6. Aria

6

ARIA

I storm through the revolving doors of Scent Synergy like a tornado in yoga pants. The building is all shiny glass and sleek lines, probably designed by some hipster architect who thinks concrete is passé. It’s about as welcoming as a dentist’s office, but I’m not here for the décor. I’m here to kick ass and take names, and I’m all out of name tags.

Fancy building, same old alpha BS. Time to shake things up. Maybe I’ll start by redecorating their lobby with my righteous anger.

The lobby hits me like a wall of Febreze gone wrong. The air is so thick with scent neutralizers, I half expect to see a hazmat team. My nose burns, and my omega instincts scream louder than a metal band at a library. It’s like they are trying to Lysol away every hint of humanity. I grit my teeth so hard I might need a dentist after this.

Focus, Aria. You’re on a mission.

I march up to the reception desk like I’m storming the Bastille. The receptionist sits there, all prim and proper, with a smile so fake it could be in a toothpaste commercial. Her beta scent is hidden under more layers than a kid lying about eating cookies.

“Welcome to Scent Synergy. How can I?—”

“I’m not here for a tour,” I cut her off, my tone sharp. All my bottled-up frustration is fizzing like a shaken soda can. “I need to speak with Dr. Reeves. Now. As in five minutes ago.”

Her smile wobbles like a Jenga tower, but she recovers swiftly, and her fingers dance across the keyboard like she’s auditioning for Riverdance. “Do you have an appointment, Miss…”

“Aria,” I snap, glaring at her because we just did this a couple days ago. My scent spikes with enough aggression to make a bouncer nervous. “And no, I don’t, but I’m not leaving until I get some answers. So unless you want me to start a one-woman protest in your lobby, I suggest you get him down here.”

She hesitates, her fingers frozen mid-air. “Dr. Reeves is very busy, and without an appointment?—”

“Get. Him.” I lean in closer, channeling my inner drill sergeant. My omega pheromones flood the air between us like I cracked open a can of don’t mess with me spray. It’s a power move I never thought I’d use, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “Or I’ll make a scene that’ll have TMZ camping outside for a week.”

Her eyes go wider than a kid’s on Christmas morning, and she snatches up the phone like it’s a lifeline. A tense moment later, Dr. Reeves appears, looking about as thrilled as a cat in a bathtub. His beta scent hits me, crisp and neutral, like freshly laundered sheets. I steel myself, refusing to be intimidated. I didn’t come this far to be cowed by eau de professional indifference.

“Ms. Aria,” he says, his tone clipped enough to trim hedges. “This is unexpected. What seems to be the issue?”

“The issue? The issue—” I start, ready to unleash a tirade that would make a sailor blush.

“Not here.” He cuts me off, glancing around like he’s afraid I might start a riot. A few people are already rubbernecking harder than drivers passing a fender bender. “Follow me, please.”

I follow him into a small conference room that’s about as inviting as a prison cell. The door is barely shut before I let loose, my fury hotter than a habanero pepper. The room is a sensory black hole, which only adds fuel to my rage fire. “The issue is that I’m in your system without my consent, and I want to know how that happened. It’s illegal, and you damn well know it, or did you skip that day in Alpha Ethics 101?”

Dr. Reeves sighs like he’s explaining quantum physics to a toddler. His scent remains steadfastly neutral, like he’s trying to out bland a piece of tofu. “Ms. Aria, I appreciate your… passion, but let me be clear. Our systems are infallible. Your concerns, while understandable, don’t change the facts. We discussed this during your last visit. I reviewed your file, and everything is in order. You submitted your sample?—”

“No, I didn’t!” I shout, my voice bouncing off the walls. My scent fills the room, a cocktail of fury and fear strong enough to knock out a rhino. “I never agreed to any of this, and I never sent you a damn thing, so how did my genetic information end up in your database? Did the DNA fairy pay you a visit?”

For a moment, I’m back in Cayenne’s spare room, hiding like a mouse from a particularly persistent cat named Noah. The memory of that fear hits me like a freight train. There’s no way I would have risked exposure by submitting my info to any database, let alone one for mate matching. I’d rather lick a cactus.

Dr. Reeves pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to ward off a migraine. His beta pheromones remain frustratingly steady, probably an attempt to project calm in the face of my omega storm. It only makes me angrier. I half expect steam to start coming out of my ears. “Ms. Aria, our system is secure. Your sample was logged with your name and a consent form attached. Perhaps you forgot or?—”

“Don’t gaslight me,” I snap, frustration bubbling over like an unattended pot. I can practically taste the tension in the air, bitter and acrid like burnt coffee. “I know exactly what I did and didn’t do, and I never signed up for this, so someone either forged my consent or lied, and I want to know who. Did you hire a master forger, or is identity theft just a fun little side hobby for you guys?”

He leans back, crossing his arms like he’s settling in for a long, boring movie. The room feels smaller than a phone booth, charged with enough pheromones to power a small city. “Look, I understand your concern, but I assure you, there’s been no error on our end. You’re in our system because you submitted a sample. That’s the simple truth. Sometimes we forget things?—”

I stare at him, disbelief coursing through me like an electric current. My hands shake, and I clench them into fists. “You’re seriously suggesting I just forgot about signing my life away to your company? What, did I sleepwalk my way through a DNA test?”

Dr. Reeves offers me a smile so tight it could squeeze coal into diamonds. His scent is now as carefully controlled as a robot’s poker face. “Ms. Aria, your emotional response, while understandable, doesn’t change the empirical data. The match exists, regardless of your recollection. Memory can be unreliable, especially when?—”

“Unreliable?” I echo, a laugh escaping me that’s about as humorous as a funeral. “This isn’t about memory. This is about my life and my choices, and someone else is pulling the strings. You think you can play God with people’s lives? Well, newsflash, this omega has teeth, and I’m not afraid to use them. I’ll go full Jaws on your corporate behind if I have to.”

Am I losing it? Yep. I sure as fuck am.

He shrugs, looking about as concerned as a cat watching a dog show. The casualness of his gesture makes me want to scream louder than a banshee with a megaphone. “I understand your frustration, but there’s nothing more I can do. The records are clear, and the match is legitimate. If you want to challenge this, you’ll need to pursue it legally.”

I clench my fists so hard I might need a manicure after this. My entire body is vibrating like a cell phone on silent. My scent spikes again, filling the room with distress sharp enough to cut glass. “I want copies of everything—every document and every record that supposedly ties me to this match. I’m not letting this slide. I’ll go through every piece of paper with a magnifying glass if I have to.”

Dr. Reeves sighs like he’s dealing with a particularly stubborn child. “Fine. I’ll have my assistant prepare the lengthier documents for you. But, Ms. Aria, this isn’t going to change anything. You’re matched, and that bond is binding.”

“Watch me change it,” I growl, my omega pheromones spiking with enough challenge to make a UFC fighter nervous. I snatch the folder from his hand, my nails accidentally on purpose scraping his skin. His beta scent flares in response, but I’m already turning away, radiating enough victory and defiance to light up Vegas. My mind races as I flip through the papers, scanning each one like I’m searching for the meaning of life. The scent of ink and paper mingles with my own agitated pheromones. Someone set this up, and I’m not going to let them get away with it.

It’s time to show these alphas what happens when you back an omega into a corner. Spoiler alert—it’s not pretty.

Stepping back onto the bustling sidewalk feels like emerging from an alternate dimension. The city’s noise crashes over me like a wave of beautiful, chaotic normalcy. The mix of scents of car exhaust, street food, and countless strangers is a welcome assault after the sterile hell I just left. I grip the folder so tightly I might leave permanent indentations in my palms. Whoever did this picked the wrong omega to mess with. I’m like a chihuahua with the heart of a lion and the stubbornness of a mule.

With shaking hands, I pull out my phone and dial Willow’s number. I need her steady voice and practical mind more than I need my next breath. I need someone in my corner who can help me fight back, preferably with a battle axe and a law degree.

“Willow,” I say the moment she picks up, my voice tinged with determination and barely contained rage, “I’m about to go full omega warrior princess on Scent Synergy. You in? I’m thinking war paint and maybe some dramatic background music.”

Willow’s response is immediate, her tone shifting from calm to battle ready faster than a quick-change artist. “Alright, spill it. I have my battle armor on, and I’m ready to raise hell. Do you need me to bring the cavalry or just heavy artillery?”

Her words are like a life preserver thrown to a drowning woman, pulling me back from the brink of hopelessness and helping me breathe easier than I have in days. I clutch the phone so hard I might leave an imprint. I’m not alone in this fight, and I’m damn well not going down without one. I’m like Rocky, if Rocky were a pissed off omega with a grudge against corporate alphas.

My voice nearly breaks when I reiterate, “I didn’t put my information into this system.” I wouldn’t, not with everything I went through in the last year. I didn’t do it. I’d sooner volunteer for a root canal without anesthesia.

Regardless of how I feel about the guys, this isn’t right.

“Time to put on our detective hats, Aria,” Willow says, her voice filled with enough determination to move mountains. “We’re going to crack this case wide open. I have some contacts in omega rights law who might be able to help us challenge these documents. They are like the Avengers, but with law degrees instead of superpowers. It may take a week, but I’ll secure you a lawyer.”

I take a deep breath, letting her words sink in like a warm bath after a long day. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly, like someone hit the release valve on my stress balloon.

“You’re a lifesaver, Willow,” I murmur, my grip tightening on the folder. “Now let’s go make some corporate alphas sweat. I’m thinking panic attacks and maybe a few nervous breakdowns.”

With that, I steel myself for the battle ahead, suiting up for war. Whatever comes next, I’ll be ready, because this time, I’m not just fighting for myself, but I’m also fighting to reclaim the life that’s rightfully mine. I’m David against Goliath, if David were armed with righteous fury and a folder full of suspicious documents.

As I head home, my mind races. Who could have submitted my information? How can we prove the documents are forged? What will Pack Clarke do when they find out I’m challenging the match? Will they swoop in like knights in shining armor, or will they be more like those inflatable tube men outside car dealerships, all flailing arms and hot air?

The thought of Pack Clarke sends a shiver down my spine. Their scents flash through my memory like a highlight reel, and for a moment, I allow myself to wonder how they are reacting to all this. Are they waiting for me to come to them, or are they planning to make their move? Do they even know about my visit to Scent Synergy? Are they sitting around a table, plotting like supervillains? A part of me wonders if they are as confused and frustrated by this situation as I am. Maybe they are sitting around eating ice cream and watching rom-coms, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

Okay, probably not, but a girl can dream.

I shake off the thoughts, forcing myself to focus. I can’t afford distractions, especially not now. I need to be ready for whatever comes next. Pack Clarke might be a complication, but they are not my priority right now. Reclaiming my autonomy is. I’m like a one-woman army, and my mission is clear—take no prisoners and take back my life.

As I unlock my apartment door, the familiar scents of home wash over me like a comforting hug. It eases the knot of anxiety in my chest, which has been wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. I set the folder down on my kitchen table, the stack of documents feeling like a physical representation of the battle ahead. For the first time in days, I feel a glimmer of hope. I might be an omega in a world that wants to control me, but I’m not going down without a fight.

Sinking into my nest, surrounded by the comforting softness of blankets and the faint scent of lavender, I let myself relax. It’s like being wrapped in a hug made of clouds and good vibes. I close my eyes, trying to let go of the day’s stress, but one thought lingers, stubborn as a piece of gum stuck to a shoe/

What if uncovering the truth about Scent Synergy means losing the connection I’ve started to feel with Pack Clarke? That possibility terrifies me almost as much as being bound against my will. It’s like my heart and my head are in a boxing match, and I’m not sure which one I want to win.

As I drift off, I make a silent promise to myself. I will find out who did this. I will reclaim my life, my choices, and my future. If Pack Clarke truly wants to be a part of that, then they’ll have to meet me on my terms. No red carpets, no fanfare, just good, old-fashioned groveling and maybe some skywriting.

Let them try to bind me. I’ll show them just how strong an omega can be. I’m not just a force to be reckoned with—I’m a full-on natural disaster in yoga pants and a messy bun. Bring it on, universe. This omega’s ready for war.

After my nap of course.