“I’m not most alphas.”
“No, you’re not.” There’s a surprising softness in her voice. “You’re stubborn like your father was.”
The comparison hangs between us, unexpected and oddly comforting. My father died when I was twenty, but his influence on both of us remains profound.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As you should.” I hear papers shuffling in the background. “Well, I can’t spend all day on the phone with you, darling. Some of us have actual businesses to run.”
Jesus fuck. “You called me, remember?”
“Details, details. I’ll see you at the exhibition. Wear that maroon shirt I got you for Christmas—it brings out your eyes.”
Before I can respond, the line goes dead. I stare at my phone for a moment, then slide it back into my pocket witha chuckle. Thirty-nine years old, financially independent, and my mother still manages to have the last word.
I raise my camera again, scanning the trees for any sign of movement. Nothing. The forest seems emptier now, the spell broken by my mother’s call.
A flash of green catches my eye, and I swivel hopefully—but it’s just sunlight on leaves, playing tricks. The hummingbird is long gone.
I lower my camera with a sigh. Some moments, once lost, can’t be recaptured. I shoulder my bag and continue down the trail, already planning my next shot.
Despite what my mother might think, I don’t need anything more than I have right now.
Islip through the crowd, nodding politely at familiar faces while making a beeline for the storage room at the back of the Hartman Gallery. The weight of countless eyes follows me—some admiring my work, others probably admiring all the numbers they think are in my bank account.
A slender figure with honey-blonde hair turns in my direction. The omega’s nostrils flare subtly—scenting me—before her lips curl into a practiced smile and her eyes light with recognition. My mother’s friend Janine’s daughter, no doubt. I duck into the back room just as she takes a step toward me, glimpsing her disappointed expression through the narrowing gap before the door clicks shut.
The silence envelops me like a sanctuary. I lean against a stack of empty crates and exhale slowly, loosening my tie. The maroon shirt my mother insisted on feels like a beacon, drawing every unmated omega in a five-mile radius. Threehours of this circus, and I’ve heard variations of the same conversation at least fifteen times.
Your photographs are so sensitive. You must have such a nurturing soul.
I’ve always wanted to learn photography. Maybe you could teach me sometime?
Do you have a studio at home? I’d love to see it.
What they really mean:I’ve heard about your net worth and wouldn’t mind being the omega who tames the wealthy bachelor alpha.
I rub my temples, feeling a headache building. The memory of those years after Dad died surfaces unbidden—working construction during days, bartending nights, attending classes whenever I could squeeze them in. Mom needed help with the mortgage, with Dad’s medical debt, household bills, with keeping her fledgling matchmaking business afloat. I’d pour concrete for eight hours, then mix drinks until two a.m., then code until sunrise, sleeping in one-hour increments between my converging responsibilities.
Those years taught me the value of my freedom. Once I sold my company, I promised myself I’d never again be tethered to anything that didn’t bring me joy. Photography. Hiking. The occasional weekend with the few friends I trust.
What I don’t need is a simpering omega waiting at home, measuring her worth by how well she maintains my house or how many pups she can give me. The thought alone makes my skin crawl. I’ve seen what traditional alpha-omega pairings look like—the constant need, the expectation of protection, the surrender of independence.
Beta women make more sense. They have their own ambitions, their own lives. They understand when Idisappear into the mountains for days. They don’t expect a mating bite after a few good nights together. No complications, no obligations.
Although I haven’t found a beta whose company I prefer to a day in the woods, either.
I check my watch. Another thirty minutes of schmoozing with patrons of the arts, and I can reasonably make my escape without my mother sending out a search party. Three pieces have already sold, a decent showing for opening night. The curator can handle the rest.
My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped dinner. A tantalizing aroma wafts under the door—something sweet, but somehow also savory. Like the rosemary cornbread with drunken cranberries that my mother makes at Thanksgiving. The gallery always splurges on catering for these events. I’ll grab a plate of whatever smells so delicious, make one final circuit for appearances, then disappear before Janine’s daughter corners me.
Decision made, I push away from the wall and reach for the doorknob. The scent grows stronger—rich and complex, making my mouth water. My fingers brush metal just as the door flies open with unexpected force.
The solid edge catches me square in the face. Pain explodes across my nose and forehead. My vision blurs, stars dancing at the edges. I stumble backward, a warm trickle of blood already making its way down my upper lip, the taste of copper filling my mouth.
Through watering eyes, I catch a glimpse of a startled feminine figure silhouetted in the doorway.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea anyone was in here.”
