I observe them with clinical detachment—the mating dance of polite society, everyone on their best behavior while trying to assess compatibility through five-minute conversations and carefully crafted first impressions. There's a tall Alpha withsilver-streaked hair making the rounds at Table Three, his laugh a little too loud, his cologne a little too strong. A younger one—probably mid-twenties—hovering nervously near the punch bowl like he's not sure how to begin. A pair of what might be packmates working in tandem, one charming while the other assesses.
None of them interest me. Not a single one makes my omega sit up and take notice. They're fine, objectively. Nice-looking. Probably decent people. But there's no spark. No pull. No "oh" moment that makes me reconsider my entire stance on Alphas and commitment.
And not a single one approaches Table Seven.
Well. Not entirely true. A few pause near our section, eyes scanning the available omegas, but their gazes slide right over me like I'm furniture. Like I'm part of the decor rather than a potential romantic interest. The other women at my table get attention—tentative approaches, exchanged pleasantries, a few phone numbers changing hands—while I sit in my corner of cold perfection and receive nothing but the occasional nervous glance followed by a hasty retreat.
Mission accomplished, I suppose.
The final hours arrive, and I've just finished what I can only describe as the best sundae I've ever had in my entire life. Seriously. The thing is a masterpiece of dessert engineering: three types of chocolate, salted caramel sauce, candied hazelnuts, a swirl of fresh whipped cream, and a cherry on top that's been soaked in something alcoholic and amazing. Each bite is a religious experience. I'm actually considering abandoning all dignity to ask where it came from before I leave, because this sundae has single-handedly made the entire evening worthwhile.
Forget finding a pack. I've found my true love. It's this dessert.
The other omegas at my table have all found conversation partners by now—paired off with Alphas who've pulled up chairs or invited them to the dance floor that's materialized in the center of the venue. I'm alone at Table Seven, which should feel pathetic but actually feels peaceful. No one demanding my attention. No one expecting me to perform interest or attraction. Just me and the remnants of a spectacular dessert and the quiet satisfaction of having made it through the evening without incident.
Ruby's warning echoes in the back of my mind, but nothing unusual has happened. No suspicious strangers. No confrontations. No one trying to "shake me up" or drag me back to a family I want nothing to do with. Maybe the small-town anonymity is working. Maybe they haven't found me yet.
Or maybe this is the calm before the storm.
I set down my spoon with something approaching reverence and decide a bathroom break is in order. Touch up the lipstick. Check that my hair hasn't deflated. Have a moment alone before I make my final lap and escape into the night.
The restroom is just as over-decorated as the main space—velvet wallpaper in deep burgundy, ornate mirrors with gold frames, a sitting area complete with a tufted bench and fresh flowers. I bypass the unnecessary opulence and head straight for the vanity, pulling my compact and lipstick from my clutch.
My reflection stares back at me, and for a moment, I just... look.
The woman in the mirror is beautiful—objectively, undeniably beautiful. The makeup is still perfect. The hair is still immaculate. The pearls gleam against my throat like captured moonlight. I look exactly like what I was trying to project: an untouchable ice queen who wandered into the wrong event and couldn't be bothered to engage with the mere mortals around her.
But maybe that's the problem.
I frown at my reflection, something uncomfortable twisting in my chest. My whole strategy tonight was to project "minding my own business" energy so aggressively that no one would dare approach me. And it worked. Spectacularly. Not a single pack came near my table. Not a single Alpha attempted conversation. Not a single person looked at me like I might be worth the risk of rejection.
Which is what I wanted. Right?
So why does it feel like failure?
I should be proud. My armor worked. My mask held. No one got close enough to see the cracks underneath, to sense the loneliness I've been drowning in since I left Chicago. I protected myself exactly the way I intended.
And yet.
And yet there's this hollow ache in my chest that won't quite go away. This whisper in the back of my mind that says maybe I took it too far. Maybe I'm so good at pushing people away that I've forgotten how to let anyone in.
I sigh, meeting my own eyes in the mirror. "Guess you're destined to be alone," I murmur, and the words sound more defeated than I intended. More true.
I'm just about to turn away—to pocket my compact and return to the event and make my graceful exit—when the bathroom door opens behind me.
My eyes flick to the mirror, catching the reflection of whoever just entered, and?—
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no no.
The man standing in the doorway is familiar. Not in the vague "have I seen you somewhere" way, but in the immediate, visceral,my body knows youway. My heart stutters in my chest—actually skips a beat, which I thought was just a romance novel cliche until this exact moment—and something electric crackles down my spine.
I know him.
I know him from the self-defense class I took with Mila and Hazel a few weeks after I arrived in Oakridge Hollow. The instructor—this massive mountain of a man who moved like water despite being built like a tank—had demonstrated techniques with the kind of calm competence that made you believe he could disable an attacker with his pinky finger if he felt like it. He'd been patient with the beginners, encouraging with the nervous, and when he'd corrected my stance, his hands had been so careful. So controlled.
