1. Nadia #2
Arthur towers over her on the left. The dirty blonde billionaire glares down at the docks, looking like a furious god.
Javier stands on her right. He’s slightly shorter than Arthur, Hispanic, with gorgeous brown skin and dark brown hair, but his hands are balled into tight fists, and he looks fully prepared to snap someone’s neck.
I step up behind them and peer over the railing.
Jesus. A swarm of aggressive paparazzi crowds the dock below.
Camera flashes pop in rapid, blinding succession, lighting up the marina like a violent thunderstorm.
The aggressive clicking and shouting of fifty photographers carries up over the music.
They are screaming Arthur and Javier's names, desperate for a shot of the billionaire Alpha pair and their new Omega.
Juno twitches. A full-body flinch. She shrinks back from the railing, bumping hard into Arthur’s solid chest.
Arthur shifts his massive frame to block her from the cameras, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. Javier steps in front of her, forming an impenetrable wall of muscle and throwing a hand up with his middle finger extended toward the lenses.
I tap Juno’s arm. "Hey. Ditch this place. Get out of here before they figure out how to bribe their way past marina security."
Juno peers around Javier’s bicep, looking guilty. "I feel awful leaving you so early."
"Don't. The party is a literal zoo." I wave a hand toward the opposite side of the yacht. "Take the private exit on the lower deck. The crew can sneak you out to a waiting SUV before those vultures even realize you moved."
Javier nods at me, his dark eyes fierce but grateful. "Thanks, Nadia. Happy birthday."
Arthur doesn't even bother with words. He scoops Juno up into his arms like she weighs nothing. She hides her face against his neck, breathing in his scent. They disappear down the crew stairs.
I lean my elbows on the railing and stare at the empty spot they left behind. Sloane, Maeve, Juno. All my close Omega friends are gone. They all have their dedicated, obsessed Alphas. They have their perfect, soul-deep scent-matches.
The party rages on behind me. A hundred drunk people scream the lyrics to a bad pop song.
I cross my arms over my chest, shivering despite the lingering heat in my blood.
The isolation claws at my ribs. I'm happy for them, I really am, but the odds of me ever finding a true scent-match of my own are absolute garbage.
I push off the railing and throw back the rest of my Tequila Sunrise.
Time to get back to the center of the room.
My dad intercepts me before I reach the main bar again. Two of his silver-haired business partners stand a few steps behind him. They check their phones and look ready to escape the noise. Dad wears a tailored suit, looking like the ruthless real estate mogul he is.
He pulls me in for a quick hug and leans close to my ear to avoid shouting over the thumping bass. "We're heading out. The guys and I are done for the night. Mikkel and Soren are staying behind in the guest suites. Their flight to New York got canceled."
"Sure." I snatch a tequila shot off a passing server's tray and throw it back.
"Sleep on the yacht or head back to your penthouse. It's our boat, do what you want." He kisses my forehead. "Happy early birthday. We'll get together for a proper dinner closer to the 25th."
He pulls back and heads for the gangway with his friends in tow.
Mikkel and Soren.
I stare at the stairs leading down to the VIP guest suites.
I haven't seen those two in ten years. They are a good fifteen years older than me.
I had massive, embarrassing crushes on both of them when I was a teenager before I presented as an Omega.
They were my dad's newest, most intimidating business partners.
Two gorgeous Alphas who commanded every room they walked into.
I spent an entire summer wearing short skirts and trying to get their attention.
They treated me like a kid. They never cast a second glance in my direction.
I shake my head, dismissing the memory. They are old men now. They must be asleep.
I turn my back to the stairs and dive into the crowd. I refuse to let the night end on a pathetic note. I have sixty guests on this yacht, and I need to do my job.
I spend the next hour playing the perfect socialite hostess.
I pose for selfies with local influencers.
I accept air kisses from trust fund babies I barely know.
I weave through the dance floor, making sure everyone has a fresh drink in their hand and the energy stays high.
I fake a dozen different smiles and force myself to ignore the hollow ache in my chest.
A cheer erupts near the DJ booth. Three yacht crew members wheel out a massive five-tier vanilla buttercream cake. Four giant sparklers shoot gold fire into the night sky from the top tier. The crowd parts, chanting my name.
I kick off my heels and climb up onto a white leather booth so I can look out over the crowd. The DJ hands me a wireless microphone. I tap the grill. A sharp whine of feedback echoes over the speakers, and the music cuts out. The crowd quiets down and looks up at me.
"Thank you all for being here tonight." I flash a bright, polished smile.
"I know my actual birthday is still two weeks away, but waiting is boring, and you guys are the perfect excuse to throw a party.
The open bar closes in ten minutes, so grab your last drinks and show our amazing bartenders some love before we shut it down.
I love you guys. Cheers to turning twenty-eight! "
The crowd erupts into applause and loud cheers. The DJ drops the bass on a heavy remix, and the party hits a final peak. Someone hands me a giant silver knife. I slice into the bottom tier of the cake, posing for a dozen flashing phone cameras.
The adrenaline fades a few minutes later, and the flush on my skin gets worse.
My blood runs hot. A pulsing ache settles deep in my pelvis.
The silk of my dress rubbing against my thighs creates a friction that makes my breath hitch.
I feel so sensitive. Every brush of a shoulder on the dance floor sends a jolt through my nervous system.
The thumping bass vibrates against my teeth. It gives me a pounding migraine. I wipe a layer of sweat off my forehead. The hangover is starting before the party even ends. It's just exhaustion and cheap tequila. It isn't pre-Heat. I refuse to believe it.
The DJ cuts the music for good. He plays a slow, winding track to signal the end of the night. The remaining guests shuffle toward the exit. The yacht begins to empty out.
I grab a cold bottle of water from a nearby ice bucket and press it against my burning cheek.
Margo strides up to me. She has bright blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a plus-size figure squeezed into a tight black dress. "Nadia! We're heading onshore to Phera. You're coming."
"I'm going to pass."
"It's your birthday month." Margo grabs my arm. "Phera is packed tonight. You might get lucky. Find hot Alphas to ruin your life for the weekend."
I pull my arm back. I used to live at that nightclub.
I spent three years hooking up with random Alphas and chasing the high of a temporary bond.
I am tired of that cycle. I haven't stepped foot in a club in months.
A bizarre, gut-deep instinct anchors my feet to the teak deck.
A silent, primal voice screams at me to stay on the yacht. I need to stay right here.
"Have fun, Margo. I'm crashing here."
Margo sighs. "Your loss, babe. Happy birthday anyway." She leans in for a quick air kiss, her cheek brushing mine, then turns and follows the crowd down the ramp.
A wave of exhaustion slams into me. My knees buckle. I catch myself on a cocktail table. I grab my discarded designer heels by the straps and walk barefoot toward the lower deck. The noise fades. The heavy scent of spilled alcohol and stale perfume gives way to the fresh ocean breeze.
I push open the door to the master suite.
The room spans the entire width of the hull.
Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the dark water.
I drop my shoes on the floor and stumble toward the king-sized bed.
I collapse face-first onto the silk sheets.
My muscles ache as my core throbs, slicking my underwear.
I drag the duvet over my head. I'm too tired to even wipe the makeup off my face.
Scent coats my nose. Dark spiced rum mixed with toasted coconut and rich, smoky vanilla.
It is intoxicating. It makes my chest heave.
It must be clinging to my hair from the party.
The low hum of the yacht’s generator rumbles against the mattress.
My dad's voice echoes in my head, talking about Mikkel and Soren sleeping in the suites down the hall.
My eyes slide shut, and I sink into a dark, feverish sleep.