“Heat Island?” My eyebrows go up at that. “Swanky.”
“And then I’ll have a week to convince her that a temporary arrangement isn’t enough.” Matheo hesitates for the briefest second before dropping the next bomb. “The thing is, she specifically requested a pack.”
“A pack.” I nearly choke on my wine. “And I’m guessing you want us to...”
“Be my pack,” Matheo confirms. “Just for the wedding week. You’d be doing me a huge favor.”
Lucas and I exchange a look across the kitchen. After the day we’ve had, pretending to be part of a traditional alpha pack feels like a cruel joke.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, setting down my glass. “You want Lucas and me to pretend to be packed up withyou so you can fake-date an omega who is actually your scent-match but doesn’t seem to know it, all so we can attend a wedding at the most romantic place on earth?”
Matheo gives a sheepish smile. “When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous,” I agree.
Lucas returns to the island, leaning against the counter. “When’s the wedding?”
“Lucas,” I warn.
“What? I’m just asking.”
Matheo’s eyes light with hope. “A little over a month from now…I’m still waiting for specifics.”
“So you’re going to drop everything for this girl,” I comment. “She must really be something.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” He pulls out his phone and navigates to the photo app. “I downloaded the headshot on her website and used that to find her social media. Here, just look.”
“Stalker,” I murmur as I take the phone.
“The internet might be a cancer on society, but at least it’s good for something.”
Says the man who founded one of the earliest communication-focused tech companies and helped create social media as we know it, before retiring in his early thirties and basically falling off the digital radar.
I take Matheo’s phone and scroll through the photos of Trinity Jones. She is stunning—no doubt about that. Curves in all the right places, thick and curly dark hair that riots over her shoulders, and a smile that transforms her entire face. But it’s her eyes that catch my attention—warm hazel with a spark of determination that reminds me of a similar trait in Lucas.
“She’s gorgeous,” I admit, handing the phone back to Matheo. “But looks aren’t everything.”
I turn to the laptop sitting next to me on the counter and pull up OurLog’s search interface. Within seconds, her profile appears—professional, polished, but with hints of personality shining through. Unlike most users who curate a fantasy version of themselves, Trinity’s profile feels authentic even at first glance.
“She uses our platform for her business networking,” I murmur, then glance at Matheo. “Mind if I check something behind the scenes?”
He shrugs, obviously more interested in information than he is in the ethics of privacy breaches.
I navigate to OurLog’s backend analytics dashboard, entering my credentials. As CTO, I have access to the data-mining software that actually represents the bulk of revenue generation for the platform. A few keystrokes later, I’m looking at Trinity’s user behavior patterns—the data most people don’t even realize we collect.
“Interesting,” I whisper.
Her engagement metrics tell the story that her public profile only hints at. She consistently responds to messages from clients at all hours, even on weekends. She follows accounts related to event planning innovations and sustainability practices. Her content interactions show someone who values substance over style.
What strikes me most is her comment history. She rarely engages, but when she does, her responses are thoughtful and supportive, never performative. No omega posturing, no alpha-baiting or outrage manufacturing that’s become such a commonplace behavior on social platforms.
Classy—that’s really the only word to describe her.
“She volunteers at an after-school program for kids,” I note, scrolling through her community connections. “And she’s part of a business mentorship group for omegas entering male-dominated fields.”
Lucas peers over my shoulder. “Are you seriously data-stalking this woman?”
“It’s not stalking, it’s research,” I counter, but close the laptop anyway, feeling slightly guilty. “She’s not the kind of omega I’d expect to need a matchmaker or a fake date.”
