Lorali Pov

"Where are my earrings?" an Omega girl shouts over the chaos of countless girls rushing up and down the room. We’re all trying to stay calm, but today is the day our lives change forever, and there can be no mistakes. We have to be perfect.

The room smells like nothing, absolutely nothing. Not a single scent fills the air. All Omegas are required to wear scent‑dampeners during the gala to avoid any mishaps, like an Alpha losing control at the hint of our fragrance. Ella has had to reapply the lotion multiple times because her potent scent keeps seeping out. I think she’s even reapplying it now, her hands moving quickly, her face tight with nerves.

I sit in my chair, staring at my reflection, lost in my thoughts. All I can think about are those brown, glistening eyes. They’re engraved into the back of my mind. I only saw them for a few seconds, but it’s all I can think about. My heart pounds against my chest, and I slowly press my hand to it. I know what this is. It has to be what I’m thinking. It feels exactly how the textbooks describe it.

"You good, girl? You look like you’re about to pass out," Ella says, leaning against the vanity in front of me. She wears the same two‑piece pink skirt made of light, flowing material that makes us look like angels, paired with a white tube top embroidered with real pearls. We all wear the exact same outfit; the only differences are our hairstyles and accessories. Ella has a butterfly locket around her neck, her hair styled with delicate butterfly wings on each side, glitter dusting the edges of her eyes. She looks like a fairy. I wear a pearl necklace and a small tiara nestled in my hair.

"I think I saw my fated mate," I whisper faintly, leaning closer to her.

"WHAT?!" she shouts, her eyes widening.

"Shh. I’m not sure, it was just a brief exchange," I whisper quickly, covering her mouth.

"What makes you think the person is your fated?" she asks, pulling away from my hand.

"In here. I feel it." I point to my heart.

"What are you guys talking about?" Vanya asks, her voice cutting in.

"Nothing," I reply quickly, sitting back down. If I’m wrong about this, it will be humiliating. Best to confirm before I start boasting.

"I peeked out the window and saw a bunch of hot men. I feel butterflies in my stomach just looking at those hunks," Cleo gushes, her flushed face glowing in the mirror. "I can’t wait to get out there and claim some hearts."

"Like you’re going to claim hearts," a voice sneers from the sidelines. I don’t need to look to know who it is. Tesha. The girl whose butt I beat all those years ago. She’s number three, part of the other group in our class. Just like I’m close with my circle, she’s close with hers, numbers four, eight, nine, ten, and eleven. There are only two friend groups: mine and hers.

"Go away, Tesha, before I pull your hair out," I say, not meaning a word of it.

"Oh, I’ll definitely claim hearts. And I’ll make sure to leave you some. After all, you’re my second." Cleo mocks her, striking a nerve. No matter how hard Tesha tries, she can never beat Cleo in the ranks.

A loud clap breaks the tension. "Alright, girls, it’s time," Madam Tilly announces. Instantly, we discard what just happened and form a line according to our ranks.

"Remember, you are not just any Omega. You are Alma’s Omegas. You are confident, powerful, and you have a choice. Those packs out there are not the prize, you are. So act like it. No mistakes. You have trained eleven years for this. Do not let it go to waste." Madam Tilly’s tone is stern as she looks each of us up and down, making sure we are flawless.

"Alright, take your veils. Remember, do not remove them unless you are giving it to the pack you are absolutely certain you choose." Madam Tilly hands out the white veils, embroidered with delicate flowers at the bottom.

We all place them over our faces, the world blurring behind the sheer fabric. With precise steps, hands folded neatly in front of us, backs straight, we walk onto the white carpet toward the staircase. The music slows, filling the hall with elegance. Though I can’t look down, I feel the weight of countless eyes burning through my veil, from the audience, from the packs, and from the other side where the Institution Omegas are entering.

They wear the same outfits as us, but in black and purple, with veils embroidered with black flowers.

"I really want to look down," Susie whispers behind me.

"Don’t. Remember, we are the prize," I say, trying to convince myself as much as her. Even though my heart is racing, even though I feel the eyes piercing through the veil, I force myself to keep walking, to keep my head high.

I have never been so desperate to see someone’s face. Like everyone else in the room, my neck is arched upward, straining. The others do it to catch a glimpse of the Omegas soon to descend the stairs, but I do it for another reason entirely. I need to look like I belong, like I’m just as eager as they are. In truth, I have no intention of choosing an Omega tonight and that secret must remain hidden. If anyone here, any of these powerful packs, council members, or dignitaries, suspected my disinterest, it would be disastrous. My pack already has enough scandals dragging us down. The last thing we need is an Omega fraud scandal added to the list.

"They walk ever so gracefully," Mr. Brown, the chrome mogul, murmurs beside me, his eyes locked on Alma’s Omegas as they glide down the long staircase. On the opposite side, the Institution Omegas descend as well, their line visibly longer and numbers overwhelming.

"Indeed," I reply, raising the glass of chardonnay to my lips. The taste is dry and sharp. Gods, I wish there were something stronger. But of course, they want every Alpha sober and level‑headed on this fateful day. No excuses, no lapses in judgment.

The Omegas, except the overflowing Institution Omegas that remains at the top floor, gazing down beneath their veils onto the dais, move into position. I count twelve Institution Omegas who make it onto the dais at the center of the room. They sit in a spiral formation, alternating between Alma and Institution, with the pink‑haired Omega leading Alma’s group at the center. Next to her sits an Institution Omega, then another Alma, the spiral continuing outward like petals unfurling.

Discarding Mr. Brown, the man I am close to closing a deal with, I walk closer to the dais, my eyes narrowing on one veiled figure. Something about her posture, the way she holds herself, draws me in.

The live orchestra shifts from a slow violin to a medium‑paced rhythm, accompanied by cello and piano. The pink‑haired Omega rises, lifting her hand as if reaching for the moon, her veil shimmering under the lights. The purple‑veiled Institution Omega beside her rises too, taking her hand. The piano slows, each beat deliberate, echoing through the hall. Together they move into a dance, the purple Omega resting her hands on her hips while the pink‑haired girl places hers on the other’s shoulders. They waltz around the spiral gracefully, as if gliding on clouds. One by one, each pair rises to join them, until the spiral dissolves into a flowing circle of movement.

To finish the dance, the pink‑haired girl arches her back, lowering herself to sit near the edge. The other Omegas surround her at the edge of the dais. With a subtle motion, she extends her foot, brushing aside the veil that drapes the dais. Tradition dictates that the lead dancer’s foot must be kissed after the performance. I never understood why, but it always drives packs into a frenzy, shoving their way forward for the honor.

I step aside to avoid being caught in the chaos. From a distance, I watch as a delta, much to the dismay of several Alphas, earns the privilege of kissing her foot before she retracts it.

"Ahh, is that Torin Spade I see?" a voice calls out. I turn to see a familiar man in his mid‑sixties approaching.

"Mr. Beaker. I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you’d passed the stage of looking for an Omega," I say with a tight smile. Alandal Beaker is a thorn in my side, my father’s loyal snitch. He watches me and my pack like a hawk, eager to relay every misstep back to my father. He was the one who uncovered Augi’s gambling disaster—half our assets gone—and reported it before I even knew.

"I could ask you the same thing, Torin. Why are you here? You already have an Omega."

I study him, confused as to why my father hasn’t told him about his latest genius plan. "You should ask my father."

"What? Did old man Spade get tired of that little Omega you hold dear?"

I roll my eyes, refusing to dignify that with an answer. I set my empty wine glass onto the tray of a passing waitress.

"No, that can’t be it. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Your mother loves your Omega. Your father would never do anything to harm him."

Oh, someone save me from this man. I should be out there closing deals, making valuable connections, not wasting time with Beaker. I would rather stand with my pack than endure this conversation, and that says a lot.

I frown, pressing my hand to my brow, when suddenly–

"Hi."

A small, meek voice rises in front of me. I look up to see a petite Omega standing there in a pink skirt and white veil. She is short, unsurprisingly, though most Omegas are small compared to Alphas or Deltas. Yet something about her presence makes the air shift. The veil hides her face, but the energy radiating from her is undeniable.

Torin Pov

"I chose you to dance with me," the little Omega says, pointing directly at me. Even through the veil, I recognize her. She is the one who had me in a trance earlier. I can’t make out her face, but I know it’s her.

I want to refuse. I should refuse. That would be the wisest option, the safest choice. But I can’t, not with Beaker watching like a vulture. Or so I tell myself.

"It would be my honor," I say, taking her hand gently, deliberately. "Excuse me now, Mr. Beaker. I must dance with this lovely Omega."

Beaker smiles, smugly. "Of course. Don’t let me stop you."

The guests who haven’t been chosen for a first dance move aside, clearing space. I walk through hand in hand with the Omega, catching my packs glances of confusion from the crowd. Their eyes burn into me, questioning, but for some reason it doesn’t bother me. I am too focused on the strange feeling erupting in my gut the moment I touched her small, delicate hand.

The center surrounding the dais clears, leaving only Omegas and their chosen partners. At the dais itself, the pink‑haired girl and the star of this gala stands with her chosen Alpha.

"Have you ever done ballroom dancing?" the Omega asks, taking her place in front of me.

I like the view of her standing there, the way she holds herself. I wonder what she would look like beneath me. No. I shouldn’t be thinking like that. This is just an inconvenience, something I’m forced into because of Beaker.

"Yes, I know ballroom," I say, clearing my throat. I place one hand around her waist, soft and small beneath the veil, and take her hand in mine. Her fingers are tiny compared to mine, fragile yet steady.

The music begins, and the hall fills with movement. We step into rhythm.

"So, how many people are in your pack?" she asks.

"Six, including me," I answer quickly, avoiding conversation.

"Oh, that’s nice. What type of Omega do you see yourselves with in the future?"

"Look, we already have an Omega," I say, dismissing her half‑heartedly.

Her head falls, her steps falter, and she accidentally lands on my foot.

"Oh, so sorry! I... I didn’t mean—" she rambles, flustered.

"It’s alright. I didn’t even feel it," I reassure her, though the sting lingers.

"You don’t have to answer, but... are you by chance part of Pack Spade?"

How does she know? Well, that’s a stupid question. There was a time we were all over the media for all the wrong reasons. We still are, occasionally, whenever one of my pack members decides to embarrass me.

"I am its head," I say, lifting her by the waist and twirling her. The light catches her veil, and for a moment I glimpse brown eyes and bob‑cut hair before bringing her back down against my chest. My heart pounds violently, and I know she can feel it. Something is wrong with me tonight. This Omega is doing something to me.

Unconsciously, I lower my head to the top of hers, trying to catch her scent. But all I smell is the damn scent‑dampening wash. It drives me mad that I can’t smell the precious thing in front of me.

"What is your name?" she asks cautiously, moving away from my chest.

"Torin Spade."

"Torin." The name leaves her mouth like a whisper, and gods, I like hearing it from her lips. I imagine her screaming it beneath me, and the thought nearly unravels me.

"What is your name?" I ask, though I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ll ever see her again after this dance.

"Lorali. Lorali Alma."

Lorali. I trace the name against my lips. It suits her. Wait—Lorali. My eyes flash to the document Father gave me weeks ago. Lorali. That was the name of the Omega he arranged for my pack.

Shit. I messed up. Big time.

I abruptly let go, and the music stops. The dance is over. I move away from her, pushing through the impatient Alphas eager for their turn. I hear her call out for me, her voice soft but desperate, but I don’t look back. I can’t. Because if I do, I’ll go back, hold her in my arms, and never let go.

I need air. I need space. All these Alpha scents are suffocating me. What I feel will pass. It has to.