one
. . .
Elle
Rule NumberOne for surviving as an Omega in corporate Alpha territory: Always scent-block.
And I mean always.
Not the cheap drugstore stuff that fades by lunch. The industrial-strength, medical-grade blockers that could make a bloodhound question its career choices.
The kind that leave my skin tingling like I’ve been scrubbed with mint-infused sandpaper, but keep me smelling like absolutely nothing at all. Because the alternative—walking into NovaDyne’s glass and chrome fortress exuding notes of warm vanilla and coconut—would be corporate suicide.
I slather another layer over my wrists and neck, wincing at the chemical sting. My bathroom counter looks like a pharmacy exploded—bottles of suppressants, scent neutralizers, and emergency heat blockers standing at attention like tiny soldiers. The regimen is extensive, expensive, and absolutely non-negotiable.
Rule Number Two: Never talk about heats at work.
Not even with other Omegas. Especially not with other Omegas, actually, because office walls have ears, and those ears belong to Alphas who are just waiting for a reason to question your professionalism. The moment you acknowledge your biology is the moment they start watching the calendar and questioning your commitment every 28 days.
I smooth my pencil skirt, checking for wrinkles in the mirror. My reflection stares back—dark cat eyes, sleek ponytail, the beauty mark under my right eye that my mother says gives me character.
I look put-together. Professional. Nothing about me screams “Omega,” which is exactly the point.
Rule Number Three: Never let them see you sweat.
Not when they “accidentally” schedule you for presentations during your heat week. Not when they talk over you in meetings.
And, especially not when your boss—a certain Adrian Cole—sends an email at 11:58 PM with seventeen points of feedback on a document due at 9 AM.
My phone buzzes. Speaking of the devil himself.
Adrian
The Johnson proposal needs revision. Tables don’t align.
I check the time: 5:47 AM. Because of course it is.
Elle
Good morning to you too. I’ll fix it when I get in.
Adrian
Presentation is at 8:30.
Elle
I’m aware of the schedule I created. Tables will be aligned by 7.
I toss my phone onto my bed, where it bounces against my rumpled comforter.
Adrian Cole, CEO of NovaDyne Technologies and Emperor of Micromanagement, has probably been awake since 4 AM, doing whatever it is perfect specimens of Alpha masculinity do at ungodly hours.
Pushups using only their thumbs, perhaps. Practicing their intimidating eyebrow raises in the mirror. Alphabetizing their protein powders.
I slide into my silk blouse—plum, because I’m feeling brave today—and button it with practiced efficiency. My mother’s voice floats through my head, as it often does when I’m dressing for work.
“You need a name with gravitas, anak,” she’d explained when I was old enough to ask why my birth certificate read “Eliot Marisse Park” instead of something more obviously feminine. “A name that commands respect before they even meet you.”
