Even if it might actually kill me.
Which, let’s be honest, it very well might.
8
ANITA
Izip up the backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and check my reflection one more time in the mirror in my apartment.
Ash Monroe stares back at me. “You can do this,” I tell my reflection firmly. “You’re doing this for your listeners. You’re doing this to prove that the problem isn’t us. It’s the system designed to keep Omegas down.”
My reflection doesn’t look convinced, but I square my shoulders anyway.
I take a deep breath, adjust the backpack, and head out into the cold evening air.
The walk to the restaurant takes fifteen minutes, and thankfully it’s not snowing. I spend every second of it rehearsing masculine body language. Long strides. Loose hips. Shoulders back. Head up.Don’t fidget. Don’t sway. Move like you own the sidewalk.
By the time I reach Fusions, I’m almost convinced I can pull this off.
Almost.
The restaurant is exactly the kind of place that would thrive in a town like Mistberry Cove. It’s trendy without being pretentious, welcoming without being generic. The exterior is painted a deep teal with gold accents around the windows and door, modern but warm, with soft lighting spilling out onto the street. I push through the door, and the interior takes my breath away.
Exposed brick walls are decorated with paper lanterns in reds and golds, hanging at different heights to create visual interest. Abstract art pieces mix traditional Asian calligraphy with modern geometric shapes. Wooden tables combine with sleek metal chairs and somehow don’t clash. The bar area along one wall has a stunning bamboo backdrop with bottles lit from below, creating a soft amber glow.
The smell is incredible. Ginger, garlic, sesame oil, and something sweet and spicy that has my mouth watering instantly.
And then I spot them.
Back corner. Long table with benches on either side. Four massive Alphas taking up way too much space, their broad shoulders and commanding presence making the table look smaller than it is.
And no one else.
No family. No partners. No friends. No other employees or acquaintances.
Just them.
I narrow my eyes in their direction because they wanted to see Anita. That’s what this is really about. This customary dinner for new employees and their families, it’s an excuse. They want to meet her.
Part of me flutters at the thought, a stupid, treacherous warmth blooming in my chest. These gorgeous, successful menare interested in meeting me. In getting to know me. They’ve been asking about me, thinking about me.
Then I remind myself that pretty faces don’t equal good values. I could never be with Alphas who don’t respect Omegas the way we deserve.
So I need to stay focused on why I’m here.
Investigation. Truth. Evidence.
A group of other customers slips inside the restaurant, and I use them as cover to make a beeline for the bathrooms before anyone can spot me.
The hallway is tucked to the side, narrow and dimly lit, with restroom signs pointing the way. And there, perfectly positioned just outside the bathroom doors in a corner, is a large decorative trash can. One of those nice ones that restaurants use, made of dark wood with a metal liner.
Perfect.
I glance around quickly. A server rushes past toward the kitchen. A couple walks by, heading to their table, absorbed in conversation.
No one is watching.
I squeeze my backpack behind the trash can, pushing it as far back against the wall as it’ll go. The space is tight but workable. The bag disappears into shadow.
