Finally, the press conference ends. I switch channels on the TV and open Twitter on my laptop, scrolling through the reactions.
My story is the top trend. People are calling for criminal charges. A few are calling me a hero. A few more are calling me worse things. I try not to linger on either.
The spare bedroom door creaks open, and my roommate Akari emerges wrapped in her ratty bathrobe, hair twisted up in a towel. The scent of apple shampoo and moisturizing cream wafts off of her. She peers over at my screen.
"You’re still top of the news, huh?" she asks.
I grin at her, "Oh yeah."
She drops onto the couch beside me. "You should be popping champagne and doing a victory lap. Why aren’t you out celebrating instead of sitting here in the dark?"
I don't have an answer for her. Or rather, I do, but it doesn't make sense. This is the biggest story of my career. The biggest story of most journalists' careers. I exposed genuine corruption at the highest levels of government. I did something that matters.
And I can't stop thinking about a party three weeks ago.
"I'm fine," I tell her. "Just processing. This is huge."
"Processing." She draws the word out, skeptical. "You've been 'processing' for hours. Have you eaten anything?"
I try to remember. "I had coffee."
"That's not food." She stands, heading for the kitchen. "I'm making you toast. And then you're going to tell me what's actually going on in that head of yours."
I don't argue. There's no point arguing with Akari when she's in caretaker mode. I listen to her banging around in the kitchen and let my mind drift back to the Swanson gala.
I didn’t even want to go, but my boss at the Scoop wanted gossip.
The ballroom was completely over the top: crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, politicians and donors circling each other in an elaborate dance of money and influence. The whole room reeked of alpha posturing, that particular musk that wealthy powerful men seem to exude like a territorial marker.
And then.
I'd been standing near the bar when it hit me. A scent. Beautiful and sharp like winter air before a snowfall. It cut through the cloying perfume of the crowd and wrapped around me and made my eyes roll back in my head.
I'm not registered with the Bureau. Never have been. I've had heats and I’ve managed them alone or with partners I chose myself. I've never once felt the need to let some government agency tell me who I should bond with.
As far as I’m concerned, the Omega Match Bureau is a symptom of everything that is wrong about how the government treats omegas.
But that scent. God, that scent.
I turned, searching for the source, but the room was packed. There were bodies everywhere, all of them dancing or packed in tight chattering groups. I couldn't pin it down. I tried to follow but the scent slipped away from me. There and then gone.
I can’t stop thinking about it. For the first time in my life, I’m genuinely considering registering at the Bureau, letting them take my bloodwork so they can see if there is a so-called perfect match in the system.
What if the alpha who belongs to that scent is in there? It might be the easiest way to find him.
I shake the thought away. A random scent match is the last thing I should be focusing on right now.
"Toast," Akari announces, dropping a plate onto my lap. "Eat."
I take a bite to appease her. It tastes like heaven. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. It’s gone in a couple of bites and I find myself looking at the empty plate wistfully, wishing for more.
"Better." She settles back onto the couch, tucking her feet up under her. "Now. Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Jamie." Her voice is gentle but firm. "I've known you for four years. I know when something's eating at you. Is it the story? Are you worried about blowback?"
I shake my head. "The story's solid. Every source is verified, every document authenticated. Let them try to poke holes. They won't find any."
