Chapter 3
Maya
The memory follows me as I make my way through the empty corridors.
I pass the craft services area, where the early morning crew is just starting to set up.
The smell of coffee hits me hard enough that I stumble, bracing a hand against the wall.
Rich, bitter, and suddenly overwhelming.
I used to love the smell of coffee. Now it makes my head spin.
“You okay there?” The craft services coordinator looks up from arranging bagels on a platter.
“Fine,” I say automatically. “Just didn’t sleep much.”
She nods sympathetically. “Last two weeks. We’re all running on empty.”
I push on, heading for the main set. The warehouse space feels different in the pre-dawn silence, all shadows and half-light. I check my watch—5:28. I’ve got two minutes to get the lighting setup confirmed before the crew arrives. I pull my tablet from my bag, tapping open the day’s schedule.
My fingertips tingle as they brush the screen. Another new sensation—like my nerve endings are too close to the surface, too sensitive. I grit my teeth and focus on the list in front of me. First scene: 7:00. Main corridor. Tracking shot.
“It’s happening faster than I thought.” Nadia’s voice again, from last night. She leaned forward, her eyes intense. “I‘ve seen it before, Maya. Not often, but...”
“Seen what before?” I asked, though something in my stomach already knew.
“Late presentations. Betas who later present as omegas.”
I laughed, the sound too sharp in the small space. “That’s not—that’s not a thing. I’m twenty-eight. Nobody presents that late.”
“Nobody presents that late who’s already presented,” she corrected. “But if you never actually...”
I’d shaken my head, cutting her off. “That’s crazy. I’d know. I’d feel different. I’d—“ But I did feel different. That was the problem.
“Just...” Nadia had sighed, reaching for my hand. “Just be careful, okay? If you’re really... if this is what’s happening...”
“Omegas don’t work on film sets,” I said, the words coming out harsher than I meant. “They don’t coordinate productions and run schedules and haul cable. That’s not how it works.”
I didn‘t add the rest—that omegas live different lives. They don't put in fourteen-hour days in warehouses. They don't sleep in tiny apartments and take the subway to work. Their lives look different. Safer. Easier. They have alphas who adore them.
People like me don’t become omegas. It doesn’t happen.
And yet.
I blink, forcing myself back to the present. The lighting team is arriving, talking quietly as they unpack equipment. I step forward to meet them, my tablet held firmly between us like a shield.
“Morning,” I say. “We’re doing the corridor sequence first, then breaking for the stunt setup. Director wants it all in one take if possible.”
The gaffer nods. “We’re on it. Same lighting as the tech test last week?”
“With more blue in the backlight,” I confirm. “Production wants more separation from the CGI elements.”
They move off, and I continue down my list. Each task feels slightly harder than it should, my brain fighting through the fog that’s settled over my thoughts.
Every sensation feels amplified. The temperature is too cold.
The fabric of my shirt scratches against my skin.
Even the weight of my bag on my shoulder feels heavier than it should.
And the smells—they’re the worst. The coffee. The plastic from the set pieces. The lingering trace of the cleaning solution the janitors used overnight. Each one hits me with full force, impossible to filter out or ignore.
By 6:30, the set is filling up. The PAs are distributing sides, the makeup team is setting up their station, and the sound department is running tests.
I weave through the growing crowd, checking items off my list one by one.
The first shot is in the northwest corner—a tight space that’s been dressed to look like a security checkpoint.
I head there now, I need to confirm the prop placement before the actors arrive.
The room is small—maybe ten feet by twelve—with a desk, two chairs, and a fake security scanner.
It’s one of the few enclosed spaces on the set, and for a moment, I’m grateful for the relative quiet.
Just being away from the main floor, from the press of bodies and the constant movement, gives me a second to breathe.
I pull out my tablet and check the props against the list. Scanner, check. Key cards, check. Coffee mug with studio logo, check.
The door opens behind me. I don’t turn—probably just a PA coming to drop off something or check the setup. But then I catch the scent, and my whole body goes still.
It's Adrian. I'd noticed his scent yesterday, but today the reaction is different. The tightness in my throat eases slightly, and for the first time since I arrived, I can draw a full breath.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. Just checking the space before we start.”
“It’s fine,” I say, not turning. “Just confirming props.”
I hear him move further into the room, but I keep my eyes on the tablet. If I turn, if I look at him, I’m afraid of what might show on my face. This new awareness, this strange reaction—I can’t let anyone see it.
The door opens again. Another wave of scent hits me, sharper this time, and my shoulders go rigid. Sebastian.
“There you are,” he says to Adrian. “They’re looking for you in makeup. Something about your...” He trails off. I can feel his eyes on my back. “Maya? You okay?”
The concern in his voice makes something in my chest twist. I force myself to turn, to face them both. “I’m fine,” I say. “Just a lot to get through before we start.”
But they’re not buying it. I can see it in their faces—the slight furrow in Adrian’s brow, the way Bash’s usual easy smile has faded. They’re looking at me like I‘m a puzzle they’re trying to solve.
“You sure?” Adrian asks. He takes a half-step toward me, then stops, like he’s thought better of it. “You look...”
“Tired,” Bash supplies. “Like really tired. Have you been sleeping?”
I almost laugh. Sleep? With my skin crawling and my thoughts racing and this constant, awful sensitivity to everything? “Not really,” I admit. “But it’s fine. We’ve only got two weeks left.”
They exchange a look—the kind that says they’re communicating without words. I've seen alphas do that before, carry on whole conversations with a glance. It’s never been directed at me before.
“I could talk to the AD,” Adrian says. “See if we can get you a shorter day.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp. “No, I’m fine. Really. I just need to finish this and then I’ll grab some coffee and...”
But as I speak, I realize the tightness in my throat is easing. My breathing, which I hadn’t even realized was shallow, deepens. It’s like my body is... settling. Calming. Because they’re here.
Because they’re alphas. And I’m...
No. I can’t think it. I won’t.
My body betrays me. Without meaning to, without even realizing I’m doing it, I make a sound—a soft, low hum that starts deep in my chest and rises into my throat. It’s not loud, but in the quiet room, it might as well be a shout.
It takes me a second to realize it’s coming from me. By then, it’s too late to stop it. The sound hangs in the air between us, impossible to take back.
The silence that follows is absolute. Neither of them moves.
Neither of them speaks. But something changes in their expressions—a shift so subtle I almost miss it.
Adrian’s eyes widen slightly. Bash’s breath catches.
They look at each other, then back at me, and I know, with absolute certainty, that they know what that sound means.
What I am.
“That’s not—“ I start, then stop. What can I say? That wasn‘t me? That it didn’t happen? That they imagined the sound of an omega purring in response to their presence?
“I should go,” I say instead, stumbling back a step. My hip hits the edge of the desk. “I need to check on the lighting. The props for the next scene. I have to—”
“Maya.” Adrian’s voice is gentle. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I say, the words tumbling out. “It’s not okay. I’m not—I can’t be—“ But I can’t say it. Can’t make it real by putting a name to it. “This is just... it’s the stress. And not sleeping. And the—“
“You’re going into pre-heat.” The words come from the doorway, where Elias Stone now stands, his expression unreadable. “That’s what’s happening.”
I shake my head, backing up until I hit the wall. “No. That’s not—I’m a beta. I’ve always been a beta.”
“It’s rare,” Elias says. His voice is calm, matter-of-fact. “But it happens. Late presentations. Usually triggered by stress or environmental factors.”
“No.” My voice sounds strange in my ears—higher, thinner. “You’re wrong. I’m just tired. I’m just—“
But even as I say it, I know it isn't true. I can't explain away what just happened.
I’m changing.
“I need to go,” I say again. “I need to—I have to—“
“Collins.” Elias says as he steps into the room. “You need to sit down. You’re going into shock.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, but the room is starting to tilt at the edges. My vision blurs, then clears. “I just need some air.”
I push past them, stumbling toward the door. No one tries to stop me, but I feel their eyes on my back as I go. Three sets of eyes, watching me. Seeing me. Knowing what I am before I do.
The hallway outside the room is mercifully empty. I lean against the wall next to the closed door, my heart pounding in my ears. Heat. Pre-heat. Omega.
The words circle in my head, none of them making sense. This isn’t me. This isn‘t my life. I’m Maya Collins, assistant production coordinator. I’m the one who keeps things running. I’m the reliable one. The one who doesn’t get noticed.
Not an omega. Not someone who purrs when alphas walk into a room.
But even as I think it, I know it's too late.
I'm changing.
And there's nothing I can do to stop it.