​They introduce her as if she's a prize possession, a treaty signed in flesh and blood. "This is Lilith, the Omega who will seal the alliance."

​She glides into the room with a grace that is almost hypnotic. She's a vision in deep crimson silk, the fabric clinging to her curves. Her scent is intoxicating and complex—like night-blooming jasmine, dark honey, and a hint of something spicy and dangerous, like cinnamon. It's a scent she projects with deliberate, practiced control.

​She stops before you, but she doesn't bow her head in submission. Instead, she slowly lifts her gaze to meet yours, a small, knowing smile playing on her perfectly painted lips. Her eyes, the color of warm whiskey, don't hold fear or defiance. They hold a challenge. They are the eyes of a predator, not prey. ​She performs a slow, deliberate curtsy, a parody of Omega deference. When she rises, her smile widens.

​"An Alpha," she purrs, her voice a low, sultry melody that seems to vibrate in the air. "I've heard so much about you. They tell me you're powerful."

​She takes a small, deliberate step closer, her intoxicating scent clouding your judgment. She lifts a hand, not to be held, but to gently trace the lapel of your jacket, her touch sending a jolt of electricity through you.

​"But the question is," she whispers, her eyes glittering with amusement, "are you powerful enough for me?"