Once clean, I step next door to my private office, which dominates the corner of the top floor with the best view. From the lush emerald trees lining the river to the sparkling azure of the harbor, the city unfurls at my feet—my preferred territory. Even though I travel the world, there’s a reason I keep coming back to this town.
I hardly notice the stunning azure sky today—there’s something more enticing on my mind. I slide into my leather chair behind the broad, wooden desk, waking my computer and getting to work.
I’m a female CEOanda female alpha, which means I do my fucking research.
The omega’s ClickedIn is fully populated.Good boy, I think, reflecting on how the site has brought me even more value than millions in returns on my angel investment.
I don’t get it, Father had said.Social media has no place in the workplace.
I always run these things by Father. His instincts are predictably wrong. People divulge such valuable information on ClickedIn, especially cocky exec types. I’ve spotted deals months in advance, clocked affairs, poached great talent. But that’s not my current goal.
Jamie Brennan is basically a fresh PhD grad with a year working in QA. That’s suspicious. But then I see an endorsementfrom an Iris Brennan, clearly his mother, glowing about how he took a gap year to take care of her when she broke her foot. Cute.
As a CEO and alpha, I’m also adept at working backwards from the conclusion that I want. It drives the ops department crazy. I get lectures on data ethics, but since I have no intention of changing my ways, I just stay out of the way when there’s regulatory approval involved.
I need a reason that this employee, very specifically, out of my three thousand local employees, is top pick for this role. There’s a list of papers on his profile. I follow them. Promising—he’s got experience working on something quite similar to our main technology. And he’s new, which means he hasn’t been placed on a project, and it won’t disrupt anything if I borrow him for a month. He checked “open to some travel” on his application.
That’s every piece I need except for the lynch pin—how tonotget sued for singling him out as an omega.
I googleJamie Brennan omega. The top result is a university newspaper article from four years ago, where Jamie gave an interview about being an omega on campus, talking about what he hoped to do when he graduated.
Bingo.
I would say I can’t believe my luck, but I can. I’m just that good—I have a nose for these things.
That’s why I paymethe big bucks.
Chapter 7
JAMIE
I spend Monday morning waiting for an email from HR about my slip-up. I don’t have my project assignment yet, but neither does Lily, so I don’t think it’s a punishment.
Our manager—a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a kind, cheery personality—assures us the assignment will come soon. “Enjoy the calm while you can. You’ll be plenty busy before long.”
He’s a little wry when he says it. I wonder if the hours are longer than advertised. But if they’re less than eighty a week, it’ll be better than grad school. It’s not like I have anything else to do.
Maybe I should hold off on getting a cat until I know my hours. Mom would counter: I should get a cat so theycan’tcrank up my hours. I scroll the local shelter webpage in between refreshing my email.
One listing immediately stands out—a bonded pair, an orange tabby named Bacon and a tuxedo named Eggs. Their description reads,Age is just a number. We’re kittens at heart! Take home these sweet boys today!
They’re four. I guess that’s pretty close to thirty-one in catyears. Not old, for sure. But not quite young either. It kind of feels like if nobody’s picked me yet, they won’t ever. I wonder if they feel the same way.
I swipe through their pictures. There’s a video of Egg chasing Bacon’s tail. They’re fucking adorable. But I’m only ready for one cat, and it says they’re inseparable.
At least they have each other.
I have no one.
I sigh, chalking my mood up to the lingering come-down from my heat. It’s too early for lunch, so I go grab a snack. It’s going to be a long day.
#
In the early afternoon, my manager finds me at my desk.
He’s chipper. “Got a sec to chat?”
My stomach flips. I’m sure this is about me forgetting my suppressants as I follow him into the closest meeting room, one of many glass boxes that line the wall of the open office.
