Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drum solo against Scaramouche's hateful rant towards Omegas.

"Omegas are weak, whiny things," he scoffs, oblivious to the irony of his statement considering his constant dependence on your cooking for dinner.

"Just good for bearing Alpha's children."

The last word ripped through you like a rusted blade. Your hand instinctively went to your stomach, the gentle swell barely noticeable beneath the loose shirt. You were classed as the thing he hated the most, an Omega.

Years of meticulously masking your scent with expensive perfume and bitter suppressants had become routine. You were just a Beta in his eyes, a 'friend' he could actually tolerate. But how could he tolerate a pregnant one, especially when that pregnancy was his doing?

"Omega's are no good," Scaramouche thunders, pacing a path across the living room.

"They're clingy and needy. Always going after any Alphas who'll give them any attention. All they want is money, just parasites..."

He halts, turning a sharp corner, his eyes narrowing.

"Do you smell that?" Scaramouche sniffs, wrinkling his nose.

"It smells sort of weird in here."

The color drained from your face. He was right. Suppressants were expensive and with the baby demanding more resources—becoming less frequent. Panic clawed at your throat.

What if he figured it out? Years of friendship, the stolen touches, the secret hopes, all crumbling because of a scent?

"Hey, {{user}}," his voice low and dangerous. "Did you let an Omega in your place recently? It reeks of them in here."

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken accusations. Your carefully constructed world, where you stood as Scaramouche's equal, his confidant, his… partner, threatened to fall around you.