Page 25 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

The thought makes me want to stab something.

Kit had picked out the clothes, of course. She’d shown up last night with two suitcases and the energy of someone who’d been waiting her whole life for this. Everything soft and sweet and completely wrong for who I am. Exactly what society wants an omega to be.

“You’re going to be brilliant,” she’d said. “You always are.”

After she left, I was alone with a mountain of borrowed clothes and the lingering feeling that I was about to spend the next few weeks trapped in someone else’s skin.

The Synthera estate appears around a bend in the road, and despite myself, I slow the car to take it in.

Four stories of glass and pale stone, light pouring in from every angle, a fountain in the courtyard catching the morning sun. Wings branch out from the central structure, connected by what look like glass corridors.

Griffin mentioned the estate used to be Max Cavill’s family home. A mansion, torn down and rebuilt into this gleaming monument to modern biotech.

Of course he tore down a perfectly good mansion to build an office. That’s exactly the sort of wasteful shit people do when they have more money than sense. Why renovate when you can demolish? Why preserve anything when you can just start over with something shinier?

God, rich people are exhausting.

I pull into the visitor lot and kill the engine, letting the silence settle around me for a moment.

One last check in the rearview mirror. Pink blouse straight, coral nails unchipped, brown contacts in over my green eyes. Expression pleasant and slightly nervous, like a new employee on her first day.

Showtime.

The morning air is crisp when I step out of the car. I make my way toward the main entrance, each step soft and unhurried. Sophie Dysart wouldn’t rush. She would be taking it all in, marveling at the impressive building, feeling grateful and slightly overwhelmed by this wonderful opportunity.

I let my eyes go wide as I approach and my shoulders curve inward just slightly.

The glass doors slide open automatically, and the air inside is noticeably cooler. The lobby stretches out before me, flooded with natural light, marble floors, the sort of place that makes you instinctively lower your voice.

Two women staff the reception desk. The one who looks up first is young, maybe mid-twenties, with honey-blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and an open, friendly face. Her smile is wide and genuine when she spots me.

“Hi! I’m Lucy,” she says. “You must be Sophie? We’ve been expecting you.”

“That’s me.” I let my voice go soft, uncertain. “Sorry, am I in the right place? This building is so big, I was worried I’d get lost.”

Lucy laughs like I’ve said something delightful. “Don’t worry, it takes everyone a few days to learn the layout. I’ll show you around myself.” She says something to the woman beside her, who nods without looking up from her screen.

Lucy leads me through the lobby and into the main corridor. I follow half a step behind, letting my eyes dart around with what I hope looks like nervous wonder while taking in every detail.

The place is meticulously designed. High ceilings lined with exposed ductwork painted matte black, the industrial edge softened by warm wood paneling and living plant walls that climb toward skylights three stories up.

Security cameras at every junction, I note. Discreet black domes tucked into corners, easy to miss if you weren’t looking. Keycard access on most doors. A steady stream of employees moves around us, most in lab coats or business casual, with the purposeful energy of people who actually like their jobs.

“This is the atrium,” Lucy explains, gesturing upward at the open space above us. “Everything connects through here. The four wings branch off from the ground floor, research, clinical, modulation, and the residential commons where the staff quarters and canteen are.” She points toward the elevators. “The executive offices are on the fourth floor, along with marketing. That’s mostly where you’ll be.”

She glances back at me with a reassuring smile, and I make sure to look appropriately overwhelmed.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“Three years.”

“You must know the place inside out by now.”

Lucy laughs. “Mostly. Though this place still manages to surprise me.”

We step into the elevator and ride up to the fourth floor. The doors open onto a quieter space, the bustle of the floors below completely absent. The carpet is plush beneath my feet, swallowing the sound of our footsteps.

Lucy stops in front of a set of frosted glass doors at the end of the hall. A small brass placard reads MAX CAVILL - CEO.