...Lyra's POV...

The fluorescent light above her desk hummed just loud enough to get under her skin, like the persistent edge of a headache that never truly arrived.

Lyra Elmont adjusted the stack of briefing folders on her lap, nudged her knees back under her too-small desk, and ignored the scent of burnt coffee lingering from the shared kitchenette down the hall.

This wasn’t glamorous. No soaring skyline view, no private office. Her cubicle, nestled in the outer ring of Virelux Corporation’s twentieth floor, was an open-air coffin made of particle board and white noise. 

A year in and still the youngest assistant on staff, Lyra had grown used to the cramped quarters, the half-broken monitor stand, and the rolling chair that tilted left when it got tired.

Still, she had made it.

She wasn’t supposed to. That’s what made it worth it.

A girl from St. Claude Street with no Ivy League degree, no Alpha backing, and no powerful surname wasn't supposed to slip through the revolving glass doors of a luxury conglomerate like Virelux. 

But she had. 

On sheer grit, perfect punctuality, and the kind of pleasant neutrality that made people overlook her in meetings, Lyra had carved out a place. And all she had to do was keep it together for one more year.

Twelve clean months. No drama. No scent flares. No missteps.

Then she could walk away, filed under "Exemplary" in the system, with a glowing reference from the most notoriously selective corporation in the sector. After that? A consultancy. Maybe overseas. 

Something quiet. 

Something hers.

She tucked a loose curl behind her ear, eyes flicking over the digital clock pinned to her corner screen: 8:58 AM.

Two minutes until Director Marlowe's breakfast debrief. Five until she had to deliver printouts to Executive Finance. Forty-two unread emails. 

Lyra moved like water: silent, steady, efficient. Everything she did was timed to the breath. That was how you survived in a place like this.

A knock sounded on the cubicle partition. She didn’t look up. “Leave it in the tray.”

“Not a document,” said a voice, smooth, clipped. Mina from HR.

That got Lyra’s attention.

She turned quickly and rose to her feet. “Morning, Miss Reyes.”

Mina Reyes, Senior Manager of Human Resources and unofficial gatekeeper of the Virelux behavioral code, stood at the edge of the cubicle like a verdict in heels. She was dressed in tailored slate-gray, her blazer sharp enough to draw blood, hair pinned into a sleek knot that tolerated no rebellion. Every inch of her posture spoke of institutional authority—the kind that didn’t need to raise its voice to be obeyed.

She wasn’t just HR. She was compliance and culture enforcement—responsible for performance audits, internal dynamics monitoring, scent regulation policy, and discreet employee removals when necessary. Staff whispered that she had a direct line to the board, and a separate one to Legal.

Lyra had seen her enter meetings where people came out with their careers unraveling at the seams. Mina rarely showed up without a reason.

And today, she was at Lyra’s desk. “You’re requested to attend the gala this Friday.”

Lyra blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The annual charity gala. We’re including departmental representatives this year. You’ve been selected to attend as part of the admin cohort.” She paused. “Dress code is formal. Attendance is expected.”

Expected. Not optional. Lyra’s stomach dipped. “May I ask why I was chosen?”

“Your file’s clean. And you’ve been here almost a year without a single flag,” Mina said simply, almost like a compliment. “You’re visible enough to be presentable, invisible enough not to cause waves.”

Which was, of course, exactly what Lyra had spent the past twelve months cultivating.

She nodded, tight. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mina gave her one last glance. One Lyra couldn’t quite read, and walked off in her usual efficient stride.

Behind her, someone from accounting called out over the cubicle wall, “You’re going to the gala? Damn, girl! That’s where the Alpha himself actually shows up, right?”

The Alpha. Cassian Dorne.

The CEO.

Lyra had only seen him in person twice. Once, at an elevator bank, where his scent hit the air like stormwind before he even turned the corner. And once, during a quarterly town hall, when he addressed the entire firm with less emotion than a stock report.

Tall, surgical, cold. The kind of Alpha who never looked directly at anyone unless they were at his level. Or in his way.

She returned to her chair, but something in her chest tightened.

Gala meant proximity. Proximity meant risk. And Lyra had spent too long mastering the art of distance.

It wasn’t just theory. It wasn’t just instinct. She’d seen what happened when an Omega lost control in a place like Virelux.

All it took was one scent break to ruin everything. She’d seen it happen before.”

She closes her email. At the top of her inbox, blinking and bold—“GALA ORIENTATION: ATTENDANCE MANDATORY.”

...Lyra's POV...

By the time Lyra elbowed her way off the packed subway, her coat was clinging to her skin, and someone’s shoulder bag had left a permanent crease across her side. The air inside the train had been a soup of breath, cologne, and stale tension—not unusual, but tonight her head throbbed from the effort of not breathing too deeply.

She pushed through the turnstiles, climbed the stairs, and blinked against the harsh streetlights. Trash skittered across the sidewalk, and somewhere nearby, a siren wailed.

Three blocks later, she was finally home.

Her apartment building tilted slightly with age and rain damage. The elevator hadn't worked since March, and the stairwell smelled like rust and cheap air freshener. On the third floor, she juggled her tote bag and keys until the door clicked open—only to be met by a familiar, indignant sound.

"Mrrrrow!"

“I’m late. I know,” Lyra muttered.

Alexa, her plump gray tabby, was already perched by her empty bowl, glaring up with full Omega guilt-trip eyes. Lyra set her bag down, peeled off her coat, and crossed to the tiny kitchen.

“You act like I don’t feed you the same thing every day.”

Alexa chirped and circled her ankles, unimpressed.

Once the cat was fed and purring on the window ledge, Lyra allowed herself exactly thirty seconds to lean against the counter and breathe. Not rest. Not relax. Just… exist.

She needed that buffer between the office and the rest of her night.

Her heels were kicked off by the couch. Her hair came down in the bathroom. She changed into sweatpants and an oversized shirt—soft, loose, scent-neutral. She wiped her face clean. Then, finally, sat at the kitchen table with the orientation packet still folded in her bag.

The cover read: Virelux Annual Gala – Departmental Attendance Briefing.

Lyra unfolded the first page.

Mandatory Arrival Time: 6:00 PM sharp.

Location: Virelux Grand Atrium

Dress Code: Formal – black tie (floor-length gowns recommended for Omega attendees).

Security Note: All attendees subject to passive scent scan.

Enclosure: List of Approved Scent-Suppressant Providers

She read it twice, then set it down and stared at her ceiling for a long moment.

A scent scan. Of course.

She hadn't been in a situation that risky in over a year. The last time she passed near a bond-heavy gathering, she’d broken out in a cold sweat and left early under the excuse of a migraine. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself in a room full of Alphas—not when the entire firm would be watching, and certainly not with Cassian Dorne present.

Cassian. God.

He wasn’t just the CEO—he was the Alpha prototype, all chiseled restraint and latent threat. The kind of man who never raised his voice, because he didn’t need to. His energy did all the work. Lyra had no illusions about his reputation. He didn’t sleep with staff, didn’t mingle, didn’t indulge. But that didn’t make him safe. It made him controlled—and that was worse.

Because someone like that… someone like that could destroy you without ever laying a hand.

She turned back to the list.

Items to prepare:

– Formal gown, full-length

– Footwear (closed toe)

– Identification badge

– Suppressants (1 dose before arrival, 1 held in reserve)

Suppressants. She had one old vial left from the last quarterly inspection.

That wouldn’t cut it.

Lyra grabbed a sticky note and began a list for the pharmacy: suppressant refills, scent-neutral spray, transport wipes, and probably headache pills, too, if she had any self-preservation left.

The gown she would borrow—from Dalia, a receptionist in Payroll who was always happy to lend a dress if you returned it clean and untorn. It was dark green, silky, with a neckline just formal enough to pass the dress code. A little long, but Lyra could manage.

As for jewelry—there was only one thing she could wear.

From the tiny velvet box in her closet drawer, she pulled out her grandmother’s earrings. Vintage gold, leaf-shaped, delicate scrollwork etched into the metal. One of the last things she’d inherited before moving to the city. She rarely wore them. They were too precious, too private. But tonight she would.

Because everything else she wore belonged to someone else.

One more year, and you’re out.

She fed Alexa a treat, double-checked her door lock, and went to bed with a sleep patch stuck to her wrist. When she finally drifted off, it was with the image of her own reflection. Faint, ghostlike in her apartment window, swallowed by the city behind it.

---

Gala Night – Two Days Later

The mezzanine was all glass and white marble, lined with ambient lights and orchestral strings piped in through unseen speakers. Lyra adjusted the neckline of the borrowed dress, stepped past a towering floral display, and tried not to notice the weight of her own heart.

She told herself not to look for him.

But she did anyway.

Across the mezzanine, half-shielded by column and shadow, stood Cassian Dorne. He was alone. Black suit, collar crisp, expression unreadable.

And he was watching her.

And in that second, she knew, her suppressants weren’t going to be enough

___

...Cassian’s POV...

Same evening – Gala Night

Cassian stood just beyond the reach of the music, hands clasped behind his back, watching the room with the expression expected of him—measured, distant, composed. His jaw ached from holding it still.

He had already counted seventeen shareholders, nine board members, and two department heads subtly angling for a private word before the evening ended. His assistant had briefed him on each of their agendas. Mergers, expansions, influence.

And Celeste, his soon to be fiance, hadn’t arrived yet.

He could feel that absence like a storm cloud that hadn’t broken. Her delay wasn’t accidental. It was a statement. One he didn’t have the energy to interpret tonight.

Cassian exhaled, reached for the nearest glass of champagne off a passing tray, and tossed back half in one swallow. It didn’t help.

The engagement was still pending. Technically. Politically. Financially. That was the point. Celeste’s family was old money. Her name bought silence. Stability. And he’d agreed—because the board wanted tradition, not disruption.

But he didn’t want it.

He hadn’t wanted anything personal in years.

And yet… his eyes found her again. The girl in green.

He didn’t know her name. She wasn’t one of the socialites or department heads. Staff, maybe. A junior analyst? Assistant?

Pretty. That was all. Just… stillness in a sea of movement.

She wasn’t clinging to anyone. Didn’t seem interested in being seen. But the way she held herself, quiet, alert, apart. Reminded him of something. Someone. He couldn’t place it.

His gaze lingered too long.

She looked up.

For a second, their eyes locked.

Something subtle rippled beneath his ribs.

Reflex, instinct, irritation. 

He didn’t believe in fate, or chemistry, or any of that primal nonsense people used to justify recklessness.

He looked away first. Drained the rest of the champagne. Reached for another.

He didn’t plan to stay long. He had already shown his face.

But tonight, something didn’t sit right. And for the first time in years, Cassian Dorne couldn’t tell if it was the room… or himself.

...Lyra’s POV...

The music was live and flawless. Strings and piano sweeping up through the vaulted ceilings like some orchestral spell. Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead. Perfumed bodies moved in elegant clusters, each person dressed in black tie and careful hierarchy.

Lyra stood along the edge of the crowd, careful to keep to her role: present, but forgettable.

She’d followed every instruction in the gala packet. Her ID badge clipped discreetly to the inside of her clutch. Hair twisted up. Gown steamed and lint-rolled twice. The green mask she’d chosen. Simple silk, matching the dress, fit snug across her nose and cheekbones, another layer of camouflage.

Suppressants administered. What little of them she had.

She hadn't been able to refill her prescription. The pharmacy had been out of stock. Delays in production, they'd said. Come back next week.

Next week was too late.

So she'd used her backup, the old vial buried in her medicine kit. It was months past expiration. The liquid had turned slightly opaque. Bitter at the back of her throat. But she'd taken it anyway. Let it settle into her system and hope.

Then, just in case anyone questioned her, she’d rinsed the empty vial and filled it with soda water. Clear, fizzy, passable.

Now, in the center of the Virelux Grand Atrium, she knew it wasn’t working.

It hadn’t fully kicked in, or worse, it had begun to wear off.

Her skin felt tight. Her breath, uneven. She could smell too much. Everyone's scent layered and sharp, mixing in the heat of the crowd. Alpha tones curled at the edge of her senses, restrained but potent. Cassian Dorne’s was the worst of them. Clean, cold, dominant without needing to rise.

Every time he moved through the room, heads turned.

Lyra didn’t turn. She kept her back to the mezzanine and pretended to read the event program until the letters blurred.

The throb behind her eyes was not just a headache. It was her body fighting itself.

Get out. Quietly.

She waited for the next round of applause to swell around the stage, then slipped her way toward the rear of the hall. She passed clusters of assistants she vaguely knew. A finance director with too much cologne. One of the legal Alphas whispering in a comms advisor’s ear.

No one noticed her. She was still background. Still invisible.

The exit to the terrace garden was dimly lit, framed by velvet ropes and standing floral displays. A few people mingled there, but mostly, it was where smokers and air-seekers retreated.

She just needed a few minutes of oxygen. To breathe, reset, recover. As she stepped through the open arch, a familiar pressure swept down her spine.

Someone behind her.

Not following, just… watching.

She quickened her pace, shoes silent on the stone flooring. The silk mask clung damp against her face, its green fabric hiding little now. The cool night air beckoned just ahead, crisp and unscented.

Then a voice, low and smooth, brushed her shoulder.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

She stopped cold.

The speaker was masked, half silver, half black. Formalwear, tailored perfectly. His voice deep, restrained. Just that hint of command under velvet.

Cassian. She knew that voice.

She had heard it before. In briefings. In silent elevator rides. In precisely worded press calls and quarterly videos.

Cassian Dorne.

No title. No introductions. Just instinct, whispering a warning into the base of her skull.

He didn’t know it was her. Not yet. But if she turned around, if he caught her scent now, raw and unprotected. He might know far too much.

...—--...

...Cassian’s POV...

Same evening – Gala Night

Cassian hated galas.

He hated the performative elegance, the soft manipulation dressed as conversation, the way his presence shaped the room long before he spoke. He hated being a symbol of something he no longer believed in. Legacy, structure, control.

But tonight, he hated himself more.

He'd thrown back his third glass of champagne faster than he meant to. He could feel the buzz dulling his precision, loosening the edges of his self-control. He almost welcomed it. Anything to smooth over the ache in his head, the growing sense of suffocation in his chest.

He had been told, quietly but clearly, that the engagement was expected to be formalized before the quarter closed. A strategic alliance. “Stability,” they called it.

But nothing about tonight felt stable.

Celeste had sent a message just before the gala began: Running late. Don’t wait up. Cold, impersonal. Fitting. They hadn’t spoken in more than ten words that week.

Cassian stood along the edge of the mezzanine and watched the ocean of people move below, trying to remember why he was still here.

Then he saw her. In green.

Moving quickly, but not rushed. Not trying to be seen, but not trying to disappear, either. Something about her posture drew him, like a held breath that never released.

Cassian didn’t recognize her. Not by name, not by title.

But his body… did.

It was subtle at first. A tug. The way the air shifted near her. His instincts stirred, quiet and warning. He blinked hard, told himself he was imagining it. He didn’t follow women. He didn’t chase shadows. But still, he moved.

He told himself it was coincidence. Curiosity.

He was half-drunk. Tired. The night was almost over. And then she stepped toward the garden exit, and his senses flared in quiet protest. A part of him moved without permission.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said.

Her back stiffened.

The moment between his words and her reaction was less than a second, but enough. Enough for something inside him to pull taut.

He couldn’t scent her clearly. Not through the wind. Not with the remnants of suppressant clouding the air. But there was something wrong with the way she turned. Something familiar. Something…

His thoughts stalled. His instincts didn’t.