Page 115 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

“Thank you, Victor,” I say, tilting my head and giving him an admiring smile. “You look pretty good yourself. I almost didn’t recognize you out of the uniform.”

He doesn’t. His suit is fine but there’s something about him that reminds me of a snake in a good shirt. Too smooth, too polished, and everything just looks a bit too perfect.

He pulls my chair out—a gesture that would be charming if it weren’t accompanied by his hand lingering on the back of it for a moment too long, his fingers almost brushing my arm as I lower myself into the seat.

“I took the liberty of ordering a bottle,” he says, already pouring me a glass of the red. “I hope you don’t mind. I have a thing about wine—I like to choose it myself.”

“Of course not, Victor,” I say, widening my eyes just enough. “I know nothing about wine, so I’m glad one of us does.” I touch the stem of the glass and smile up at him through my lashes. “What else do you have good taste in?”

He practically glows. I sip my wine and let my eyes wander the room while he talks.

The restaurant is nice and all, but I know there are at least a dozen Italian places that would’ve been closer, nicer ones too, but Victor chose this one. I wonder why.

His phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, types something quick with one thumb, then places it face down on the table beside his wine glass.

“So, Sophie,” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Tell me about yourself. How does a woman like you end up as an executive assistant?”

“Oh, you know,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I like being close to the action. And the Cavill pack is...” I let the pause do the work. “Impressive.”

“Impressive.” He repeats the word with a slight smirk. “That’s one way to put it. Those guys are intense. Max especially.” He takes a sip of wine. “Must be hard, working that closely with three unmated alphas.”

“It has its moments,” I say, and let him read whatever he wants into that.

He does. His smile widens.

The waiter arrives and Victor orders for both of us without looking at the menu—steak for him, salmon for me, as if he’s already decided what kind of woman I am and what kind of woman eats what. I smile and thank him, even if I really want to stab him.

“I’ve been at Synthera for almost ten years now,” he says, settling back in his chair. “Started in corporate security, worked my way up. It’s a good company. Good benefits.” He swirls his wine. “The pay could be better, but what can you do.”

“Ten years is a long time,” I say. “You must really like it there.”

“I like the stability. And the access.” He catches himself. “To the facilities, I mean. The gym, the campus. It’s a nice setup.”

His phone buzzes again. He flips it over, reads the screen, types a quick reply, and puts it face down.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Just a friend.”

Nobody apologizes for texts from a friend with that much guilt on their face.

Then I see it.

His ring finger on his left hand. There’s a very faint tan line—barely visible in the restaurant’s low light, but it’s there. The ghost of a band that was worn for years and removed recently enough that the skin hasn’t evened out.

I look at the phone, face down on the table. At the restaurant, forty minutes from Synthera.

Victor Hartman isn’t selling data to Nexagen.

He is married and cheating on his wife.

And based on how smooth he is tonight, I’d bet anything this isn’t his first time. He’s done this before, and I’m guessing it’s a regular thing for him. The encrypted messages are ones he needs hidden from the woman at home. He uses his work phone because it’s the one she can’t check.

What a creep.

I get back in Max’s car and immediately reach for my shoes.

“Those are the worst torture devices that have ever existed,” I say, unbuckling the first strap and pulling the heel off with the kind of relief I usually reserve for removing body armor after a twelve-hour op. The second shoe follows. I drop them both into the footwell and curl my bare feet into the carpet and exhale.

Max glances at the shoes in the footwell and the corner of his mouth lifts.