I’m completely alone in the office.
In moments, I’m on my feet, staring out the window at the harbor view. It’s stunning with boats bobbing in the water, the town spreading out beyond, mountains in the distance. The guys are down at the dock, gesturing at a sleek white vessel.
This is my chance, I decide.
I glance back at the empty office, my heart starting to pound.
If there’s sensitive information, files on past employees, HR records, anything that might explain why those Omegas left, it would be locked away. Probably in one of their offices.
I’m moving before I can talk myself out of it.
Slater’s office is first. The door isn’t locked, which surprises me. I slip inside and move to the filing cabinet in the corner and try the drawer.
Locked. I try the next one. Also locked.
His desk has a few drawers. I check them quickly, but it’s just supplies. Pens, notepads, a stapler. Nothing useful.
His computer is password protected. No luck there.
I leave his office and move to the next one. Dylan’s.
His office is a chaotic mess compared to Slater’s. Papers everywhere. Coffee mugs stacked on the desk. A guitar propped in the corner.
The filing cabinet is unlocked, but it’s full of tour schedules, equipment manifests, and maintenance logs. Nothing about employees.
Mason’s office is next, and I immediately spot the filing cabinet in the corner.
It has a small label on the top drawer:HR.
My hands are shaking as I try the drawer. It opens.
I glance at the door quickly, my heart hammering so loud I’m sure someone can hear it from the harbor.
The cabinet is full of files. Dozens of them, organized alphabetically. I draw out the first female name. I see the wordBeta. Seasonal employee. Called back every summer. Nothing unusual. So I keep flipping through more Betas, some Alphas. All standard employment records.
Then, near the back, I find a folder that’s thinner than the others.
I pull it out.
The name is crossed out. Omega designation clearly marked at the top.
And underneath, in red pen:Not on books. Let go due to safety concerns.
That’s it. No other details. No explanation of what “safety concerns” means. No date. No signature.
Now I’m really curious about what happened.
Voices outside.
Oh, fuck.
I shove the file back into place, close the drawer as quietly as I can, and dart out of Mason’s office.
I’m rushing back to my desk when the front door opens.
I drop into my chair just as the four of them walk in. My breath is racing, pulse on fire. Sweat is beading at my hairline under the wig.
“How does it look?” I ask, trying to sound casual even though my voice comes out slightly strained.
