I’m not even sure why I agreed to go on this date. Not that he isn’t attractive. He is. He’s tall and lean, with a chiseled jaw and dimples that would probably make most girls melt. Just like his looks, his smell is fine, a muted scent of sandalwood mixed with bergamot. It’s just… wrong, and it annoys me.
Every man I’ve tried to go on a date with for the last year has smelled wrong, even before Mark and I started sleeping together, and it’s becoming harder and harder to pretend I don’t know why.
My fingers curl around the flute of champagne as I take the last sip. The bubbles pop on my tongue, making my mouth practically tingle. I flag down a waiter and swap out my glass with a new one. I don’t particularly want more alcohol; I just need something to keep my hands occupied.
Samuel, my date, frowns at my new glass. “You know, it’s kind of a turn-off when women drink too much.”
I cock my head to the side, eyes narrowing as anger rises within me. This is only my second glass, and I haven’t even started drinking it yet. Meanwhile, he’s easily on his fourth. Did he really just say that to me?
“Good fucking thing I’m not trying to turn you on then,” I say coldly.
He blinks his eyes in surprise, clearly not used to pushback from the women in his life. Apparently, he wasn’t aware of who I am. It isn’t like I got the viper moniker because of my propensity for snakeskin.
I tip my glass back and swallow the champagne in one gulp, keeping my eyes locked on his before turning away from him.
“Ava—”
I brush past him without another glance, head held high and my heels clicking loudly on the marble floor. This date is officially over.
The night has been a complete waste from the very start. The only redeeming factor is how good I look in this Armani Privé dress, and the one person I actually care about seeing it doesn’t appear to be showing up.
I frown at my thought. I don’t care if Mark sees me in this dress. What a stupid thing to think.
“Ms. Kendrick.” A hand touches my arm lightly, distracting me from the chaos in my head. I turn to find Senator Whitaker, his wife beside him in a floor-length black gown with an obscenely large diamond necklace at her throat. “We were just talking about the McKenna trial. Brutal cross-examination. I believe you and Mr. Taylor are better than any pay-per-view fight.”
I flash a smooth, practiced smile. “The evidence just wasn’t strong enough to convict. It doesn’t matter how good the district attorney is, he can’t out-lawyer poor police work.”
“Oh, don’t be modest,” Mrs. Whitaker purrs. “We watched every night on NYTV. You had that jury eating out of the palm of your hand.”
“Oh, I assure you, modesty is not something I’m known for,” I laugh. “Mr. Taylor is one of the fewattorneys that actually stand a chance against me. Now, that isn’t to say that Ilikethe man, but I respect a good adversary.”
An image of Mark’s head between my thighs flashes through my mind, making my cheeks flush.Liar, my omega whispers.
“You know,” the senator says, drawing out the last syllable, “you have enough star power to make a run for office yourself. Especially with your family’s connections.”
“I have never seriously considered it,” I admit. “My priority is improving omega rights.”
“You should reconsider,” he says smoothly. “If you want to make real, lasting change, sometimes you have to work from inside the house.” He reaches into his tuxedo jacket and offers me a business card. “If you ever have questions, give me a call. I support what you are trying to do, Ms. Kendrick.”
He turns, smiling fondly at his wife. “Some of us recognize that omegas are actually the most important people in our society.”
I smile, a genuine one, as the couple walks away from me.
A waiter walks by with a tray of hors d’oeuvres balanced on mother-of-pearl spoons, and my stomach grumbles. I chew on my lip, debating. They look heavy, and I’m already drinking empty calories, so I decide against it, even though that decision makes an internal alarm bell go off in my mind. I’m aware that I’m not making healthy choices, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
I snag another glass of champagne off a tray from a different waiter and swallow a healthy mouthful. My mood requires more alcoholthan I’d normally indulge in. Crabby, restless, and, if I’m being honest, more than a little lonely.
I’m tired of dates that go nowhere and not being able to let anyone in. I’m tired of the only relationship in my life that feels real being with someone I hate and can’t be with. I’ve tried so many times to stop this thing with Mark. A corner alcove near a large window overlooking the river is calling my name, and I head that direction with my glass and thoughts.
At our last session, my therapist told me that at some point, I had to accept that my omega will not let me walk away from him, and to make peace with it. She’s of the opinion that I tell him the truth, or at least, I think she is. She has that infuriating habit therapists have of never coming right out and telling you what they think, instead just making you circle it on your own.
Drinking on an empty stomach is a recipe for disaster, but I’ve been whipping up a lot of those lately, haven’t I?
Maybe I just want to float outside of reality for a little while. It isn’t as though I’ll be driving home. I can let loose a little. Right?
Three glasses become four. Faces blur one another—bankers, real estate moguls, socialites. They ask about my caseload, my family, whether I plan to join my father’s firm or keep “slumming it” in defense work—never mind that I make more than my father does in tax law. I keep my replies short and to the point, or dismissive when they need to be. But every exchange is just another layer of noise over the dull throb beginning at my temples.
The smells in the ballroom are either growing more oppressive, or I’m becoming more sensitive as I get more intoxicated. Either way, my nose is in overdrive. Chilled champagne mixes with the sharp sweat of a newly bonded omega server. I’m honestly shocked his alpha let him out of the house already. The earthy musk of an alpha couple near the piano who are holding hands and getting progressively more turned on by each other. Over it all, the metallic tang of the scent neutralizers we all try to wear in the name of polite society.
