Chapter 10
JAMIE
I’m thinking too much about making the right level of eye contact as I try not to stare at the muscles rippling at Morgan’s shoulders, the slope of her collarbones, the way her lilac top hugs her ribs underneath, frames her breasts.
Morgan talks as if she’s already on stage—poised and confident and articulate.
She probably didn’t need to practice her questions at all.
Or, I suppose, she’s been practicing similar questions for fifteen years.
A CEO doesn’t exactly have the luxury of knowing when an employee or a rival or a journalist is going to pop out of the woodwork and demand answers.
“Oh wow,” I answer as Morgan finishes describing the strategy behind the deal with the state. “That’s like… a science unto itself.”
“And an art,” she adds.
I nod appreciatively, reaching for my glass of wine. But then Morgan takes my hand, pulling it towards her.
Electricity ripples from the touch, setting my muscles tingling. Butterflies take flight in my stomach. What’s happening?
Her eyes are on my nails—specifically, my chipped nail polish.
“I thought you’d have fixed this. The event is tomorrow.”
“Sorry,” I stammer, cheeks heating. “I brought remover—I’ll fix it tonight.”
“Nonsense. I’ll just add you to my manicure.” She drops my hand.
“It’s okay if my nails are painted?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” she says with a light shrug.
We both know why. But she says it like a challenge to anyone who might protest.
“Thanks,” I murmur as I pull my hand back, hiding it under the table. It’s kind of more mortifying that she doesn’t care if my nails are painted, just if they’re painted badly. I kick myself for not fixing them earlier.
The waiter sweeps by and drops my soup in front of me, and the aroma of butter and savory lobster fills my mind.
Something a lot of betas don’t realize about alphas and omegas is that our senses are all hypersensitive.
Smells that would be slightly unpleasant to others are hell to us, and smells like this…
This is heaven.
But the waiter is gone, and there’s nothing in front of Morgan, and I wince. If I’d known she was going to get me the cod, I would have skipped the soup.
I’m pretty sure ordering for someone is supposed to be a red flag, but honestly I’m grateful. She’s my, like, boss’s boss’s boss after all, and this is a work dinner. Technically. Even though it’s only the two of us.
Regardless, there were only ten options on the menu, and I still couldn’t pick one. There wasn’t a single entrée under eighty euros, and I forget the exact conversion, but I’m pretty sure that’s my takeout budget for an entire week.
The soup alone is twenty euros! I was trying not to over-spend, and I ended up doing it anyway. Shit.
I push that aside and try to stop calculating how many sweaters I could buy with however much the bottles of wine are. When in Rome, I tell myself. Then I sort of laugh, since I’m pretty sure we will be stopping in Rome.
And this isn’t just any bowl of soup. A drizzle of olive oil creates a delicate spiral ringed with floating pumpkin seeds like a little starburst. The plate under the bowl is similarly embellished with swirls of a golden sauce and a sprinkle of herbs, which add their own delicate aroma.
It tastes even better than it looks. I didn’t even know lobster could taste like this, elevated by a complex blend of herbs adding depth to the flavor.
Two seconds ago, I was horrified anyone would charge twenty euros for a bowl of soup.
Now, I think it’s worth every penny. Pence. Whatever.
This isn’t just food—it’s art.
I glance up, and Morgan’s eyes are tracing me. There’s a fragment of a smug grin on her lips.
“Worth it?” she says, and I realize she’s going to sit there and stare at me eating this soup as punishment for not acknowledging that her saying I was going to get the cod was not a suggestion.
Mom says making guesses like that is called hypervigilance. That both she and I had to get good at predicting alpha behavior to survive Chuck. It takes no effort at all for the familiar gears in my brain to twirl, to find the best path forward.
I give a sheepish smile. “I decided I was hungry after all. And the soup looked too good to pass up.”
I watch Morgan’s face and notice every little twinge of muscle. She knows I’m lying, but she likes my style. The slight crinkle around her eyes says so.
Those brilliant violet eyes. I don’t think Morgan has ever tried to pass as a beta, or even considered it. Alphas have far fewer reasons to try to pass, anyway. Even betas give alphas plenty of space.
The assumptions that betas make about alphas work in alphas’ favor. Betas assume they’re powerful, uncompromising, competent.
On the flip side, both betas and alphas—and even other omegas sometimes—assume that omegas are submissive, accommodating, meek. They take it as license to walk all over us.
I’m grateful that Mom is none of those things. She’s self-possessed, principled, determined. She’s kind and understanding, yes, but that hardly justifies taking advantage of someone.
The top part of Morgan’s hair is pulled back in a French twist, the rest cascading down her shoulders. The style shows off her pointed ears, and the tilt of her half-smile seems perfectly calibrated to show off her long canines.
I wonder what it’s like—moving through the world without having to hide what you are. Who you are.
I decide it’s in my best interest to get Morgan talking again. I like hearing her talk, anyway: the smooth, husky tone of her voice, the subtle command in every word.
“How did you get into science?” I ask.
“It’s really more a question of why I didn’t leave it,” Morgan says. “My father is a pharmaceutical patent lawyer.”
“Oh.” I have only a vague notion of what patent lawyers do, and it’s comically evil. I read into her phrasing a little. “Why would you have left it?”
“Because my father is insufferable.”
“Well, we have that in common.”
“Alpha?”
“Alpha. Male alphas are the worst.”
“Female alphas can be just as insufferable,” she says with a violent flash in her eyes and a grin that shows off her canines.
Her words grip my spine, each vertebra stacking onto the next, standing at attention.
I realize my mistake immediately. Why would a female alpha be any less insufferable? Only gender norms, gendered socialization.
The wine must be starting to kick in, because I don’t feel my usual wave of shame.
“Sorry, alphas are the worst,” I amend.
Morgan’s grin deepens. “Better.”
It’s almost like she’s flirting with me? But no, that can’t be right. I’m sure she’s this way with everybody. Someone in her position needs to be able to make allies quickly.
If she’s trying to win me over, it’s working.
#
I forget about conversation as I taste the cod. It’s firm yet silky, the skin is caramelized, and the swirl of herb sauce on the plate and half-sphere of black rice is a perfect complement. I had no idea food could be this good. And this restaurant isn’t even one of the Michelin star ones.
I’m starting to get the wine-pairing thing. The red we started with was delicious, but would have been too strong next to the fish. This white is refreshing and makes each next bite of cod as stunning as the first.
Expensive as these entrees are, they’re small, so I have no trouble clearing my plate. I like that—leftovers always make me feel guilty because I take them home but inevitably forget about them in the fridge.
As I clear off the last grain of rice, a question dances in my head.
“What’s the hardest thing about being a CEO?” I ask.
Morgan swirls her wine, considers. I wonder if she’s really thinking about it, or if the pause is just for show.
“Collective versus individual benefit,” she finally says. “Ten thousand people depend on Artemis for their livelihoods. I don’t take that lightly. But the company is… almost like an organism. Sometimes what’s best for the organism overall requires amputating a limb.”
I infer she’s talking about layoffs. “It’s pretty devastating for that limb, though,” I counter. I’m not sure why I’m getting feisty.
Morgan shrugs. “The limb can get a job somewhere else.”
“Technically true. But a bit reductive, maybe.” The words are out before I realize who I’m talking to. The wine must be getting to me, but I’m still hardly into my second glass. I glance at the bottle of white, which only I’ve been drinking from, and see that it’s almost empty. Wait, what?
While I’m staring at the bottle, the waiter slips up and uses it to top off my glass. Which he must have been doing all night, and I’ve only just noticed.
Oh. Oh no. I’m drunk.
“Let’s say a company prioritizes comfort for individual employees,” Morgan counters.
“That can work, but it makes the company slow. It’s no longer on the cutting edge.
It’s no longer a company shaping the future.
The movers and shakers quit and move to another company ready to do whatever it takes to stay ahead.
So, in the end, their job stability hasn’t improved at all—and the company subsidizes the remaining mediocrity. ”
“How can you be sure that’s actually what you’re doing, and you’re not getting rid of the people that kept you on the cutting edge in the first place?”
Morgan grins, unruffled. “That’s why it’s the hardest part.”
I narrow my eyes, point a finger at her. I don’t like how she just twisted this around so that I agree with her, but I’m kind of in awe of it. “Tricky. You’re tricky-tricky.” Fuck, this is why I was trying to moderate my wine intake.
Morgan puts a hand over her heart, a mockery of sincerity. “Thank you for noticing.”
I excuse myself to find the restroom, and I mostly walk in a straight line.
The bathroom is decked out in gorgeous green tile that looks handmade, with gold faucets and a stack of cotton washcloths instead of paper towels. The hand soap smells like bourbon, somehow. It all feels like a dream, especially now that I’m wine-drunk.
I return to find a decadent chocolate dessert at my place, and Morgan’s already started to eat hers.
Arcs of chocolate make a delicate sphere around a perfect cube in four layers: graham, nougat, ganache, mousse.
There might be chili flakes in the chocolate—it’s sharp and balanced. Another life-changing flavor.
I probably shouldn’t drink any more, but the bottle of white is now empty, and I eye the half-portion left in my glass.
“No sense letting it go to waste,” I mutter aloud.
Morgan chuckles.
“I’m serious,” I say. “This bottle probably cost more than I spend on food in a week. Or a month.”
Morgan quirks an eyebrow. “You can take the rest of the bottle home if you don’t finish it.”
“That’s a thing?”
“Of course it’s a thing. I paid for it.”
“You can just… walk out with half a bottle?”
“Yep.”
“Wow. A whole new world. Did you finish yours?” I lean forward, narrowing my eyes at her bottle of red wine, which is also empty.
“You helped.”
“Shit, that’s true.” I lean close and whisper loudly, “I didn’t know they refill it for you. I don’t usually drink so much.”
She snorts and rings out a genuine laugh. “I can tell.”
“You sure think you know a lot about people,” I quip. Shit, what’s gotten into me?
“Lots of experience,” she counters.
“Well, I’m full of surprises.”
“I can tell,” she says, quieter this time, with an almost predatory angle to her lips.
My heart picks up. I think if I weren’t so drunk, my cock would be tightening in my pants. Fuck, this is bad. I’m sure I’m reading into things that aren’t there. She’s a CEO and I’m a peon—and a brand new one at that.
“I didn’t say they were good surprises.”
She laughs again. There’s a barking edge to the sound, a reminder of the beast within, and my heart thrills at it. Fuck, I’m just making things worse. I just need to sober up, to get control of myself.
“I’m sure you won’t disappoint,” she purrs, then she takes the last bite of her dessert. The way she slides the fork across her tongue, my cock finally does tighten.
Morgan breaks the silence by saying, “Early day tomorrow, better get back.” There’s almost a little reluctance there, a promise of what the night could become under different circumstances.
But I have no idea what that might be. A part of me aches to find out—a part I can’t humor. Not if I want to remain employed.
When the waiter brings the check over, I lean a curious eye at the receipt and instantly regret doing so.
Over five hundred euros for one dinner for two people.
I try to burn every remaining detail of the restaurant in my mind, flip back through the experiences of the food, make sure I soaked every bit of value out of it I could.
It’s now fully sinking in that being invited on this trip was like winning the lottery—except I don’t get to choose to put the money in a savings account instead.
The private driver pulls up to bring us back to the hotel, and I’m grateful for the individual climate control for my seat that allows me to blast cold air to overcome the edge of nausea from how drunk I am.
I follow Morgan back up to the penthouse, mustering every bit of focus to walk as straight as I can.
We step back into the dizzyingly extravagant space, and I’m still drunk enough to say out loud, “You didn’t have to spend so much on a suite on my account. I’d be fine in a closet here, save some money.”
“Oh, I always take the penthouse here. Letting you stay with me is saving money.”
“Who are you?” I murmur.
Morgan lets out a wry laugh and gives no further answer.
Because it should be painfully obvious that she’s Morgan fucking Hunter.
I’m lucky she thought I was joking.
“Thanks for giving me the room with the bathroom,” I say, hoping to recover.
“My bathroom is much bigger than yours.” Her eyes glimmer.
I must really be drunk because it sounds like she’s making implications about dick size. I wouldn’t doubt it, though. Of all the alphas and omegas, female alphas have the most dramatic shift. And thinking about it is making my own dick tighten again.
“G-goodnight,” I stammer, then I lock myself in my bedroom.
I only mean to lie down on the bed for a second. I haven’t even taken my shoes off, but the room starts spinning, and I bury my head in the pillow and fall quickly asleep.