Behind us, something crashes—Adrian, having set his water glass down with excessive force. Elle jumps slightly, and I catch another whisper of her scent. The storm rages outside, but the real tempest, I suspect, is just beginning inside this villa.
Game on.
five
. . .
Elle
I closethe bedroom door and lean against it, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
The storm howls outside, rain lashing against floor-to-ceiling windows that frame a churning ocean and angry sky. But the real tempest is inside me—a cyclone of panic, frustration, and something else I refuse to name.
Three Alphas. One villa. And me, an Omega with exactly 36 hours of industrial-strength blockers left before my carefully constructed professional façade comes crashing down around me.
The bedroom is obscenely luxurious—king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton, bathroom with a rainfall shower large enough for three people, private balcony that would be paradise if not for the apocalyptic weather. Under any other circumstances, I might appreciate the tasteful luxury.
Right now, it feels like a gilded cage.
I push off the door and move to the en-suite bathroom, rummaging through my carry-on for my emergency blocker kit.
Every Omega who works in Alpha-dominated industries keeps one—a travel-sized arsenal of scent suppressants, pheromone neutralizers, and emergency heat deterrents. Mine is medical-grade, expensive, and absolutely essential.
I uncap the blocker and apply another layer to my pulse points, wincing at the chemical sting. The skin on my neck is already irritated from repeated applications, red and slightly raised.
Miles was right about the ingredients. Not that I’d give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
Three more applications left in this bottle. Maybe four if I’m conservative. Enough to get through one night and part of tomorrow, assuming the storm passes quickly. After that...
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, expecting another email about the summit rescheduling. Instead, it’s a notification that makes my blood freeze:
CUSTOMS ALERT: Luggage held for inspection. Medical substances require clearance. Estimated processing time: 72+ hours.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the word sharp and alien in my throat. I rarely swear—control extends to vocabulary—but if ever a situation warranted profanity, it’s this.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, mind racing. My checked bag contains my full supply of suppressants—enough to last through the summit and my approaching heat cycle. Industrial-strength, prescription-only Omega blockers that apparently trigger customs flags because they contain controlled substances.
Seventy-two hours. Three days minimum before I can access my suppressants. The math is simple and terrifying. I have enough in my emergency kit for maybe 36 hours, stretching it thin. After that...
After that, I’ll be an unblocked Omega in confined quarters with three of the most powerful Alphas in the tech industry. The thought sends a hot rush of something—fear, I tell myself firmly—down my spine.
This can’t be happening. I’ve built my entire career on control, on never being “just an Omega” in the workplace. On being Elle Park, competent professional, not some biology-driven trope featured in romance novels.
I stand abruptly, squaring my shoulders. This is a logistics problem. I solve logistics problems every day. I’ll contact the hotel concierge, find a pharmacy on this island, get emergency suppressants delivered. There must be other Omegas staying at a resort this exclusive. Alternatives exist. They have to.
When I emerge from my room, composed and professional despite the tornado in my chest, I find the three men have staked out territories in the common area.
Adrian paces near the windows, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp as he negotiates with summit organizers. Miles has positioned himself in a corner with sight lines to all entrances, methodically checking window latches and door locks. And Caleb has made himself at home on the sofa, legs stretched out, drink already in hand despite it being barely past noon.
“Ah, she returns,” Caleb announces, raising his glass in my direction. “Just in time. Adrian’s about to have an aneurysm trying to bend time and space to his will.”
Adrian shoots him a glare but continues his call. “No, that’s unacceptable. NovaDyne’s presentation slot cannot be moved to the final day. We’re unveiling revolutionary technology, not participating in a closing panel.”
I move to the kitchen, needing water and distance. My throat feels parched, and I can’t tell if it’s from stress or the beginning of blocker withdrawal. I fill a glass from the filtered tap and gulp it down, trying to ignore how Caleb’s eyes follow me across the room.
“Everything alright in paradise?” he asks, his voice pitched low enough that Adrian can’t hear over his call. “You look a little tense, Elle.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” I reply automatically. “Just adapting to our unexpected circumstances.”
