My mind races through a mental checklist that’s suddenly on fire. I have approximately eight hours to prepare a welcome dinner that I thought I had over twenty-four hours to organize, and my fake alphas—who may or may not even show up—now need to be here tonight instead of tomorrow.
“Is everything okay?” Josie touches my arm.
“Perfect. Just mentally rearranging some things.” I tap furiously on my tablet. “Irwan, did you get the email I sent last week with dietary needs? I still need to approve the menus.”
Inside, I’m screaming into a void. My exes will be here in hours, and my fake pack is probably still somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, assuming they’re even on the way at all,completely unaware that they’re about to walk into the lion’s den.
While measuring the space, I casually swipe over to my email app. No new messages. I refresh the screen. Still nothing.
“Shit!” The curse escapes before I can stop it.
Josie whips her head around, concern flooding her face. “What’s wrong? Is there a problem with the venue?”
I quickly close my email app. “No, no. Everything’s fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.” She approaches, peering at my tablet. “Is something wrong with the wedding plans?”
“Just realized I forgot to email the florist about substituting peonies for roses if they can’t source enough.” The lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. “Nothing major.”
“You scared me!” Josie playfully swats my arm. “I thought something terrible had happened.”
Something terrible is happening. My fake alphas haven’t confirmed they’re coming, and I’m going to look like a complete idiot when I show up to the first wedding party event all alone.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.” I squeeze her hand reassuringly. “That’s why I’m here early, to handle any minor hiccups before they become actual problems.”
If only she knew the biggest hiccup might be her sister’s complete humiliation when her imaginary pack fails to materialize.
Josie wanders to the edge of the pavilion. “It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
I look at my sister’s radiant face and feel a stab of guilt.This should be the happiest week of her life, and here I am, drowning in my own drama.
“It is perfect,” I agree, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. “And it’s going to be the most beautiful wedding this island has ever seen.”
Even if it kills me.
Iswipe my keycard and push through the door, letting my shoulder bag slide to the floor with a satisfying thud. After five hours of rearranging tables, arguing with the florist, and triple-checking place settings, my entire body aches. The welcome dinner starts in three hours, and I still haven’t heard from my hired alphas.
“Wow,” I breathe, momentarily distracted by the suite.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a panoramic ocean view. The living area features plush couches in soothing coastal blues, a formal dining room with a half-dozen chairs around the shiny mahogany table, a fully stocked kitchen and bar, and a wrap-around lanai with unobstructed sea views. A closed door must lead to the bedroom, which I can only assume has one of those massive pack-sized beds that I always see advertised on television.
A closet full of nesting materials and the emergency heat kit in the kitchen confirm my suspicions.
This is a pack suite. The kind designed specifically for an omega and multiple mates.
I run my fingers along the back of a leather armchair, imagining what it would be like to actually share this space with alphas who wanted me—not as a business arrangement, but as their omega. The thought sends an unexpected pang through my chest.
This would be a perfect situation if I actually had a pack to share the experience with me.
Kicking off my sandals, I head toward the closed door of what must be the entryway bathroom. My skin feels tight with dried sweat, and all I want is a hot shower and twenty minutes of unconsciousness before I have to face the disaster that is tonight, but I’ll have to settle for splashing water on my face given the time.
The sound of a toilet flushing freezes me mid-step.
I freeze, heart hammering, as the bathroom door swings open. A tall man with messy dark hair steps out, wiping his hands on his black wash jeans. He looks up, and we both stare like startled animals.
My stomach drops as I recognize the sharp jawline, mischievous green eyes, and that distinctive neck tattoo that readsRUIN. It’s him—the alpha from my last heat-breaking service six months ago. The one who never returned my calls and refused a second appointment despite our intense chemistry.
“You,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
