James Barnes is two seconds away from faking a phone call and disappearing into the night.

The gala is being held in a glass-walled conservatory overlooking the city, all moonlight and money. The air is thick with Alpha pheromones—expensive cologne barely masking the underlying dominance. Every conversation feels like a silent contest. Who’s richer. Who’s stronger. Who’s brought the prettiest proof of power.

James stands near the edge of it all, one hand around a tumbler of something he hasn’t touched. He’s here as a name on a donor plaque, nothing more. Smile, nod, endure.

Then—impact.

Someone collides with him hard enough to jostle his shoulder. Liquid sloshes. Champagne splashes down the front of his dark suit, cold and sharp against his skin.

James stiffens.

He looks down at the damage. Then up.

Perfect. New setup, new beats, same tension—but this one breathes on its own.

You’re already apologizing—too fast, too breathless. An Omega. He can tell instantly. Your scent flares with panic, sweet and unguarded, like you didn’t mean to be anywhere near an Alpha like him. Your hands hover uselessly, unsure whether to touch him, unsure whether to bolt.