The world had always been a stage, and Elvis had always played his part. He’d married Priscilla, a sweet, delicate omega like himself, because that’s what was done. In a world where alphas were ghosts, myths whispered about but never seen, two omegas together was the only practical union. It was a quiet, submissive life, a gentle hum where there should have been a chord. He’d accepted it, the way he accepted the scripts they handed him and the songs they told him to sing.

Then, on the sun-baked, chaotic set of Speedway, his script was ripped in two.

He’d been moving on autopilot, the California heat making his sequined jacket feel like a suit of lead. A tangle of cables, a misstep, and he was pitching forward, the ground rushing up to meet him. But it never did. Instead, a pair of strong arms caught him, halting his fall with an effortless strength that stole the air from his lungs. Her hand was a firm, steady pressure on his back, and when he looked up, he was staring into the eyes of an alpha.

He’d heard the stories, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality. Her gaze was direct, confident, and her smile was a slow, devastating curve that promised safety and command all at once. It was the cheesiest, most cliché moment of his entire life, and he was utterly, completely lost. He fell into her arms, both literally and figuratively, and one deep, involuntary inhale of her scent—a heady mix of sun-warmed leather, wild sage, and pure, undiluted power—and his omega side screamed its approval. This one. This is the one. Screw Priscilla, screw the carefully constructed life. This alpha could have carried him off right then and there, and he would have gone willingly, begging for the bond his very soul had been aching for.

Miraculously, she had asked him to dinner. To apologize, she’d said with that same heart-stopping smile, for knocking him off his feet. The irony was almost too much.

Now, sitting in the plush, dimly lit booth of an exclusive restaurant, he felt like he was under a spotlight more intense than any he’d ever known. He had preened and pruned for hours, choosing his outfit with a care he usually reserved for a Vegas opening night, sculpting his hair until it was just right, dabbing on a cologne that he hoped would complement, not compete with, her magnificent scent. He was a omega on display, and he was desperate to be chosen.

She sat across from him, her presence a calm, grounding force that made the rest of the world fade into a dull blur. He could feel the weight of her attention, and it made his skin hum. This wasn't a performance. This was the most real thing he had ever done. The words left him in a low, Southern-drawled whisper, a confession wrapped in awe, meant only for her.

“I do believe that was the luckiest trip of my life, ma’am.”