opposite her desk.

“Thank you.” She closes the door behind us and gestures for me to sit.

I drop into the chair with none of the grace I was raised with. Too fast. Too desperate.

Like a girl who can’t afford to make mistakes.

“How are you feeling?”

“Nervous.” I rub at my wrist glands, trying to soothe the nervous scent building there, but have to stop—because all I’m doing is smearing it around.

She nods. “I’m unsurprised. I saw the email my assistant sent, and I promise it’s not as bad as she made it sound.”

“It?” I whisper, dropping my gaze to my hands.

“The situation with you,” Millie says gently. There’s a thread of firmness beneath it, and something tightens under my ribs.

“Oh.” I bite my lip. My heart races, as my stomach drops.

She opens a pale green file, my name written in careful script on a pink sticker.

“A complaint has been raised.”

My scent glands pulse before I can stop them releasing a soft perfume of strawberry cream and vanilla. My scent sweetens the pastel air despite my best efforts to keep it contained.

Instinct. Apology. Appeasement.

My body is trying to smooth a situation it doesn’t understand.

I can’t help the whine that escapes. Millie should feel it—some echo of the instinct to soothe, the way I do for others.

Omegas fix. We smooth. We comfort. Our scents soften rooms before voices ever have to.

She must have better control over herself than I do.

Or maybe she’s not used to being the one to steady the room.

“Complaint?” I echo. “What have I done? What have I not done? I’ve tried—”

“The complaint came from one of our department heads who has raised some concern over you and the other graduate trainees.”

My breathing turns sharp and shallow, my scent turning anxious despite my efforts to control it. I twist my skirt in my fists.

“Between taking on a high workload, moving office spaces, and—” Millie says.

Her words fade into the background, each new transgression landing like a bruise.

I’ve miscalculated.

Badly.

If someone has complained about my workload, I’ve clearly made a mistake. I must have dropped a ball or done something awful when helping the others.

Goodness, I hope it wasn’t Gemma’s work compromised. She has enough going on.

With her chronic migraines, the beta really needed my private office. I gave it to her without hesitation.

Sure, the bullpen isn’t the ideal place for an omega who registers every emotional change like it’s a shouted warning.

It’s too loud, too open, with scents stacked on top of each other despite the ceiling filters, until my head rings by lunch.

But I adjusted. To cope, I tuck myself into the corner of my desk, utilise my noise-cancelling headphones, and keep a smile in place.

I’ve never let my omega struggles affect my work. If anything, I work twice as hard so no one can blame my designation when I stumble.

When I’m not good enough.

I’ve stayed late, came in early, and worked through weekends to keep up with my workload and anyone else’s who looked like they were drowning.

That’s what you do when you’re afraid of losing everything. You make it easier for people to keep you around.

But maybe I’ve affected the other trainees or even those who have been training us. I thought I was helping—Liam even thanked me last week.

I’ve been careful. Helpful. Right?

But then, why would they... unless it’s my scent? Or maybe it’s how I’m too much—always inserting myself where I’m not wanted.

Or not enough—am I missing signals that my help was actually making things worse?

Fuck. What if they all secretly hate me?

“As you’re aware, the company pairs each trainee with a senior designer for their first year,” she explains. “The one-on-one mentorship ensures you receive tailored guidance and hone your skills as you adjust to the business world.”

I nod, unable to speak yet. Mentorship at Opus Media isn’t symbolic but a genuine opportunity to prove yourself.

It’s the foundation our future is built upon.

“A decision has been made to assign you a mentor earlier than usual. We think you’ll be suited to working directly with Director Mercer.”

The air in my chest escapes like a punctured balloon, leaving me hollow and fragile.

I try to inhale, but my ribs seem locked mid-breath as Mercer’s name hangs between us in the pastel-coloured air.

I’ve miscalculated somewhere. Badly.

They’ve had to dump me on the director so he can contain my tornado. I’m not something worth fixing—just managing.

Harlan Mercer. Millionaire alpha. Brilliant artist.

But also terrifying, brutal, and extremely unforgiving.

He’s an alpha who expects obedience. The industry holds his name in high regard. Lecturers dissect his campaigns. His desire for control is understandable if not scary.

He’s the main reason I applied to work at Opus in the first place. Working with him—under him—was always supposed to mean I’d make it.

And this is the impression I have given him? That I’m a failure who causes problems instead of fixing them?

Holy shit.

“We’ll be moving you to his floor,” Millie continues, “so he can oversee you directly.”

Shame burns my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I manage, my voice a broken whisper. “I didn’t mean to be a problem.”

Millie’s expression softens immediately. “Oh, Cassie, no. You’ve misunderstood. This isn’t a punishment. It’s for you.”