I don't take suppressants. Never have. Not because I'm reckless—because I'm principled. Chemical suppressants were developed in the 1960s by alpha pharmaceutical executives who wanted omegas to be less disruptive in the workplace. The marketing called it "liberation." The science called it endocrine suppression. The side effects—bone density loss, mood destabilization, fertility damage after long-term use—were deemed acceptable trade-offs for making omega bodies less inconvenient to the people around them.
No, thank you.
My body is not an inconvenience. My cycle is not a disruption. And I refuse to pump myself full of chemicals designed by alphas, for alphas, to make my existence more palatable in their spaces. I manage my heats the way my grandmother managed hers and her grandmother before that—planning, awareness, and the self-discipline to stay home when the calendar says stay home.
Fourteen days out. Green across the board. Three weeks from anything that requires management.
I close the app and pick up the scent blocker from my vanity. The bottle is matte gold, shaped like a perfume flacon, and costs more than it should. Beau Masque—the industry standard for omega professionals who want to control what the world smellswhen they walk into a room. It's not suppressants. It doesn't alter my biology. It's a topical scent blocker infused with a heavy floral fragrance that sits on top of my natural pheromones like a locked door. Anyone close enough to smell me gets French jasmine and white musk. What's underneath stays mine.
I spray my wrists. My throat. Behind both ears. The hollow at the base of my neck. Then I lift the collar of my blouse and spray there too, and again at the inside of each elbow. Generous. Thorough. The way I do it before court appearances, client meetings, and any situation where an alpha might use my biology to undermine my credibility.
One weekend. One cabin. One insufferable Harvard-educated alpha attorney whose idea of compromise is you agreeing with him slightly faster.
I cap the bottle, drop it in my bag next to the blazers, and head for the door.
The lodge is the kind of place that whispers money without raising its voice. Stone foundation, exposed timber frame, wide front porch with hand-carved railings. Old. Well-maintained in the way that only generational wealth maintains things—not renovated, not updated, just cared for by people who've never had to choose between fixing the roof and paying the electric bill.
I park the rental and check the time. Two-fifteen. He said three. Good. I want to be set up and settled before he arrives. Home court advantage matters even when the court belongs to the other team.
Inside, the great room opens up to a cathedral ceiling and a wall of windows that looks out onto nothing but trees. A massive stone fireplace anchors one end. The dining table—oak, scarred from decades of family meals—will do nicely as a negotiation surface. I run my fingers along its edge as I cross to the windows. The wood is warm, and something about the grain under myfingertips makes me think of courtroom benches, worn smooth by years of people waiting for their fates to be decided.
I set up my side of the table: briefs arranged by relevance, legal pads squared to the table edge, pens aligned. The Maya Lincoln file goes front and center—her qualifications, her assessment scores, the formal rejection letter signed by Hunter Vaughn himself. Every piece of evidence that says what Vaughn Industries won't: that they chose policy over merit and called it protection.
I'm at the windows studying the tree line when I hear the front door, followed by footsteps that belong to someone who owns every room before he enters it.
He sets his briefcase on the opposite end of the table and begins unpacking with the kind of precision that would be impressive if it weren't so clearly performative. Files aligned. Documents squared. Everything in its place, including—presumably—his opposing counsel.
"You're late," I say without turning.
"I'm on time. You're early."
His voice is different in person than on the phone. On the phone it's controlled, modulated, a weapon calibrated for maximum impact per syllable. In person, in this room, it has resonance. Depth. The kind of low register that settles in the chest whether you invite it or not.
I turn and he's watching me with gray-green eyes that give nothing away. He's taller than I remember from the dinner—six-two, maybe six-three—with broad shoulders under a charcoal blazer and the posture of a man who's never slouched a day in his life. His jaw is sharp, his cheekbones high, and his dark hair is cut with the kind of precision that costs three hundred dollars and looks like it costs nothing. He's objectively attractive in the way that expensive, well-built things are attractive—aesthetically undeniable and fundamentally cold.
I file the observation and discard it.
"I trust the drive was acceptable." He's still arranging files. Still not looking at me.
"The drive was fine. The circumstances are absurd." I move toward the table. "Off-the-record mediation in a private family lodge with no neutral party. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get this thrown out on procedural grounds."
"If I wanted it thrown out, I'd have filed the motion already."
We take our seats on opposite sides of the oak table, and the battle begins.
Two hours in and the table is a war zone.
Every inch of oak between us is covered: legal briefs, highlighted statutes, printouts of board minutes I subpoenaed, and the Maya Lincoln file splayed open like an accusation. We've been arguing in circles—not the sloppy, emotional kind, but the tight, razor-edged kind where every sentence is a chess move and every concession is a trap.
He's good. I hate admitting it, but he's good. He argues the way he dresses—precise, controlled, nothing wasted. Every counterpoint arrives fully formed, every precedent cited from memory, every rhetorical question engineered to make me doubt my own position for just long enough that he can advance his.
But I'm better.
"Section 7.4 doesn't protect you." I slide the highlighted page across the table. "It protects the company from negligence claims related to heat-accommodations in shared workspaces. It says nothing about restricting qualified candidates from applying to positions outside the Omega Division. You're extrapolating a hiring restriction from a liability clause. That's creative lawyering, not legal standing."
"It's risk mitigation." He doesn't pick up the page. Doesn't need to—he drafted it. "An omega in a senior finance roleoutside the Division is exposed to alphas without the security protocols the Division provides. If she enters heat during a quarterly review—"
"If she enters heat, she takes heat leave. Which your own policy provides for. You built the accommodation and then used its existence to justify the segregation. That's circular reasoning dressed up in a corporate handbook."
