Page 10 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

How many alphas at this gala are going to be wearing a suit that ugly? I’ll find him.

I grab my clutch and head for the door.

The ballroom is obscenely beautiful, the way only obscene money can buy.

Enormous crystal chandeliers scatter fractured light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Gold gleams from the columns and ceiling moldings, catching in the ornate frames of oil paintings along the walls. A string quartet plays something classical in the corner, barely audible over the noise. Servers weave through the crowd with champagne balanced on silver trays.

I take a glass from a passing tray and position myself at the bar, crossing my legs on the stool in a way that makes my dress ride up just enough to draw attention. The bartender notices. So do three alphas at a table near the window.

I ignore them all.

My eyes scan the room with practiced casualness—the bored omega looking for some fun—while I quietly map the space, noting where the doors are, the guards stationed beside them, and the clusters of guests that would slow me down if I had to move fast.

And there.

Across the room, laughing at something someone said, wearing that godawful green suit.

Frederic Zimmer.

He’s charming. I can tell from here. I watch him tilt his head when he listens, like whoever’s speaking is the most interesting person in the room. The omegas near him lean in, moths to a flame, as if they can’t help but want to be closer to him.

He’s taller and broader than I expected. Even from this distance, I can see the way the suit strains across his shoulders.

No wonder Cindy fell for him.

The image of her, curled in on herself, unable to meet anyone’s eyes, feeds the anger already simmering beneath my skin.

I pretend to sip the champagne and watch him for another minute, studying his movements, the way he gestures when he talks, the rhythm of his laughter.

Then I set down my glass and move.

The trick to approaching a target is making it look like you’re not approaching them at all. I drift through the crowd, pausing to admire a painting here, accepting a canapé there, always angling closer to that green suit without ever looking directly at it.

There’s a sculpture behind him, some abstract bronze monstrosity that has no business being called art. I stop in front of it, tilting my head like I’m contemplating its deeper meaning.

It’s hideous. Exactly the sort of nonsense that exists solely so rich people can pretend they understand it.

I pretend it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

After a few moments, I feel him turn. I can practically feel his eyes moving over me.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

His voice is warm and easy, enough to make you want to lean in and tell him all your secrets.

He’s closer now—close enough that his scent reaches me.

He smells like sunlight. Like warm skin and open fields and something sweet underneath, honey maybe, or brown sugar. It’s the kind of scent that makes you want to close your eyes and breathe deep, that makes you forget you’re supposed to be thinking.

Fuck. I snap myself out of it immediately.

This is the problem with going off suppressants. My senses come roaring back whether I want them to or not. Normally I can ignore it—most alphas smell like aggression and entitlement, which makes hating them easy. But this one... this one smells different.

But I know he’s not different. Because scent is just biology, and it doesn’t mean anything.

I realize he’s waiting for an answer.

I turn to face him. His expression is earnest, admiring, but his eyes catch mine and hold a beat too long, like he’s daring me to agree, waiting to see whether I’ll lie to be polite.