Chapter 2

School hallways have their own hierarchy, invisible to teachers but clear as daylight to us students. I navigate them like I'm crossing minefields – careful where I step, who I look at, how long I linger near the senior alphas' lockers. My omega status hangs around me like a neon sign, even with the suppressants dulling my scent to almost nothing. But today, I walk with my chin a fraction higher, birthday confidence mixing with the lingering warmth of Cassandra's unexpected acknowledgment. The surprise she promised pulses in my mind like a second heartbeat, keeping time with my footsteps as I weave between clusters of students.

The morning announcements crackle over ancient speakers, but beneath them runs the current of whispers that follow me – they always do. Westlake High has exactly four known omegas in a student body of twelve hundred. We're unicorns, oddities, subjects of fascination and occasional pity.

"Hey, Tink." Marcus Reynolds materializes beside me, all six feet of quarterback alpha instinct wrapped in a letterman jacket. He walks a protective half-step beside me toward first period, like he does most mornings. "Need me to carry anything?"

I clutch my backpack straps tighter. "I'm good, thanks."

His nostrils flare slightly – alphas can't help it sometimes, even with suppressants muddying the waters. "You seem different today."

"It's my birthday," I admit, immediately regretting it when his eyes light up.

"No shit? Happy birthday!" His volume draws attention. Three sophomore girls glance over, their expressions morphing from curiosity to dismissal when they see me. One whispers something that makes the others snicker.

Marcus glowers in their direction, and they scatter like pigeons. This is the reality of my existence – either I'm invisible or I'm a problem to be managed. Marcus means well, but his protection just marks me more clearly as something that needs protecting.

"Thanks for the escort," I say at the door to Mr. Peterson's history class. "But I've got it from here."

He hesitates, alpha instincts warring with my clear dismissal. "Sure thing, Tink. Have a good one."

In class, I slide into my usual seat at the back. Kelly drops into the chair beside me, her hair a wild tangle of purple-tipped curls. She's the closest thing I have to a real friend – a beta with zero tolerance for hierarchy bullshit and enough attitude to keep most alphas at bay.

"You look different," she says, narrowing her eyes. "Did you actually use makeup? Holy shit, is that mascara?"

I feel my cheeks warm. "It's my birthday."

"And you didn't tell me? Dick move, Moore." But she's grinning, digging through her chaotic backpack. She produces a slightly squashed chocolate bar and slides it across the desk. "Happy birthday. Sorry it's not wrapped. Or, you know, not sat on."

The simple gesture makes my throat tight. "Thanks," I manage, tucking the chocolate into my pocket as Mr. Peterson begins his lecture on World War II.

Halfway through a mind-numbing explanation of the Yalta Conference, my phone vibrates against my thigh. I slide it out just enough to see the screen.

Cassandra: Making arrangements for your celebration tonight. Wear something nice.

I stare at the text, warmth spreading through my chest. In five years of living under the same roof, Cassandra has never once planned anything that could be called a celebration. I tap out a quick reply:

Me: Thank you! Do I need to pick anything up?

The response comes faster than I expected:

Cassandra: Everything's handled. Just be ready to make a good impression.

"What's got you smiling at your crotch?" Kelly whispers, eyebrow raised.

When the bell rings, I pull her into the relative privacy of the bathroom and spill everything about the morning's unexpected turn.

"Your stepmom? The ice queen is throwing you a party?" Kelly's skepticism is as subtle as her hair color. "The same woman who 'forgot' to pick you up in that thunderstorm last month?"

I wince at the memory – two hours huddled under the thin shelter of the school's entrance, watching lightning crack the sky while Cassandra attended an "emergency meeting" that couldn't be interrupted.

"She's trying," I defend weakly. "Things have been hard since Dad died. The medical bills, and then having to suddenly deal with an omega stepdaughter..."

Kelly's expression softens, but concern still shadows her eyes. "Just... be careful, okay? You get your hopes up, and then—"

"I know my own stepmom," I interrupt, not wanting to hear the rest. The warning in Kelly's words echoes uncomfortably close to the instinctive unease I'd felt this morning but pushed aside.

My phone buzzes again as we head to second period.

Cassandra: Change of plans. Meeting at 42 Industrial Boulevard after school. Business associate wants to join our celebration.

Something cold ripples through me. Cassandra doesn't have friends, she has "connections." And she certainly doesn't have the kind of associates who would want to celebrate a teenage girl's birthday.

Me: Where's that? I don't know that address.

Cassandra: GPS it. Wear your blue sweater - the one with the buttons. Don't be late.

Throughout chemistry and English, more messages arrive – oddly specific instructions that feel increasingly strange. Bring your school ID. Don't tell anyone where you're going. The business associate is very interested in meeting a gifted young omega like yourself.

By lunch, excitement has curdled into something more complicated. I pick at my food while Kelly chatters about weekend plans and an upcoming math test. The cafeteria hums with typical high school energy – alpha athletes holding court at center tables, betas forming the largest social circles, the handful of us omegas scattered to the edges like debris washed up on shore.

"Earth to Tink?" Kelly waves a french fry in front of my face. "You've been weird all day. More than birthday weird."

"Sorry," I mutter. "Just thinking about Cassandra's surprise."

"Want me to come with you?" she offers. "I could wait outside, make sure it's not, I don't know, a surprise trip to omega etiquette camp or something."

The suggestion tempts me, but Cassandra's explicit instructions to come alone flash in my mind. "It's fine. Really."

"If you say so," Kelly says doubtfully. "Text me when you get there, at least?"

I nod, not meeting her eyes.

The final bell rings like a starting gun. Students pour into hallways, weekend freedom electrifying the air. I stand at my locker, heart pounding as I swap textbooks for the ones I'll need for homework. My fingers brush the blue sweater I'd tucked into my backpack this morning – the one Cassandra specified in her text.

I pull out my phone and check the address again. The location is in the industrial district – warehouses and manufacturing facilities, mostly. An odd place for any kind of celebration. I type it into my maps app, which shows a fifteen-minute walk from school.

A chill crawls up my spine as I shrug into the blue sweater. My omega instincts, typically muted by suppressants, seem to be screaming through the chemical haze. Don't go. Something's wrong. The warnings pulse behind my ribs, tight and insistent.

But louder still is the voice that's been with me since I was thirteen, since my father died and left me with a stepmother who viewed me as an inconvenience at best: This might be your only chance for approval. For connection. For something that resembles love.

Two seniors brush past me, their alpha scents triggering an automatic step back, a lowering of my eyes. One of them glances at me with the briefest flicker of protective instinct before his friend distracts him. In that moment, I make my decision.

I swing my backpack over my shoulder and head for the exit, batting away instinctive warnings like pesky flies. Cassandra is trying, finally trying. I won't ruin it with paranoia and omega anxiety. The setting sun casts long shadows as I follow the map on my phone, each step taking me further from the safety of familiar territory and closer to the address where Cassandra waits with her surprise.