1. Cassidy #2
Sure, yeah. I can believe that the director has willingly decided to take on extra, unpaid duties for my benefit. She’s trying to soften the blow, to make me feel better.
Us omegas are good at that. But it makes nothing easier to hear.
“Am I really going to be working under the Harlan Mercer?” I ask carefully.
She grins. “Of course. You’ll learn a lot from him. And it adds another layer of protection.”
Protection.
The word lands strangely in my chest—heavy and unfamiliar.
Is this from the other trainees that I’ve upset? Or does she mean from the job I’m already failing?
“Protection?” I echo.
Millie hesitates. “When concerns are raised about a trainee’s wellbeing, we try to put additional support in place.”
“I don’t need protection,” I murmur, lowering my head to hide the tears in my eyes. “I’m not a diplomat’s daughter who needs armed guards.”
Technically.
Instead, my parents are the armed guards. They’re part of the Carter family business, as is expected.
Mum, and my two dads—alphas, all three of them—built their lives in security and diplomacy.
I grew up surrounded by policy and power and carefully negotiated optics.
“You’re an omega in a business run by alphas,” Millie says gently. “You should be used to this kind of thing.”
Is that a warning? A threat?
Did they choose another omega to deliver the news on purpose? Did they assume I’d be less terrified of another omega?
She’s wrong, though.
People assume that being an omega raised by three alphas means I was overshadowed.
I wasn’t.
I was always given a voice—always heard. The mediator. The softness between their tempers.
I learned early how to read a room and soften the sharpest edges before anyone bled.
In my family, with so many alphas—so many unmated amongst my cousins—I’ve always had a use, always had worth.
I can navigate an alpha’s world. I’ve been part of one before I could even walk and talk.
But sitting here in Millie’s pastel office with my heart cracking open, it’s clear I wasn’t prepared for this one.
“Your new office has been cleared out,” Millie says, her expression bright with what seems like genuine enthusiasm. “It’s ready for us now. Do you need to collect anything before I take you down to meet Director Mercer?”
I shake my head. I’m not sure I can face the other trainees before this is over.
Whilst Millie shared that it was a department head who reported my behaviour, I’m terrified that the other trainees hold the same concerns.
“No, let’s do it.” I inject confidence into my voice as I stand.
My tummy is churning, dread dancing up my spine, but I follow her back out of her office. Every step feels like I’m going closer to my grave.
Millie’s heels click down the hallway, a peppy confidence in her stride that I wish I could emanate right now.
I try to match her stride to at least appear professional—to prove I can do it—but I’m breathless by the time we reach the lift.
The entire ride is silent torture. My head pounds, and I ache for my nest—for somewhere soft and scented with things that belong only to me.
Millie’s phone buzzes three times, but she silences it each time.
I’m keeping her from something important.
Because I couldn’t just do my job properly. Now I need supervision.
Eyes track us as we move through the building.
Every alpha in the room locks onto my unsettled scent, betas curious what we’re doing alone.
I keep my head hung low, following Millie through the office, humiliation burning my cheeks as I’m marched to my execution.
Professional, not literal—not that my instincts know the difference. My instincts only understand danger.
We come to a stop outside a very large corner office. The closed door is dark oak— beautiful, worthy of admiration, and probably very welcoming if it weren’t for who was behind it.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line the two sides of the corner office, but mannequins and clothing rails cover the inside view.
Deliberately, I’m sure.
“Am I—are we interrupting?” I murmur, dread pooling low in my stomach.
She shakes her head, a warm smile on her face. “He’s expecting us.”
The words shouldn’t feel like my death sentence.
Millie’s phone buzzes again. She glances at Harlan’s door, then at me, and then at the phone once more.
“You can take it,” I offer, looking to the door, giving her as bright a smile as I can. “I can handle it.”
She bites her bottom lip, looking around the open-plan office area, before nodding. “I won’t be long, Cassie, and if you need me, just come grab me. Director Mercer knows you’re coming.”
“Perfect,” I say brightly.
She doesn’t notice the lie—even with panic drowning my natural scent.
No one ever does.
She strides around the corner, and I take a deep breath before knocking on the door. There’s no response for a few seconds, and I debate on knocking again or running away like a coward.
It’s not a real execution, Cass. Just an introduction.
Act like it.
As I raise my fist, a deep voice calls from inside.
“Enter.”
One word, just one, but it carries enough authority to make my knees tremble.
Fuck, this is going to hurt.
His office is drenched in scents—fabric dust, cedar, starch, ink. Beneath it, threaded through everything, is something else.
Something that calls to me like it already knows my name. Familiar in a way that makes my pulse trip.
My headache spikes, sensory overload turning the air into grit in my lungs. My body can’t decide whether to sneeze or vomit.
Only one of those is from the anxiety.
“Are you just going to fucking stand there?” he barks. His jaw tightens like the sound surprised even him.
I jolt before rushing forwards to where he is.
I’m careful not to knock into any of the precariously balanced boxes as I make my way to his desk. He gestures his hand to the only spare chair, and without saying a word, I drop into it.
He doesn’t stand, but he doesn’t need to. His presence fills the room anyway—crushing into me like a physical force. The alpha pressure rolls off him in quiet, controlled waves.
His office is chaos incarnate. Sketches pinned to walls, fabrics draped over every surface, mannequins in various states of dress. I’m sure that there’s a method to the madness, but I can’t see what it is.
It doesn’t feel creative—it feels defensive. Like a deliberate cover so nobody can get close enough to scent him properly.
It’s extremely crowded in here, my skin itchy and uncomfortable being around such clutter. If I could just move some of the fabric, clear a surface, soften the edges—I could make this room pretty.
I could make it safe.
Comfortable.
A nest.
Fuck. I’ve got issues.
“What are you looking for?” he drawls, and his gaze flicks—briefly, sharply—to my throat, where my scent gland sits exposed.
I tense. Even without using his alpha bark, he’s threatening me.
This alpha is angry.
And somehow, it feels personal—like he’s angry at me, not the inconvenience.
Director Mercer sits behind his desk, treating it like a throne he never asked for but owns anyway.