“Did you just have a conversation with one of the Ashbourne Pack members?” a male omega demands from nearby, eyes huge and jealous. So very jealous.
I snort, finally dragging myself back toward the waiting area. “I wouldn’t call it a conversation.”
Because it didn’t feel like conversation.
It felt like… a freaking pop quiz from a teacher.
Off-putting. Unwelcome.
And disturbinglythrilling.
Like I somehowacedit.
It’s surreal being on the island I’ve seen through the screen countless times before.
Surreal to see Cleo Hartwell, the host of Alpha Love Getaway since the first season, standing in all her statuesque glory, greeting us as we crowd around her. The woman looks like she was carved from marble and dipped in gold, her teeth too white, her smile too perfect. She speaks with the breezy confidence of someone who’s hosted a hundred seasons, and knows she’ll host a hundred more.
I listen through a veil of nerves and dissociation, nodding at the appropriate moments, clapping when the other omegas clap, doing my best to ignore the cameras and the crowd of sound techs and assistants sweeping around us like a swarm of mosquitos. There’s too much noise, too many smells, too much attention focused on me, even in the swarm of twenty other omegas.
But eventually, our host dismisses us to “settle into our cabanas,” and we scatter along the palm-lined boardwalk like startled birds, chattering and laughing.
Well, not me so much. I’m more the trembling and stumbling type. But to each his own, right?
My cabana is near the far edge of the lagoon, quiet, tucked away, with a private little deck that overlooks the water. One of the farthest away from the main building of the resort and the places where the majority of the filming would take place.
I wonder if that’s intentional. If they put the omegas they suspect will go home first the farthest from the pack.
Maybe that should offend me, but I find I’m just grateful for the space.
When I close the door behind me, the silence is a relief.
My lungs inflate on a shaky breath, hungry for air I’ve apparently been depriving them of.
When I’m calm enough, I peruse the small space of the cabana. It's broken into sections like a studio apartment. A tiny kitchenette along one wall complete with a fridge and an oven. A small sitting area with a couch, a coffee table, and a television. A bed draped in a gauzy white canopy that I’m sure is more for decoration than to keep the bugs out. Though, I suppose if I wanted to sleep with the doors to the beach open to hear the sound of the ocean, it becomes a lot more practical.
There’s a luxurious bathroom with a walk-in shower and a freestanding tub.
Overall, it's surprisingly cozy, though I suppose after a few seasons of hosting omegas here, the resort has figured out the best ways to keep us happy. Small confined spaces, lots of pillows and blankets and access to snacks when we need them without waiting for room service.
I open my bag, already sitting on my bed, pulling out my dresses to try to release as many wrinkles as I can, hanging the worst of them in the bathroom so the steam from my shower can help. I’ve spent every spare moment over the last month designing and sewing these garments, pinning and stitching late into the night, with Haven and Jude hovering over my shoulder and offering advice. Some welcome, some very much not so.
Jude took pictures—so many pictures—for ‘prosperity.’ Though we both knew he just wanted to hype me up. Haven pointed out details like a stage mom on a mission.
She’d mentioned that the show would provide a wardrobe if I needed, and at some point I might, if they spring something on us that Haven wasn’t prepared for. But we both knew I’ll feel more comfortable in something of my own design.
Plus the flurry of fabrics and threads, skirts and bodices gave me something else to focus on rather than the inevitabilityof being in such close proximity with unknown alphas for an extended period of time.
Now, seeing them all together—my colors, my designs, my work—steadies something inside me.
I want to show them at their best.
I want to showmyselfat my best.
I smile when I spot the crinkle of paper pinned inside each bodice, Haven’s elegant handwriting marking them like little flags in my personal battle plan. Introduction Ceremony. First Elimination. Second Elimination. Date Dress. Scenting Ceremony. Interviews. Talent Show.
She’d agonized over the order, pacing up and down her living room while her alphas offered unhelpful fashion commentary in the background. She wanted to make sure each dress sent the right message at the right time—strength, softness, confidence, vulnerability.
She’d said it was strategy. I’d agreed because I trust her more than anyone. And this is her favorite show. Now I’m grateful. I don’t have to think. I can just grab the next outfit and go.
