4. Delcy

I huddledin the dimly lit staff room, my fingers trembling as I clutched the tiny pill bottle. Suppressants were my shield, a routine armor I donned each morning without fail. Yet here I was, taking an extra dose, confusion swirling within me like milk in coffee. My body shouldn"t have been this sensitive; this morning"s pill should"ve been enough.

Ever since I served coffee to those two men yesterday, the ones with such strong alpha pheromones, it was like my body couldn"t handle it. Their scents lingered in my mind, igniting feelings and reactions I thought were long buried.

Maybe it was time to see Dr. Evans, to talk about increasing my dosage. The thought was like a stone in my stomach. More medication meant more money, and money was a luxury I couldn't afford to spare.

Dr. Evans did warn me that as an unmated omega gets older, they require higher suppressant levels to properly regulate their heats. At twenty-five, I was teetering on the edge already. But the clinic didn"t take my insurance, and I could barely afford what I had now. Still, if this kept up, I might not have a choice.

With a heavy sigh, I slid the bottle back into my apron pocket and returned to the familiar rhythm of the coffee shop. The hum of the machines was a comforting backdrop to my scattered thoughts.

The afternoon lull had settled over the café, only a few patrons lingering at their tables. Anna"s laughter cut through the quiet, her voice light and bubbly as she chatted with Blair, our boss, and Rick, the other barista. Blair smiled indulgently as Anna gushed excitedly while Rick chuckled as he stacked freshly washed mugs.

"That man was gorgeous!" Anna exclaimed, her cheeks flushing red and her eyes bright. "Did you see him? The one in the fancy suit who came in earlier?"

Blair shook her head, amused. "Can"t say I did. I was in the back doing paperwork."

"He must be super rich or something. I saw him get into the nicest car after. A Rolls-Royce!" Anna sighed dreamily.

Rick scoffed. "That wasn"t just any Rolls. Looked like a La Rose Noire Droptail. Those run about thirty mil."

Anna"s eyes went wide, her mouth in the form of an O. "Thirty million dollars? For a car?" She whistled. "Man, must be nice."

The extraordinary price tag was unfathomable to me. I could live the rest of my life comfortably with that, and getting Grandpa"s surgery would be a breeze.

Blair chuckled, shaking her head at our reactions. "If you"ve got it, flaunt it," she said with a wry smile.

Anna laughed. "If I had it, I'd flaunt it, too."

I busied myself with cleaning the espresso machine, letting their conversation wash over me, my thoughts drifting to the man Anna described. It had to be one of the two from yesterday. The two who left me shaken.

Ever since that incident seven years ago, I had closed myself off at the mere smell of an alpha, and with those two last night, it was no different. My rules were simple—no eye contact, no looking at their faces, and stay clear of them as if they were the plague.

My thoughts drifted back to that fancy car. What must it be like, having so much money that a thirty-million-dollar car seemed reasonable? I couldn"t even comprehend that kind of wealth. Maybe one day, if my dress designs took off, if I could get investors for my own brand... but that was just a fantasy. My bank account barely covered rent and Grandpa"s care costs. There was no room for dreaming right now.

The rest of my shift passed in a blur of steaming milk and grinding beans. At five o"clock sharp, I hung up my apron and bid Blair and Rick a good evening before slipping out the door.

The drive to Sunrise Elder Care Center where Grandpa Sid resided was short but always felt like crossing worlds—from my work life into something much more personal. Kate, the receptionist, greeted me with a warm smile as I entered. "Evening, Delcy! How"s today treating you?"

"Same old," I replied with a small smile of my own. We exchanged pleasantries before I made my way down the quiet halls to Grandpa"s room.

"Hey there, Grandpa," I greeted him softly as I stepped inside.

He looked up, his eyes lighting up despite the tired lines etching his face. "Delcy! My girl," he beamed. "Come here. Come here. Look." He waved me over.

I set my bag aside and settled next to him on the compact couch.

"Look at how cute you were," he said.

My attention shifted to the album on his lap. These were our family pictures, and tears welled up in my eyes at the sight of Mom and Dad.

It seemed as if it was only yesterday when I last saw them, yet it"s been a decade since their passing. Without Grandpa"s shelter, despite his own financial struggles, I would have ended up in foster care, and the outcome for an omega like me could have been dire.

I"d heard the horror stories—how dreadful it was for omegas to fend for themselves in a world that didn"t care, that reduced you to nothing more than a bearer of children, a creature succumbing to mindless estrus monthly like a beast.

I didn"t want to know, nor did I wish to dwell on it. The mere thought terrified me, especially after the ordeal I suffered seven years ago. That terror still plagued me—the vague shapes that encircled me, the fever of my body. All I had craved was for men to take me, devoid of sense, and that terrified me. I had lost all self-command. My body seemed to operate on its own volition, yearning to be claimed.

And one did claim me, leaving his scent and mark upon me.

I nestled against Grandpa, laying my head on his shoulder while my fingers outlined the image of Mom and Dad.

They loved me unconditionally, the unexpected product of them as beta parents who carried the omega genes, and the revelation had been a delightful surprise.

Yes, they were delighted, not overwhelmed with shock or fear at having an omega child. Dad would often exclaim his luck in having an omega daughter, whom he considered tender angels.

I recall how they, along with Grandpa, had acquired a plethora of omega-related books for insight and understanding. One evening after work, Dad had come home deeply disturbed, venting about the injustices faced by omegas, about the discrimination. The reality of this discrimination didn"t hit me until I exhibited my omega traits—the appearance, the pheromones, and eventually, the heat.

I spent the evening by Grandpa"s side, chatting about little things and trying not to dwell on how frail he seemed or how his health was slipping through our fingers like sand. We talked about my day, his physical therapy, and the terrible food here. I noticed his breathing seemed more labored than normal and that he wheezed slightly even at rest. The doctors said his heart was failing, that he needed surgery we simply couldn"t afford. Watching his decline was agonizing, knowing I was powerless to stop it.

It was late when I finally left for home—my cramped apartment feeling even smaller after being in Grandpa"s room. After showering away the scent of coffee beans and disinfectant, I slipped into bed with an exhausted sigh.

My phone pinged, and I checked to see a message from Lydia.

Hey, girlfriend. How"s your day? Got something wonderful for you. You"re invited to an awesome charity event at a gallery next Saturday. Decline is not an option. We need to spend time together and have some fun.

I"ll be working, I texted back immediately.

Lydia"s response came quickly. Take the day off. You have plenty of annual leave, don"t you? Please, pretty please? This means a lot to me. I miss you so much. I can"t even remember the last time we hung out.

The last time we hung out was last weekend, when we went to some fancy restaurant with Nora and Amanda, and Lydia had to pay for my meal because I couldn"t afford it, which was embarrassing. Nora had snorted and commented, "It must suck to be so poor," which caused Lydia to jab her at the elbow for being so inconsiderate with her words.

Another text came. There will be tons of people dressing up for the event. It"s like a black-tie sort of thing.

Reluctance warred with curiosity inside me until curiosity won out. I did love events for their fashion, after all.

I replied, Okay. I"ll ask for half a shift off.

Her excitement bubbled through her next message about coming over to her place after work so we could get ready together—she had picked out a beautiful dress for me.

A beautiful dress? The fatigue that weighed on my bones lightened just a touch at the thought. Maybe there"d be something enchanting about next Saturday after all.

As I succumbed to sleep, my thoughts lingered on what my dress would look like, wishing my dreams would mirror such visions. What came to me instead were dreams of twin alphas chasing after me, treating me as prey, while they, the hunters—alpha poised to mark me as theirs—overwhelmed me with their heady scents and their robust forms engulfing me. They took me, as that alpha had taken me that time, and I, in fervent desire, had yielded, longing to be possessed and marked.

I jolted awake, my heart pounding and my body covered in a sheen of sweat. The dream had felt so real—the pounding footsteps, the hot breath on my neck, the twin alphas chasing me through a dark forest. Even now I could still smell their musky scents, feel their hungry eyes on me.

Shaken, I climbed out of bed on unsteady legs, making my way to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, taking deep breaths to calm my rattled nerves. It was just a dream, I told myself. Just a silly nightmare, nothing more.

When I felt steady enough, I returned to my bedroom and picked up my sketchpad and pencils. Drawing always soothed me, allowing me to lose myself in the swirl of colors and lines. I began roughly sketching dress designs, trying to capture the visions dancing through my mind.

If I could save up enough, I would build a small sewing studio and bring these designs to life. It was a nearly impossible dream on my meager wages, but I clung to the hope that somehow, someday, I"d have my clothing label. A tiny seed of possibility to keep me going.

Page after page I filled, until the first light of dawn crept across my bedroom walls. My alarm would be blaring soon, another day calling.

I shuffled to the kitchen, my body heavy with fatigue. A single slice of bread and a thin scraping of jam would have to suffice for breakfast today. The bitter taste of the suppressant pill I dutifully swallowed made my empty stomach churn.

After a quick shower, I was out the door, coffee thermos in hand. The caffeine would keep me functional until I could sneak in a nap on my break.

* * *

Crossingthe street to the café, my head swam with exhaustion. I didn"t see the sleek black car until it was nearly upon me, tires screeching as it ground to a halt just inches from my body.

I stumbled back in shock, my heart hammering as the driver flung open his door.

"Are you all right?" the man asked, grasping my arm to steady me. I could hear the worry in the deep timbre of his voice—a voice that made my body react in ways I didn"t want it to react. And his touch, that hand that held my arm.

I was instantly paralyzed as electric currents coursed through my body. His scent, which was musky and virile—very alpha—washed over me, and I felt my head spin.

My body reacted instinctively, heat pooling low in my belly as I inhaled that intoxicating aroma. Mortified, I fumbled for my face mask, wanting to hide my features and muffle my own traitorous pheromones.

"I"m fine," I mumbled, pulling away from his touch. His hand fell away reluctantly as I took off running for the café, desperate to escape.

"You look dreadful," was Blair"s greeting to me. "Didn"t get much sleep last night?"

I nodded and went to the back to drop off my bag. Back at the front, I slung my apron on, the fabric familiar against my skin as I settled into the routine of my shift.

The café hummed with the low murmur of customers and the clinking of cups. I moved with mechanical precision, brewing coffee, steaming milk, and smiling at patrons while keeping an eye on the door, praying no alphas would walk in with their strong pheromones that send my senses into a frenzy.

I stifled a yawn as I wiped down the steam wand on the espresso machine. The busy morning rush had finally tapered off, leaving the café quiet. My exhausted body was begging for a break, just a quick catnap to recharge.

Luckily, the midday lull was the perfect time to sneak in a short rest. I let Blair know I was taking my lunch and headed to the tiny staff room in the back. Kicking off my shoes, I settled onto the lumpy couch with my sweater balled up as a makeshift pillow. My eyes drifted shut almost instantly.

What felt like mere seconds later, Blair was shaking my shoulder gently. "Sorry, hon, break"s over."

I sat up groggily, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. A glance at the clock showed I"d been out for a full thirty minutes. It wasn"t long, but it was enough to shake off some of the cobwebs of exhaustion and settle my frayed nerves.

After slipping my shoes back on, I headed behind the counter to relieve Rick. He shot me a grateful smile before disappearing into the break room.

As the clock"s hands crept toward late afternoon, I felt a surge of relief. The day was almost over, and no alphas had made an appearance. My shoulders relaxed fractionally; perhaps today wouldn"t be as bad as I"d feared.

My fingers danced over the espresso machine, an intricate ballet of pushing, pulling, and pouring. The rich aroma of coffee beans permeated the air as I steamed the milk to a silky perfection. Blair slid a ticket across the counter.

"Two lattes to go. Make them pretty, Delcy."

Nodding, I poured the milk with precision, coaxing it into delicate rosettes atop the caramel-colored crema. The final swirls were a silent testament to my brief escapes into artistry amidst the daily grind. Done, I handed them to Blair who brought them back to me shortly after, the cups now secured in a cardboard carrier.

"Could you deliver them for me?" she asked, her expression apologetic. "Jake"s busy with the other deliveries."

Brewed Dreams offered delivery services to neighboring offices, and usually, when Jake, our other server and primary delivery man, was swamped, it fell to Anna or me to step in. It wasn"t so bad. A bit of fresh air and a break from behind the counter were always welcome.

I nodded, taking the carrier from her hands. "Sure thing. What"s the address?"

"Sterling Enterprises," Blair said. "Top floor, Executive Department."

"Okay, got it," I said.

The Sterling Enterprises building was only a couple of blocks up from Brewed Dreams—a towering skyscraper that sliced into the sky with sleek lines and mirrored glass. The weight of the coffee carrier was reassuring in my hands as I made my way there.

Inside, the sleek lobby with its marble floors and crystal chandeliers made me acutely aware of my worn, coffee-stained uniform. People in crisp business suits shot me questioning looks as I made my way to the elevators.

My thumb hovered over the button for the top floor. "Here goes nothing," I said under my breath.

The elevator whisked me up with a gentle hum, depositing me into a reception area that stole my breath away—polished floors reflecting chic furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and artwork that probably cost more than I made in a year.

The receptionist greeted me with a polite smile.

I said, "I have a coffee delivery for Colton S. and Jaxon S.?" My voice lifted at the end, making it sound more like a question.

Her smile widened. "Of course, I"ll let them know it"s on the way," she said and then proceeded to direct me toward a large corridor.

"Thanks," I said.

I turned on my heel and following the directions given to me, I walked down a long hallway flanked by glass-walled offices. Everywhere I looked were men and women in expensive business wear, clearly at the top of their field. I was definitely a fish out of water.

Whispers and curious glances followed me as I searched for my destinations. Realizing I was somewhat disoriented and not wanting to dally any longer for fear that the coffee would cool, I summoned the courage to request directions from a woman who happened to be walking by.

"Their offices are right over there," she said, gesturing toward a pair of grand double doors across the way.

As I walked through, whispers fluttered around me like moths to a flame.

"Mr. Sterlings got coffee from Brewed Dreams?" one voice commented.

"Surprising they"d patronize Brewed Dreams," murmured another, suggesting it was beneath them.

"That"s not the usual delivery guy," another voice noted, followed by a hushed, "Isn"t that the barista who always wears a mask?" from a woman.

"I believe she"s an omega," her companion murmured back. "We should intercept her before she enters the bosses" suite."

Feeling indignant, I refused to let my omega status undermine my ability to fulfill a simple delivery. Such absurdity.

As one woman—wearing a pristine frilly white blouse, a snug black pencil skirt, and four-inch heels—started to approach, I feigned obliviousness and made a beeline for one of the doors, my initial stop.

Upon reaching it, I examined the nameplate that read Colton Sterling and was taken aback. The CEO himself had ordered from our modest shop? I noted the adjacent unoccupied reception desk and the approaching woman.

Resolved to complete my task and irk the oncoming woman, I stood firm and nudged the door open.

Inside, the office lay empty, exuding a sense of gravity even without its occupant. I scanned the room, taking in the lavish décor befitting the CEO of a global titan.

I approached the polished mahogany desk and placed the coffee, bearing his name, on its surface. Just as I was about to exit, I hesitated. After a quick look around, I picked up one of his pens, plucked a sticky note from the pad, and scribbled a message. Your coffee from Brewed Dreams. Hope this brightens your day! Enjoy and thanks for your patronage. On impulse, I doodled a whimsical bunny enjoying a coffee encircled by tiny hearts—hoping it might coax a smile from someone as important as him.

Finished, I raised my gaze and retreated a step, inadvertently nudging the chair behind me and causing the draped suit jacket to tumble down. I quickly scooped it up, brushing off any potential dirt, and then carefully replaced it over the chair"s back. Afterward, I made my way to the exit.

Once outside, I could feel the scrutiny of onlookers, particularly from the woman who had tailed me, now returned to her workstation. They likely pondered my business in the office. Merely delivering coffee, naturally. And I had one more delivery to make.

I headed to the office next door—Jaxon Sterling.

Stepping inside felt like trespassing into another world. This room had more personal touches but still carried that same weight of significance. I left the coffee next to an impressive array of gadgets on the desk and added a note with his, too. Your coffee. Hope this brightens your day! Your friends at Brewed Dreams. This time I drew a little hamster lying flat with a mug balanced atop its round belly, with little hearts floating about as well. They always appreciated my doodles back at the café. Hopefully it would make these powerful men smile, too.

Finished with my deliveries, I made my way back through the sea of desks under curious gazes until I reached the relative safety of the elevator. The descent felt longer than before, maybe because now those names—Colton and Jaxon—carried palpable presences for me.

As much as part of me hoped that those sketches might make someone"s day just a little brighter, another part worried about how presumptuous it might seem for someone like me—an omega—to leave such personal touches for men like them—powerful alphas, because it was a given they would be alphas, considering their positions as CEO and COO of a worldwide corporation. Such was the order of society.

* * *

The morning lightfiltered through the sheer curtains, brushing my eyelids with the promise of a rare, unhurried day. With no alarms to obey, I rose when my body felt ready, the clock"s hands inching toward midmorning. I stretched beneath the warmth of my comforter, my limbs languid and content. Sundays were a sacred reprieve from the breakneck pace of the rest of the week, and I cherished every second.

I finally rolled out of bed. In the kitchen, I took my time preparing breakfast, savoring the sizzle of eggs in the pan and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee—perks from working at Brewed Dreams and Café Serenity. Usually, I scarfed down food standing over the sink, but today I sat at the tiny table in my kitchenette and savored every bite. With no rush to get ready for work, I lingered over a second cup of coffee.

As I ate, my sketchpad lay open beside me. My pencil danced across the paper, coaxing fabric and form from simple lines and shading. The dress that emerged was daring yet elegant, something I"d imagined a thousand times but could never afford to bring to life.

Fashion design was my passion, though I rarely found time for it while working two jobs. These sweeping skirts and off-the-shoulder necklines represented pure fantasy for someone like me. But I loved dreaming up these designs, losing myself in an imaginary world of beauty and artistry.

When the last pencil strokes were complete, I held up the sketchpad to admire my work. I lingered over the last page of the sketchbook, its edges worn from constant use. It held all my dreams in graphite and eraser shavings—a silent gallery of designs waiting for their debut. A sigh escaped me as I considered buying a new one while I traced my fingers over the textured paper. Money was always tight.

I grabbed my phone and went online to check my bank account. The digital numbers drew me back to reality—my balance blinking back at me with a bit more resilience than usual. Enough to cover bills with some left over? It felt like finding treasure in an old coat pocket. I decided right then I"d buy some art supplies today.

After cleaning up from breakfast, I headed out to do my grocery shopping for the week. I picked up the usual staples, taking advantage of sales and coupons to stretch my limited budget. At the register, I held my breath as the cashier rang up my purchases, exhaling in relief when the total was just under what I had budgeted.

With the grocery shopping done, I drove over to visit Grandpa. The care home smelled like antiseptic and wilted flowers when I walked in—a sharp contrast to the scent of fresh produce still lingering on my skin. When I arrived, I found Grandpa sitting in the common room looking cheerful. His eyes lit up when he saw me.

"Delcy, my girl! Come give your old Gramps a hug," he said, stretching out his arms, his eyes sparkling with an energy that belied his years.

I embraced him gently, inhaling the comforting scent of talcum powder and his favorite cinnamon candies. We chatted for a while about inconsequential things—the weather, what was on TV last night, which nurse at Sunrise was his current favorite. After some time, one of the nurses pulled me aside for a talk.

"It"s about your grandfather"s heart condition," she said softly.

I nodded, steeling myself for what came next—the talk about surgery options we couldn"t afford.

"I know it"s expensive, but you should really consider it for him."

The weight of financial impossibility settled on my shoulders. "We can"t," I said. "It"s just not within our reach."

She sighed, her expression folding into one of shared frustration. "It"s a shame how broken our health care system is. In some countries, health care is free."

"Yeah," I said in agreement. "If only it were free here, it would lift such a burden off omegas like me."

The conversation shifted as we talked about daily struggles that seemed designed to keep people like us pinned down—never quite drowning but never able to swim freely either.

After a simple lunch with Grandpa, I gave him a kiss goodbye and left the care home with a heavy heart but forced myself to focus on something brighter—the art supplies awaiting me at the mall.

As I approached Sterling Galleria, the imposing structure seemed to rise from the cityscape like a beacon of luxury. The building"s exterior gleamed, reflecting the afternoon sun in a dazzling display that could likely be seen from blocks away.

I took a deep breath before stepping through its doors, the cool air—perfumed with lavender and money—greeted me. The grand atrium stretched before me, bathed in natural light that cascaded from the glass dome above. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, refracting the afternoon sunlight across the polished marble floors. My eyes widened at the sight. It was like stepping into another realm.

I stood there for a moment, taking it all in. Live music floated through the air, a string quartet positioned on a central pavilion playing a melodious piece that added an air of sophistication to the atmosphere. The sound wove through conversations and laughter, creating an almost cinematic backdrop to the scene before me.

As I wandered deeper into the galleria, I felt like Alice having tumbled down a rabbit hole into a wonderland of wealth and opulence. Every store was an alcove of high-end fashion and luxury goods. Mannequins adorned in couture posed elegantly behind pristine windows, their ensembles more art than attire. My fingers itched for my sketchpad as inspiration struck with each new display.

Around me, patrons drifted from shop to shop with ease and grace, their arms laden with bags branded with names I had only ever read in magazines. They moved with an air of entitlement, their laughter light and carefree, a world away from my own worries and wants.

My mind flashed back to the sleek corporate offices of Sterling Enterprises and to Colton and Jaxon Sterling—the embodiment of power and prestige in human form. Here in this galleria they owned, I felt closer to them somehow, as if walking these halls brought me into their orbit once again. It was unsettling but also exhilarating.

I passed by a café with aromas that beckoned me closer, a blend of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked pastries that reminded me of work but promised a more luxurious experience. I paused outside, watching people inside chat over delicate china cups and flaky croissants.

Resisting temptation, I continued on my wayward path until I stumbled upon an outdoor courtyard nestled within the galleria's walls. It was an oasis amidst the opulence, a garden designed for reprieve with benches tucked between manicured hedges and blooming flowers.

Sitting down on one of these benches, I took a deep breath. This place was intoxicating but also overwhelming for someone like me, an omega used to watching pennies and making do rather than indulging whims or chasing desires without consequence.

A young couple caught my eye as they passed by. They were laughing over some shared secret while their shopping bags swayed rhythmically with their steps. They looked so happy, so untouched by any concern other than which boutique to visit next.

Watching them made my chest ache with longing, not for material possessions or status symbols but for that ease of existence where every choice didn"t feel like a gamble against tomorrow"s needs.

I sat there for who knows how long, lost in thought, lost in this sanctuary of wealth, before reality nudged me gently. The art supplies store wouldn"t wait forever, nor would daylight linger until my whims were sated.

With one last glance around at all that surrounded me, the evidence of lives so different from mine, I rose from my seat and ventured back into the heart of Sterling Galleria, determined to find what I came for without getting distracted by what could never be mine.

I navigated through clusters of shoppers and past more storefronts than I could count before finally spotting my destination, an art supply store nestled between a designer shoe boutique and an upscale home decor shop.

My eyes lit up at the rows of sketchpads, drawing pencils, pastels, and paints. This was my oasis amidst the desert of wealth. My fingers brushed over pencils with rich leads and sketchbooks bound in faux leather so soft it almost felt real.

After much deliberation, and an internal pep talk about financial responsibility, I settled on supplies that promised practicality over prestige. I selected a new sketchpad along with some graphite pencils, splurging a little since inspiration seemed to be flowing these days.

Exiting the store with my modest haul cradled against me, curiosity drew me toward the window displays of nearby clothing shops. Mannequins posed in luxury beyond my reach wore dresses that flowed like rivers of silk and satin and intricate beading. In my mind"s eye, I imagined redesigning it with a deeper neckline and less embellishment.

I traced patterns on the glass with an absent finger, redesigning each piece in my mind, nipping waistlines here, flaring skirts there, until they matched visions only seen behind closed eyes.

My phone buzzed against my thigh, a reminder that reality awaited beyond these panes of wishful thinking. But for just a moment longer, I let myself indulge in a world where money was no object and every design could leap from paper to parade without second thought or compromise.

With a smile lingering on my lips, I headed home, satisfied with how I had chosen to spend my rare day off.