Then I grab the brown leather wallet from the dresser, worn and boring and absolutely nothing like the floral fabric one I usually carry, and shove it into my back pocket. Keys go in my front pocket. My phone, in a plain black case instead of my usual pink one, goes in the other pocket.
Running my hand through the wig’s hair, I mess it up slightly so it looks more windswept, more natural.
Then I practice walking.
This is the part that always trips me up. Literally.
Women carry their weight differently. We move our hips, keep our steps smaller, take up less space. Men stride. They swagger. They move like they own the ground they’re walking on.
I take a few steps across the room, trying to loosen my hips, widen my stance.
Too much. I look like I’m doing a bad cowboy impression.
I try again. Smaller adjustments. Shoulders back. Chin up. Steps longer but not ridiculous.
Better.
I walk back and forth across the bedroom, testing the weight of each step, counting beats in my head like that’ll help burn this into memory. I’ve done it before, so I’ve got this.
Less sway, more stomp, Marcy said, arms crossed, sipping her overpriced oat milk latte while I paced around the studio hallway like a confused backup dancer.Alphas don’t float. They claim the space.
Wide stance. Relaxed shoulders. Confident without looking like I’m trying too hard.
I adjust again, roll my shoulders once more, and take another lap across the room. This time it feels almost natural. Not totally me. But close enough to pass.
Hopefully.
“Okay,” I say out loud, then wince. My voice is too high.
I clear my throat and try again, dropping my register. “I can do this.”
Better. Still not perfect, but close enough.
I move to the mirror and practice expressions. No smiling too wide. No tilting my head. No fidgeting with my hair.
“I’m Ash Monroe,” I state in my deeper voice, staring myself in the eye. “I’m here for the marketing position. Nice to meet you.”
The reflection stares back at me, and I almost laugh. But it’s also kind of working.
“Seriously, you look damn good,” I tell myself. “Like a cute guy. You’ve got this.”
My scent is different now, heavily masked. That’s what matters. No one will be able to tell I’m an Omega. And with the visual changes, no one will connect me to Anita.
I’m ready.
I grab my jacket, a dark olive utility style that’s appropriately masculine, and head for the door.
The hallway is quiet when I step out, and I’m almost to the stairs when I hear a door open behind me.
“Morning!”
I turn and find an older man emerging from apartment 3A, a sausage dog waddling at his feet on a leash. The dog is the exact shape and color of a bratwurst, all brown and long and ridiculous.
And absolutely adorable.
“Oh my God,” I squeal, crouching down. “Who’s this precious little?—”
Wait.
