“I’m not trying to pry,” he interrupts smoothly. “But…I saw you on PackTrackr.”
The gaudy, gold-scripted logo flashes behind my eyes. The blurry photo. The headline about the “mystery beta.” It’s one thing to see a stranger scrolling through it at a bus stop. It’s another thing entirely for Rudy Lewis, a man whose professional respect can mean a lot in the art world, to say those words to my face. My brain sputters, trying and failing to form a coherentdenial. Of course. Of course, he saw it. Everyone who follows the alpha-omega world saw it.
“Your personal life is your business,” he continues. “But as someone who values your professional contributions to this gallery, I feel obligated to offer a friendly warning.” His expression softens to something that might be genuine concern. “Don’t become a piece in their collection, Zoe. You’re worth more than that.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. Just hours ago, Tristan’s fingers were inside me, his mouth on mine, making me feel things I’ve never felt before. The connection had felt real, intense, almost transcendent. Nothing like the cold, calculated acquisition Rudy is describing.
But isn’t that exactly what happened? They saw me, they wanted me, they marked me. Claimed me like a prized piece at auction.
“I appreciate your concern,” I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. “But I think you’ve misunderstood the situation.”
Rudy holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Perhaps. I hope so.” He stands, adjusting his already perfect cuffs. “Just be careful, Zoe. The Sterling pack operates in a world where betas like us are usually just... accessories. Temporary diversions.”
The marks on my neck throb, as if in protest at his words. I resist the urge to touch them.
“I can take care of myself,” I say, with more confidence than I feel.
“I’m sure you can.” His smile returns, professional and distant. “And I’ve overstepped. Forgive me. I just...” He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I’ve seen them do this before. The charm; the pursuit. It doesn’t end well for the person being collected.”
Before I can respond, he glances at his watch. “I should let you get back to work. Dinner next week to discuss the Mosseau acquisition? My treat.”
The abrupt shift back to professional matters leaves me momentarily speechless. I nod automatically. “Sure. That sounds fine.”
“Excellent. I’ll have my assistant reach out.” With a final, meaningful look, he walks away, leaving me staring after him.
The comfortable bubble of delusion I’d been building all afternoon, the one where maybe this claiming situation wasn’t a complete disaster, pops like a champagne cork to the face.
I sit frozen at my desk, Lewis’s words echoing in my head.The Sterlings collect things... Don’t become a piece in their collection.
Is that what this is? Am I just their latest acquisition? A novelty beta they found interesting enough to claim, but will eventually tire of when the next shiny object catches their attention?
It’s not like I should be surprised. I’ve been there before. Done that.
The memory of Tristan’s face in the bathroom suddenly feels less like him being vulnerable and more like a perfectly executed strategy. A way to get me to lower my guard. The way they’d kept my planner hostage, doling out my own schedule to me piece by piece. The way they’d shown up at my workplace. The way they’d somehow gotten under my skin in just one night.
My phone buzzes again. I expect it to be Rett or Leah, but instead, it’s the calendar notification blinking back at me like a taunt:
DINNER WITH STERLING PACK. TOMORROW. 8 PM.
Tomorrow. Another twenty-four hours for them to dissect my planner like a roadmap to my weaknesses. Another day for them to strategize, to manipulate, to win.
Fuck that.
My fingers fly over my phone before my brain can catch up.
Me
Change of plans. Dinner’s tonight. 8 PM. The Anchor. Wear something uncomfortable.
I hit send. No take-backs. No apologies. Let them scramble.
The Anchor is my turf. A loud, crowded seafood dive bar where the only thing sharper than the oyster knives is the bartender’s glare. No dim lighting for “serious talks.” No plush chairs to sink into while they loom over me. Just sticky floors and the sweet, sweet chaos of a Friday night crowd.
Perfect.
I grab my bag and stand, my reflection flashing in the glass of a display case. Flushed cheeks. Wild eyes. A goddamn turtleneck strangling me in June.
I look exactly like what I am: a woman on a mission.
