I’m burning up.
The wig is itching against my scalp. The binder is squeezing my ribs like a medieval torture device. And these layers of clothing that seemed so clever this morning now feel like I’m trapped inside a portable sauna.
I tug at my collar, trying to get some air circulation, and immediately stop when I notice Mason’s eyes on me from across the room.
Again.
He’s been staring at me all morning. Not constantly, but enough that I’m hyperaware of his gaze every time it lands on me. Like he’s trying to work me out.
This is going to be okay. This is totally manageable.
Except my body is doing things it absolutely should not be doing.
Every time one of them walks past my desk, their scent floods me and something low in my belly clenches with want. The suppressants are supposed to stop this. The patch is supposed tomask everything. But apparently my traitorous Omega biology doesn’t give a damn about my careful planning, because I’m sitting here trying not to squirm every time I catch a whiff of them.
This shouldn’t be happening.
I’ve been around Alphas before. Plenty of them. I’ve managed my reactions, kept myself professional, maintained boundaries.
But these three? They’re something else entirely.
And they keep watching me. All of them. Like they’re surveillance cameras and I’m the only interesting thing happening.
I glance toward Dylan’s office and catch him staring too. He quickly looks back at his computer, but I caught him.
What is their deal? Do they watch all their employees this carefully? Maybe this is the issue. They have trust problems, surveillance habits that make Omegas feel like they’re under a microscope. No wonder people leave.
I force myself to focus on the phone in my hand, scrolling through Instagram posts from the past six months. The content is sporadic at best. A photo of a boat. Another boat. A sunset that’s washed out. A whale breach that’s so blurry it could be a rock.
No consistency. No brand voice. No strategy.
I can work with this.
I open a new spreadsheet on my laptop and start building a content calendar. Column for date, column for platform, column for content type, column for caption ideas. It’s familiar work, comforting. This I can do.
I’m deep in planning a week’s worth of posts when I remember why I’m actually here.
Not to revamp their social media.
To investigate whether they’re systematically getting rid of Omegas.
My followers doubled last week when I announced I was going undercover.Doubled. Thousands of people waiting for updates, waiting for me to actually follow through, not just talk about change but actively pursue it.
And then there’s Reed.
That asshole Alpha with his radio show, spending every broadcast ranting about how Omegas are too emotional for professional work, how we can’t handle pressure, how businesses that hire us are lowering their standards.
He’s gotten a massive following. Thousands of Alphas and perhaps even some Betas who eat up his garbage and parrot it back like it’s biblical truth.
I’m doing this to prove him wrong. To show that the problem isn’t Omegas, it’s the systems designed to push us out.
I just need to bide my time. Get close to them. Eventually get access to files, employee records, anything that shows a pattern.
I can do this.
Even if Mason Grey looks like he should be on the cover of a magazine and keeps staring at me with an intensity that leaves me burning up hotter than my clothes.
God, why couldn’t I have gone undercover at a company run by elderly men I have zero attraction to? That would be so much easier.
