I should've taken the stairs.
It's the only thought hammering in my head as the elevator doors seal shut and I find myself trapped again with that alpha demon in a designer suit.
Alessia Ryvenhart.
Corporate parasite. Walking red flag. Possibly Satan in heels. If narcissism had a face, it would be that one perfect cheekbones, surgically sharpened jawline, eyes colder than a tax audit. And the nerve the absolute gall to speak to me like we were casual coworkers passing in the hallway and not sworn enemies in a karmic war orchestrated by the gods of workplace harassment.
"Midnight rehearsals?" she said.
Midnight rehearsals.
Like we were two normal people, like she hadn't tried to corner me six months ago in this very elevator and purr something about my "omega scent being distracting."
I should've reported her. I almost did. But you learn quickly in the industry especially as an unbonded omega from a no-name family that powerful alphas don't fall, not unless it's profitable. So I kept my head down, kept my distance, and kept my steel-toed boots ready in case she ever tried that stunt again.
Tonight, though… something was off.
She didn't leer. She didn't smirk. She didn't lean in like she was about to whisper a compliment she'd pretend was harmless. No tonight, she looked… sick. Pale. Worn. Like someone had unplugged her ego for twenty-four hours.
And then she said it.
"I'm not going to bite."
I almost laughed. Almost. But biting would've implied passion. Alessia didn't bite. She consumed. Broke people down into pieces small enough to fire. She was the reason half the omegas on the third floor walked around with permanent tension knots and avoided eye contact in the elevator.
So when she said, "I deserved that" after I snapped at her, I didn't know what to do.
That was new.
And I don't like new.
New means unpredictable. New means uncalculated strategy. A different brand of manipulation. The soft-sell before the trap.
She's playing a long game again. That's what I told myself. Classic predator tactics: appear weak, gain sympathy, and then pounce when your guard's down. Maybe she figured I'd softened. That after a few months of silence, I'd fall into her lap like every other foolish omega with a dream and a need to be seen.
I almost punched the elevator wall when she walked out without another word.
No wink. No comment. No smug toss of her stupid hair.
Just silence.
And somehow, that pissed me off more.
I stormed into the parking garage and dug my keys from the abyss of my bag with enough force to stab myself on a pen. Great. Now I was bleeding and angry and bleeding angrily.
I got into my rust-bucket of a hatchback affectionately nicknamed Gremlin and slammed the door. The handle stuck. I slammed it again.
Still stuck.
"Stupid car," I muttered, then kicked the inside until it clicked shut.
Gremlin purred to life in the way that made it sound like it had tuberculosis. I took a breath. Then another. Music might've helped, but all I had were scratchy demo tracks and that one playlist that started with Chopin and somehow ended with lesbian techno remixes of sea shanties.
I drove in silence instead.
My fingers tapped the steering wheel. My jaw ached from how tightly I was clenching it. My glands prickled under the surface my scent trying to leak out in little bursts of citrus and ozone, warning signals no one would hear.
I was so tired of being angry.
Of being watched.
I'd joined Ryvenhart Entertainment because it was a step up. A real shot. A company that promised creative freedom and a massive production budget. Instead, I found myself in a corporate jungle ruled by one predator in six-inch heels.
And the thing that terrified me the most? I wasn't even surprised.
Alphas like Alessia were everywhere. Gifted power at birth, taught the world would open for them, and handed a list of names to conquer like some sick rite of passage. But she was worse. She didn't just take—she wanted you to know she could.
Her eyes always lingered half a second too long. Her compliments never left room to breathe. And once, when I refused a "private mentoring session," I got reassigned to the basement rehearsal room next to the water pipes that clanged like war drums every four minutes.
That's who she was.
Until tonight.
Until that awkward, strained little moment where she looked more lost than smug. Where her voice cracked, and she stumbled over a basic sentence like she hadn't already rehearsed it in front of a mirror twenty times.
No. I refused to fall for it. I wasn't going to be another notch in her Armani belt.
I arrived at my apartment just before 1 a.m., parked on the street between someone's illegally-parked motorcycle and a bag of uncollected recycling, and trudged up the stairs to the fourth floor.
No elevator here. Just creaky wood, peeling paint, and the quiet comfort of anonymity.
Inside, my place smelled like lavender and burnt rice. The kitchen light flickered. My cat, Zucchini, hissed when I opened the door too loudly.
"I'm fine," I told him.
He blinked like he didn't believe me.
Neither did I.
I flopped onto the futon because who needs a bed frame when you have debt and anxiety? and stared at the ceiling fan spinning with a gentle buzz overhead. I didn't turn on the AC. The scent blockers around my neck had started to loosen, and I didn't want my glands going wild in the artificial cold.
I pulled one off. Just a little. Enough to breathe.
The world felt clearer like that. Sharper. Like I was peeling off a mask no one else could see.
If she's playing a game, I thought, I'll win it. I'll burn her to the ground if I have to.
Let her try to seduce me again.
Let her pretend to change.
Because even if she acts soft and stammers out apologies, I remember who she is.
I remember the boardroom smirks. The insults dressed as jokes. The leering glances. The two-faced compliments. The lies.
And I refuse to be the next tragic chapter in Alessia Ryvenhart's redemption arc.