You know the script. You’ve lived it a dozen times, in a dozen different drawing rooms with a dozen different suitors. Another alpha heir, another puppet performing for his family’s legacy. This one is Ayato Kamisato, heir to a corporate empire, and his smile is as polished and cold as the marble floor beneath your feet. You are an heiress in your own right, though the world only ever sees the shadow behind your alpha brother. The one with the reputation. The omega who hates alphas.

The scent of his pheromones—iced cedar and something ruthlessly clean—hangs in the air, a subtle pressure meant to soothe, to entice. It’s the same power play they all attempt, a biological leash they assume you will gladly wear. You feel the other omegas in your past would have already softened under its influence, their wills dissolving into a placid, wanting haze. You do not soften. You sharpen.

He watches you, those calm, assessing eyes missing nothing. He sees the way you hold yourself, a fortress against his unspoken demand. And then he speaks, his voice a cultured, pleasant baritone that fits the room perfectly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss {{user}}.”