There are mornings when you wake up and think: Maybe I'll have a normal day. You know maybe the coffee won't taste like burnt defeat. Maybe the landlord will finally fix the leaky tap. Maybe you won't run into your corporate nemesis in the elevator at midnight and fantasize about smashing her face into the emergency button.
Not today.
Today started with a headache. Not from heat thank the gods for pheromone patches but from existential dread and low-brow corporate oppression. When you're an unbonded omega in entertainment, that's just called Tuesday.
The news was waiting for me at the lobby security desk. Not breaking news, not even gossip. An official memo, stamped and signed: You have been reassigned to Office 19B on the executive floor. Please collect your belongings from the rehearsal sub-basement by 9:30 a.m.
It felt like a threat. Or a trap. Maybe a trap disguised as a threat. Either way, omegas don't get office windows. Everyone knows that. The last time I had natural light at work, it was because the window in the basement rehearsal space was shattered, and raccoons kept stealing my lunch.
Office 19B. Executive floor.Who did I have to kill for that?
The elevator ride was a lesson in posture: head high, eyes forward, hands loose. Don't look prey-like, Sera. You survived middle school. You can survive a sea of alphas in silk and betas in navy blue. The glass doors of the executive floor hissed open and the lobby hit me with its signature scent—citrus, expensive wood, and something cold, almost metallic. The aroma of money and anxiety.
And fear.
Every time someone clocked me, their gaze darted away. Betas hustled with their tablets like extras in a heist film. A pair of omegas in matching blazers glanced up, took in my badge, and offered the kind of smile that said, Good luck, rookie. Or, You're walking into the lion's den.
My new office had a door that actually closed. A window that faced east. A potted plant. It was… nice. Too nice. It was the kind of nice you find in the second act of a horror movie, right before the mirror starts leaking blood. I checked for secret cameras, voodoo runes, and the ghost of my self-esteem. All clear.
The furniture was modern. The desk walnut, smooth, barely scratched. A slim monitor. A stack of neat folders with my name written on them in confident, masculine handwriting.
Sera Lin,Music Division.
I ran my fingers over the top sheet, half-expecting it to explode. Maybe this was how they got rid of troublemakers: a false promotion, a deadly potted fern, and a discreet call to HR.
A gentle knock at the door startled me. I nearly inhaled a pencil.
"Miss Lin?" It was a beta admin, probably not paid enough to breathe the same air as alphas. "Your things from the rehearsal basement. Shall I…?"
I nodded, moving aside. "Just there. Thank you."
He set the battered box of my stuff beside the desk, smiled nervously, and left as quickly as possible. The silence afterward felt loaded, like the first breath before a storm.
The worst part? I didn't know what I was supposed to do. No explanation, no new contract, just… an office. The plant was probably poisoned.
I booted up the terminal and tried not to spiral. Maybe I'd been reassigned as some new kind of intimidation tactic. "See what you could have, if you were a good omega?" The corporate carrot, dangled in front of a donkey they planned to turn into glue.
A sharp rap on the glass startled me again. This time, it was one of the other omegas from the floor, younger, pretty, nervous. She looked left and right, then hissed, "Is it true? She gave you a real office?"
I nodded. "I think so."
She whistled under her breath. "Last week she fired someone for wearing the wrong tie."
"Maybe she's working her way up to murder," I muttered.
She giggled, hands fluttering. "Well… congrats, I guess? If you survive, let me know what the view's like."
"Yeah, if the plant doesn't kill me first."
She left. I opened the top folder: performance schedules, marketing budgets, a short note Propose new single by end of week. See attached projections. A.R.
Alessia Ryvenhart's initials. As sharp and smug as the woman herself. My hackles went up.
For the record, I don't enjoy hating people. It takes energy. But she made it easy. The way she strutted. The way she looked through you, not at you. The way she weaponized her alpha status, like a wolf baring its fangs at a particularly annoying squirrel.
But last night, she'd looked almost… human. Disheveled. Annoyed. Not calculating. It set my teeth on edge. This was her new move. Make me drop my guard, then pounce.
Well, I wasn't falling for it.
I spent the next hour building a fake routine. Open spreadsheets. Close them. Pretend to email. Text my best friend, who responded:If she kills you, can I have your speakers?
At 10:45 sharp, a beta with an actual clipboard peeked in.
"Miss Lin? Miss Ryvenhart wants to see your latest work. She asked for your full portfolio and a report on your next project."
I felt my hackles rise. "She did?"
He nodded. "She wants it by this afternoon. In person."
Of course she did.
This is it, Sera. This is how it ends. You climb the corporate mountain only to get pushed off by a bored alpha with a grudge.
I found my best demo tracks. I printed a report. My hands were steady, but my scent wasn't. My pheromone patch had started to itch. Great. Now I smelled like fear with top notes of lemon and resentment.
As I walked toward the executive suite, every head turned. Some curious, most pitying. One or two probably newer hires looked almost jealous.
I almost laughed.Just wait, kids. Omegas don't get office windows. Not for long.
The doors to her office were impossibly tall, built for intimidation and drama. I knocked, once. The voice from inside was low, controlled, slightly bored.
"Come in."
I entered. She didn't even look up. Her attention was all on a screen, eyes flicking over numbers and words with lethal precision. She wore a charcoal suit, cut perfectly for her body, all angles and shadows. Masculine. Cool. The villain in every fairytale, if the villain also had an eye for minimalist interior design.
I stood there until she finally glanced up.
"Miss Lin." Her voice was softer than I remembered. Or maybe I was just tired. "Sit. Let's see what you've got."
I placed my report in front of her, careful not to touch anything else on the desk.
She flipped through it, page after page. No reaction. Poker face, level 9000.
When she finally looked up, I braced myself for an insult. Instead, she just said, "This is good. Solid work."
No smirk. No threat. Just those grey eyes, unreadable and cold.
"I'd like you to propose your new single to the board next week. You'll have my backing."
That… was not what I expected. At all.
I stared at her, searching for the trap. Was she being sarcastic? Was this a trick? Did the plant have a microphone?
She arched an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"
"No," I said. "Just… not what I'm used to."
"Get used to it," she replied, and turned back to her screen.
Dismissed.
I left, head spinning, portfolio pressed to my chest. Outside her office, the air felt lighter, somehow. I'd survived. Maybe even won a little.
I went back to my windowed office and watered the plant, just in case.