The woman behind the registration table looks up from her lengthy list—clipboard clutched in manicured fingers, reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose like she's judging a pageant rather than checking names at a community mixer. Her eyes travel from my face to my dress to my shoes and back again, taking in every expensive detail with the kind of thorough assessment that tells me she knows exactly what she's looking at.
That's right, honey. Take a good long look.
I may have outdone myself.
The dress is black lace Dolce & Gabbana—a short number with a trailing back that creates this gorgeous asymmetry, showing off my legs in the most seductively elegant way possible. The front hits mid-thigh, respectable enough for a communityevent, but the back cascades down in layers of delicate lace that whisper against my calves when I walk. It's the kind of dress that makes people look twice, then look again, then pretend they weren't looking at all.
The theme for tonight is "Vintage Glamour: 90s Edition," which is honestly laughable because they're treating the nineties like it was eons ago rather than, you know, the decade most of us were born in. But I ran with it—the whole aesthetic is giving James Bond meetsMr. and Mrs. Smith. Dangerous elegance. Sophisticated threat. The kind of woman who could kill you with a smile and look incredible doing it.
Around my neck sits a pearl choker—Vivienne Westwood, the iconic one with the signature orb emblem nestled in the center like a tiny crown. The pearls are cool against my skin, a constant reminder of the character I'm playing tonight. My hair is curled to perfection, the waves falling just to my shoulders in that old Hollywood way that screamsI woke up like thiseven though it took forty-five minutes and a concerning amount of hairspray.
The overall effect is cold. Seductive. Untouchable.
Perfect.
My Christian Louboutins complete the look—black patent leather with that signature red sole, the kind of heels that make your legs look a mile long but feel like medieval torture devices after about an hour. I can already feel a blister forming on my left pinky toe, but some prices are worth paying for the right impression.
And the impression I'm giving is clear: I'm an omega who wandered into Oakridge Hollows from somewhere far more glamorous, not someone who actually lives here and works at the local bakery. The dress, the shoes, the jewelry—it all screams money and status anddon't waste my time unless you have something worth offering.
The best part, though? The back of the dress is completely open—a dramatic plunge that stops just above the curve of my ass, held together by thin straps of lace that crisscross between my shoulder blades. It puts my butterfly tattoo on full display: the fine-line artwork stretching across my upper back, thick symbolic linework creating wings that seem to move when I breathe. And beneath the ink, visible to anyone who's paying attention, the definition of muscles I've been building in the gym. Not bulky, not masculine—just strong. Carved. The kind of body that saysI could probably throw you across a room if I wanted to.
Muscle mommy energy. In designer lace. With a knife strapped to my thigh.
God, I love getting dressed up.
I've layered suppressants under my natural scent tonight—just enough to mute the omega pheromones without eliminating them entirely. Over that, I've applied a careful combination of Tom Ford's signature fragrance and YSL's new cherry scent, the sweet-tart notes blending with my underlying cinnamon and vanilla to create something intoxicating but controlled. Present but not overwhelming. The kind of scent that makes people lean in without realizing why.
The registration woman finishes her assessment and apparently decides I pass inspection. She nods once—crisp, professional—and hands me a delicate bracelet with a numbered charm dangling from it.
"Table Seven," she says, gesturing toward the main event space. "Dinner will be served first, followed by the mixer portion. Alphas will circulate after the meal service concludes. Any questions?"
Do I look like someone who has questions? Do I look like I haven't attended a thousand of these ridiculous events?
I give her my best "couldn't give a damn" expression—the one I perfected at society galas when I was sixteen, the one that saysI'm here because I have to be, not because I want anything from any of you. It's a mask, but it's also not. I genuinely don't care about impressing anyone here. I'm doing this as a favor for Mila. Nothing more.
"No questions," I say, and my voice comes out exactly the way I intended—cool, disinterested, faintly bored.
She walks me through the venue—an event space that's clearly been transformed for the occasion, all soft lighting and velvet drapes and flowers that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. The Oakridge Community Center has been done up to look like something out of a period film: crystal chandeliers casting fractured light across the ceiling, round tables draped in cream linen, candles flickering in silver holders. It's elegant in a trying-too-hard way, like the decorators wanted to prove that small towns can be sophisticated too.
Not bad, actually. Points for effort.
Table Seven is near the back corner—prime real estate if you're trying to observe without being the center of attention. I slide into my assigned seat with practiced grace, arranging my dress so the train doesn't get trapped under the chair legs, and settle in to wait.
The other omegas at my table are... fine. Pleasant-looking women in cocktail attire, clearly local based on their nervous energy and the way they keep glancing around like they might see someone they know. They attempt small talk—where I'm from, what brings me to Oakridge, how do I know Mila—and I give them nothing. Vague non-answers. Polite but distant. The social equivalent of a brick wall wrapped in designer fabric.
It's not that I'm trying to be rude. It's that the whole point of projecting this persona is to send a clear message: I'm not here for anyone's money or time. I'm not looking. I'm not available.I'm a favor being done for a sick friend, and the sooner everyone understands that, the sooner we can all get through this evening without any uncomfortable misunderstandings.
The dinner starts, and I'll admit—I'm pleasantly surprised.
The appetizers arrive first: delicate bruschetta topped with burrata and cherry tomatoes, a drizzle of balsamic reduction creating an artistic pattern on the plate. Then comes a seafood course—seared scallops on a bed of saffron risotto that melts on my tongue like butter. The main is beef wellington, perfectly pink in the center, wrapped in puff pastry so flaky it practically disintegrates at the touch of my fork.
This is not small-town cuisine. This is imported. Catered by someone who knows what they're doing, from somewhere that definitely isn't Oakridge Hollows.
I take my time with each course, savoring the flavors, letting the meal be my focus rather than the social dynamics swirling around me. The event organizer clearly makes money—serious money—to afford this kind of spread for what's essentially a community matchmaking event. Either that or they have connections to culinary professionals who owe them favors.
Either way, at least my taste buds are having a good time even if the rest of me is counting down the minutes until I can leave.
The night progresses faster than I expected. Wine flows freely—I limit myself to two glasses, because I need to stay sharp—and the ambient music shifts from classical to something more contemporary as the mixer portion begins. Alphas start circulating among the tables, introducing themselves to omegas, making small talk, exchanging numbers and lingering glances.
