2. Aria

2

ARIA

Late morning sunlight barges into my apartment like an uninvited guest, flooding the place with a warmth I definitely didn’t order. I’m sitting at my tiny kitchen table, staring down at an envelope that just arrived. The Scent Synergy logo glares up at me, looking about as friendly as a hungry shark. I already know what’s inside, but it doesn’t stop my hands from shaking like I’m in the middle of an earthquake as I tear it open.

The letter inside is all crisp and formal, carrying the kind of weight that makes my stomach feel like it’s full of lead. My eyes scan the words, each one hitting me like a sucker punch to the gut.

We are pleased to inform you that a compatible match has been identified…

I read the sentence again, my heart pounding so hard I’m pretty sure it’s trying to escape my chest.

How dare they? How dare they reduce my life, my choices, to some clinical match? It’s like they’ve taken my entire existence and boiled it down to a really messed up dating app.

And then I see it—the name that makes my blood run cold.

Pack Clarke.

Memories slam into me harder than a freight train—scents tangled in heat, their eyes dark and knowing, the moment they discovered what I was.

Zane’s intense gaze burned into me, his voice a low growl that could strip paint. “You lied to us, Aria. How can we ever trust you?”

The memory is so vivid, it’s like a 4D movie playing in my head, and I definitely want a refund.

The air thickens around me with phantom presences—Malachi’s cool authority, Zane’s brooding intensity, Quinn’s playful intellect, and Dash’s carefree charm. My scent spikes with distress, orange creamsicle turning sour and burnt like I left it in the oven way too long. I crumple the letter in my fist, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps that claw at my throat.

Without thinking, I grab my phone and dial Scent Synergy, each ring stretching into an eternity. When a cheerful voice finally answers, it only fuels the anger simmering under my skin.

Seriously, who’s that happy working at a place like that?

“Scent Synergy, how may I assist you today?” The voice is so perky, I expect rainbows to start shooting out of my phone.

“This is Aria,” I snap, my voice tight with barely contained fury. “I just received a letter about a match. I want to know how this happened. I never consented to be part of your system. What is this, some kind of twisted science experiment?”

There’s a pause on the other end, then, “I apologize, Ms. Aria, but I’m not authorized to disclose that information over the phone. Our protocols require an in-person consultation for cases of your… unique nature.” She says unique nature like I’m some rare species of butterfly, not a person whose life is being turned upside down.

I pace the small kitchen, digging my fingers into the phone so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. My thoughts swirl like a tornado, a chaotic mix of fear and outrage.

How did they get my information? What gives them the right? Did they raid my medical records? Hack my Facebook? Go through my trash?

The representative’s voice breaks through the noise in my head. “However, I can tell you that your match is quite unusual. In fact, it’s one of the strongest we’ve ever recorded.” She sounds way too excited about this, like she just discovered the cure for cancer, not ruined someone’s life.

“I don’t care how strong it is,” I say, my voice slicing through the air like a freshly sharpened knife. “I want to know how you got my information in the first place. Did you guys pull a Mission Impossible and break into some government facility?”

Another pause. “Ms. Aria, are you aware that you’re currently unregistered? With the new law pending, we are advising all omegas to register at your local courthouse before applying for a scent match, or with verbal permission, we can go ahead and register you now.” She says it like she’s offering me a great deal on car insurance, not trying to sign away my freedom.

I don’t even need to think about my answer. “No.” A cold chill runs down my spine like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on me. “What does that have to do with anything? Are you guys running some kind of omega census I didn’t know about?”

“Well,” the representative says, her tone shifting to something more serious, “given the strength of your match and your unregistered status, there could be legal implications if you choose not to address this.”

Legal implications? My mind races faster than Usain Bolt on Red Bull. “What are you talking about? A week ago, I didn’t even have to register my anything with anyone. What’s next, registering my left nostril?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details over the phone,” she replies, almost sounding apologetic. “If you’d like more information, I’d recommend coming to our office in person.”

I end the call, staring blankly at the wall as the words sink in. Legal implications. Unregistered status. The strongest match they’ve ever recorded. It’s too much, the weight of it pressing down until I can’t breathe.

I glance around my apartment, my supposed safe haven, but it feels like the walls are closing in and I’m in some weird, omega-themed escape room. The scent of my own distress—sour oranges and burnt sugar—fills the room. I smell like a citrus candle someone left too close to a heater.

Before I can second-guess myself, I grab my keys and jacket. I need answers now, and maybe a really stiff drink.

The drive to Scent Synergy in the rental supplied by Willow passes in a blur of honking horns and faceless strangers. I barely register the city pulsing around me. All I can think about is the confrontation waiting on the other side of this mess. The sleek, glass building looms ahead, its modern facade at odds with the turmoil churning inside me. It looks like the kind of place that would have a kale smoothie bar in the lobby.

I pause by the entrance, drawing in a shaky breath. No more running or hiding, no matter how badly my knees want to buckle beneath me. It’s time to channel my inner badass—or at least pretend I have one.

With a surge of false confidence that would make any actor proud, I push through the doors and step into the lobby. It’s cool and sterile, nothing like the chaos spinning in my mind. The air is thick with a cloying artificial scent, no doubt designed to mask the pheromones of countless alphas, betas, and omegas who pass through here. It smells like a combination of a hospital and a Bath & Body Works. The receptionist glances up, her smile faltering as she takes in my expression. Yeah, I bet I look about as friendly as a grizzly bear with a toothache.

“I need to speak to someone about my match,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Now. As in, five minutes ago.”

The receptionist’s smile returns, but it’s strained. I bet she’s wondering if she should call security. “Of course. May I please have your name?”

“Aria,” I say, my jaw clenched tighter than a nun’s… Never mind. “Aria,” I repeat in case she didn’t hear me the first time.

Her fingers fly over the keyboard, and I see the moment she finds my file. Her eyes widen slightly, and she glances up at me with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

Great, now I feel like a circus freak.

“I see. Um, please take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.” She says it like she’s telling me to sit and stay. I half expect her to offer me a treat.

I don’t want to sit, I want answers, but I force myself to perch on the edge of a sleek leather chair, my body coiled with tension. I probably look like I’m about to spring into action at any moment. Maybe I should have brought my superhero cape.

She makes a call, her gaze flicking nervously between me and her computer. I clench my fists, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. The minutes tick by, each one feeling like an eternity. Couples and individuals come and go, some looking hopeful, others dejected. I wonder how many of them truly understand what they are getting into—probably about as many people who understand the terms and conditions they agree to online.

The elevator dings, and a man steps out, dressed in a suit that looks too crisp for comfort. His scent hits me first—beta, with notes of pine and something metallic. He smells like a Christmas tree decorated with robot ornaments. “Ms. Aria?” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Dr. Reeves. I understand you have some questions about your match.”

I ignore his outstretched hand. Sorry, buddy, I’m not here to make friends.

“I have more than questions,” I say, my voice low and biting. “I have demands and possibly a strongly worded letter to follow.”

Dr. Reeves’s smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—concern, curiosity, and something I can’t quite place. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m going to go full She-Hulk on his office.

“Of course,” he replies smoothly. “Why don’t we step into my office and discuss this in private?”

I follow him down a long, gleaming hallway, the sterile white walls pressing in on all sides. My heart pounds against my ribs, every step echoing with a resolve I’m desperate to hold on to.

I won’t let them see how rattled I am. I’m cool. I’m calm. I’m collected. I’m also lying through my teeth.

The office is all sharp angles and glass, the floor to ceiling windows offering a sweeping view of the city below. Dr. Reeves gestures to a pair of plush chairs, but I remain standing, my arms crossed defensively over my chest. I probably look like a bouncer at the world’s most uptight nightclub.

“I’ll stand, thanks. Sitting is overrated anyway.”

He shrugs, settling into his chair with an easy confidence that grates on my nerves. “As you wish. Now, what seems to be the issue with your match, Ms. Aria?”

“The issue,” I say, my voice trembling with barely contained anger, “is that I never consented to be part of your system. I want to know how you got my information and why you think you have the right to dictate my future. Did you guys raid my diary or something?”

Dr. Reeves leans back, steepling his fingers as he considers me. “Look, I get it. You’re freaked out, but we aren’t the bad guys here, okay? We’re just the messengers, delivering what your biology is screaming at us.” He sounds like he’s telling me my horoscope, not turning my life upside down.

“Information I never asked for,” I bite out. “I don’t remember putting out a help wanted ad for my love life.”

He sighs, leaning forward slightly. “Ms. Aria, are you aware of the new Omega Registration Act that’s about to be passed?”

A chill creeps down my spine. “What does that have to do with anything? Is this some new reality show I didn’t sign up for?”

“Everything, I’m afraid.” He picks up a tablet, tapping a few times before turning the screen toward me. “The act will require all omegas to register with the government by the end of the month and undergo mandatory scent matching. Scent Synergy has been tasked with overseeing this process.”

My stomach drops faster than a skydiver without a parachute. “That’s… That’s not legal. It can’t be. What is this, The Handmaid’s Tale: Omega Edition ?”

Dr. Reeves’s expression softens, though his eyes remain hard and unyielding. “It will be very soon. The act is being fast-tracked through legislation as we speak. It’s designed to ‘ensure the safety and well-being of omegas,’ according to the official statement. Your information was part of a preliminary database compiled by the government. We believe it may have been obtained through medical records or employment data. Your match with Pack Clarke was so strong that it triggered an immediate notification, even before the act is officially passed.”

My legs buckle, and I sink into the chair, my mind spinning like a carnival ride. The room suddenly feels too small and warm. My scent spikes with distress, and I see Dr. Reeves’s nostrils flare. I probably smell like a citrus-scented dumpster fire right now.

“This can’t be happening,” I whisper more to myself than to him. “I feel like I’m in a bad dystopian novel.”

“Ms. Aria, you must understand that this match isn’t just rare—it’s statistically improbable. The potential benefits to society are immeasurable,” Dr. Reeves says, his tone turning clinical. “I know this is overwhelming, but matches of this strength are incredibly unusual. It’s quite remarkable, really.”

“Remarkable?” I choke out, anger flaring hot and fast. “My life is being ripped apart, and you think it’s remarkable? I don’t care if this match is rarer than a dodo bird sighting. It’s my life, not some science experiment. What’s next, putting me in a zoo exhibit?”

He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “I apologize. That was insensitive, but you need to understand the gravity of your situation. Once the act passes, refusing to acknowledge a match of this magnitude could have serious repercussions.”

“What kind of repercussions?” My voice barely rises above a whisper, fear settling like a stone in my chest. “Are you going to send the omega police after me?”

“Legal action and possible fines.” He pauses, scrutinizing my reaction. “Even mandatory bonding in extreme cases.”

The room spins, the walls closing in. Mandatory bonding? The words sting like a slap across the face.

“This is insane,” I say, my voice shaking. “You can’t force people to bond. It’s a violation of basic human rights. What’s next, arranged marriages for betas?”

Dr. Reeves sighs, his expression resigned. “I understand your perspective, Ms. Aria, but the government views it differently. They see it as a matter of public health and societal stability.”

I stand abruptly, my movements jerky. I probably look like a malfunctioning robot. “What about Pack Clarke? Do they know? Are they in on this twisted game of matchmaking?”

“Yes,” Dr. Reeves confirms. “Mr. Clarke was notified at the same time you were. Given the strength of the match, we believed it was essential to inform both parties immediately.”

Pack Clarke knows. They know everything. A fresh wave of panic surges through me, and memories of their hands, their scents, flood back in vivid detail.

“I need to leave,” I choke out, my legs already carrying me toward the door. “I can’t… I won’t let you turn my life into some twisted science experiment. I’m not a lab rat.”

Dr. Reeves rises quickly, his expression almost pleading. “Ms. Aria, please. There are ways we can help. Options to make this transition easier?—”

“Easier?” I cut him off, raising my voice. “You think anything about this could be easy? You’re talking about tearing my life apart over some biological compatibility I never asked for.”

His gaze softens, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know this is overwhelming, but please, at least consider meeting with Pack Clarke before making any final decisions.”

“No,” I snap. “I won’t be manipulated into this. I don’t care how rare or precious you think it is. It’s my life, and I decide what happens in it. I’m not some collectible omega Pokémon for you to trade.”

I don’t wait for his response. I turn and storm out, the receptionist’s startled gaze following me as I shove through the doors and into the street. The noise of the city crashes around me, but all I can hear is the pounding of my heart. It’s like a drum solo in my chest.

So much for facing this head-on. It was more like face-planting into a nightmare. I feel like I just stepped into the twilight zone.

As I walk, my mind races. I need to talk to someone to make sense of this mess. Cayenne and Ginger will know what to do, but even as I reach for my phone, a part of me hesitates.

How much do I tell them?

No matter where I go, it seems like I can’t outrun this. The worst part? I’m not sure if I’m running from Pack Clarke or straight back to them. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, fear mixing with something else—something I’m not ready to name. Probably indigestion, or you know, inconvenient attraction to four impossibly hot alphas. Same difference, right?

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. It’s like trying to find zen in the middle of a tornado, but hey, I’m nothing if not an optimist. One step at a time. Call Cayenne and Ginger, figure out the legal implications, and then… then I’ll deal with Pack Clarke. Somehow. Maybe I’ll just send them a strongly worded email or a glitter bomb. That’ll show them.

As I dial Cayenne’s number, my fingers trembling slightly, I make a decision. I won’t be a passive player in this game. If they want to force this match, then they’ll have to catch me first, and I won’t make it easy for them. I’ll be like a ninja—a really clumsy, panicked ninja, but still.

The phone rings, and I can almost hear Cayenne’s voice in my head. “What fresh hell is this?” Oh, if she only knew.

A chilling realization settles in my gut like I swallowed an ice cube. No matter how fast I run, no matter how well I hide, Pack Clarke and I are on a collision course. I’m terrified that when we crash, I might not want to walk away, but I’ll be damned if I don’t go down fighting. Maybe I should start taking boxing lessons or invest in a really good pair of running shoes.

As the phone continues to ring, I steel myself for the conversation ahead. How do you even begin to explain something like this? “Hey, remember those hot alphas I’ve been avoiding? Well, turns out the universe has a sick sense of humor…”

Whatever happens next, one thing’s for sure—my life just got a whole lot more complicated. Here I thought being an omega in hiding was hard enough. Clearly, the universe looked at my life and said, “Hold my beer.”

Cayenne picks up on the third ring, her voice a mix of concern and curiosity. “Aria? What’s up? You sound like you just saw a ghost. Or, you know, a really hot alpha.”

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “Cayenne, you’re not going to believe this. Remember how we joked about my life being a bad romance novel? Well, turns out it’s more like a sci-fi thriller with a side of government conspiracy…”

As I start to explain, I can’t help but think that if my life were a book, it would definitely need a warning label. Caution: Contains unexpected plot twists, government shenanigans, and four irresistible alphas. Read at your own risk.

Well, universe, you wanted to make my life interesting? Mission freaking accomplished.