Specifically: three Omegas and their families.
Oh, fuck.
"Dorian!" Mother glides toward me, all southern grace and Alpha authority wrapped in a designer dress that probably costs more than most people's cars. Eleanor Ashworth is beautiful in that timeless way rich people achieve—blonde hair perfectlystyled, skin suspiciously smooth for her age, diamonds at her throat that could fund a scholarship program.
She kisses both my cheeks, and I smell it immediately. Displeasure wrapped in expensive perfume.
"Darling, you look exhausted. The drive must have been terrible." She loops her arm through mine, steering me toward the gathering. "Come. We have guests I want you to meet."
"Mother, I didn't know—"
"It's just a small cocktail hour. Very casual." Her grip on my arm tightens. "The Beaumonts are here from Charleston. And the Montgomerys from Savannah. And the Prescotts came all the way from Atlanta."
All families with eligible Omega daughters. This isn't a gathering. It's an ambush.
"Your father is with Harrison Beaumont discussing the club renovations. Such a bore." She waves her free hand dismissively. "But the young people are on the terrace. I thought you might enjoy some company your own age."
Translation: I arranged for you to meet appropriate Omegas from appropriate families so you can forget about whatever inappropriate situation you've gotten yourself into.
We step onto the terrace and every conversation stops. Six sets of eyes turn toward me—three Omegas, perfectly styled and clearly here for inspection, and their mothers, Alpha women who look at me like I'm a prize stallion at auction.
"Everyone, this is my son Dorian." Mother's voice carries that particular tone that saysbehave. "Dorian, darling, this is Victoria Beaumont, Celeste Montgomery, and Arabella Prescott. And their lovely mothers, of course."
The Omegas are exactly what I expected. Beautiful. Polished. Hair and makeup perfect, designer dresses that probably required professional styling, the kind of practiced grace that comes from years of finishing schools and etiquette training.
Victoria is a classic blonde beauty with blue eyes and a smile that's been perfected in front of mirrors. Celeste is dark-haired and elegant, with the kind of bone structure that photographs well. Arabella is striking—red hair, green eyes, the type of Omega that turns heads.
All of them look at me with various degrees of interest mixed with caution. They know why they're here. Know what their mothers expect.
And all of them smell wrong.
Too sweet. Too floral. Nothing like lilac and rain. Nothing like Vespera.
"Ladies," I say, offering my most polished smile. The one I use at charity galas and board meetings. "It's a pleasure to meet you all."
"The pleasure is ours," Victoria says, her voice honey-sweet. She steps forward first, offering her hand. When I take it, she holds on just a moment too long. "Your mother has told us so much about you."
"All good things, I hope."
"Very good things." Her eyes do a slow sweep up and down my body, and there's nothing subtle about it. She's assessing, cataloging, advertising herself in return. "She mentioned you're studying theater at Northwood? That must be so exciting."
"It has its moments."
"I've always been fascinated by the dramatic arts," she continues, still not releasing my hand. Her scent intensifies—roses and something sickeningly sweet. Deliberate. An Omega advertising availability. "There's something so... primal about performance, don't you think? The give and take between performer and audience."
The innuendo is barely veiled.
"I suppose," I say, gently extracting my hand.
"Victoria was just telling us about her upcoming heat cycle," one of the mothers says brightly. Too brightly. "Such excellent fertility markers. The doctors are very optimistic."
I freeze. Did she actually just—
"Mother," Victoria protests, but there's no real embarrassment in it. Just performance. "I'm sure Dorian doesn't want to hear about that."
"Nonsense," her mother continues. "Alpha males appreciate knowing an Omega is in optimal breeding condition. It shows we're serious about genetic compatibility."
This is hell. This is actual hell.
