Work ended early a rare victory. Maybe the universe was apologizing for yesterday, or maybe it was just lulling me into a false sense of security before the next disaster. Either way, by six, I'd bulldozed my to-do list, reorganized three division schedules, and cleared every toxic "friend" from my contact list.
I wanted something normal for once. Not penthouse catering, not a private chef who knew too much about my taste in rare steaks. Just food I hadn't seen on a tasting menu, at a place where no one bowed or offered to "pair my meal with exclusive imported pheromones."
So I picked a restaurant. An actual restaurant. Brick walls, slightly too-bright lighting, chairs that creak, paper menus and an oil stain or two. The kind of place where you order what you want, and nobody tries to upsell you truffle oil.
Of course, normal doesn't last long in my life.
Because the moment I stepped inside tailored suit, perfect shoes, air of mild regret I locked eyes with the heroine of the novel and her best friend.
Sera Lin, in a black hoodie and ripped jeans, leaning over a plate of noodles. Next to her, a petite omega with lavender hair and murder in her eyes. The look they shot me could have curdled the milk in my coffee. Sera's glare said, I hope you choke on your soup. The friend's glare said, If I had a fork, it'd be in your thigh.
I pretended not to notice. I was an expert in the art of feigned indifference. I could've won Olympic gold in ignoring the consequences of my predecessor's actions. I picked a table in the corner, away from their line of fire, and ordered a bowl of spicy ramen and a soda. Ramen was safe. Ramen didn't judge.
Or so I thought.
My entrance had set off a ripple through the restaurant. People started whispering. Some stared. The manager rushed to smooth his apron. An omega at the bar offered me a smile with too many teeth. A beta at a corner table gave me a look that suggested he'd like to submit a résumé and a marriage proposal, in that order.
It didn't help that my "reputation" courtesy of the old Alessia was less "business shark" and more "playboy wolf in a Tom Ford suit." The omegas in the place glanced over with curiosity, flirtation, or open challenge. A few bold ones winked. One slid a napkin with her number toward me, then followed it with a perfumed glance that could've stunned an elephant.
I tried not to visibly cringe.
I just wanted carbs, not an audition for The Bachelor: CEO Edition.
I buried my face in the menu, but the system chirped in my head:
[Host, you are receiving considerable attention. Recommendation: Maintain a low profile. Avoid unnecessary entanglements.]
"Noted," I muttered, stabbing my chopsticks into the ramen as if it had personally offended me.
I glanced up, just in time to see Sera's friend sugar-sweet face, attitude of a biker gang flashing me a casual middle finger behind Sera's back. Charming. She dropped it instantly when Sera turned to speak to her, adopting an innocent look that didn't fool anyone, least of all me.
My phone buzzed. For one wild second, I hoped it was my assistant reminding me of a meeting. No such luck.
Instead, the door burst open. A small crowd spilled in: men and women with expensive shoes, loud voices, and expressions that screamed, We're here to be seen. At the center—my old crowd. Micky, Elise, Leandro. Dragging along with them a parade of omega and beta party animals, most dressed for an event that probably involved more body shots than conversation.
They zeroed in on my table. Micky grinned like a piranha, throwing an arm over my shoulder before I could dodge. I nearly dropped my chopsticks.
"Allie, babe! We knew we'd find you here. What's with the ramen shop? Slumming it?" Micky's voice carried. Too many eyes turned our way. The scent of cloying pheromones followed, courtesy of their omega entourage expensive perfume trying to mask desperation.
"Get off," I said, not loudly but with the kind of tone that made three nearby tables look away.
He didn't. Instead, Elise slid into the seat opposite, waving to the waiter. "We're going out, Ryvenhart. There's a new club opening. The kind you like. Private rooms, bottle service, no journalists." She eyed the other patrons. "You can even bring your fans."
Fans. I looked up half the omegas in the restaurant were watching with a mix of hunger and calculation.
"No," I said. "I'm eating. Go without me."
Leandro smirked, leaning on the table. "You? Skipping a party? Did hell freeze over?"
"Seriously, Alessia, we brought friends." Elise gestured to their cluster, who all looked like they'd walked out of a music video about bad decisions. "You can pick. Or pick two."
The shame was sudden, hot, and physical. I felt it in my hands, my face, my spine. For a moment, I could see myself as everyone else saw me a wolf surrounded by sheep, greedy, arrogant, dangerous.
My ramen went cold.
I stood. The whole group tensed predators and scavengers both. My old self would have laughed, flirted, thrown money at the problem.
Not today.
"Outside," I said to my "friends." "Now."
They looked confused, then annoyed, but followed me out. I left money on the table—too much, a nervous tip for the trouble and walked into the cold city air, away from the hungry eyes and the scent of trouble.
On the sidewalk, I faced them. "We're done."
Micky blinked. "What?"
"I said, we're done. No more clubs. No more parties on my tab. No more hangers-on."
Elise bristled. "Alessia, what the hell—"
"You want a sponsor? Find another. I'm finished."
Silence. For the first time, none of them seemed to know what to do. The omega party girls hovered behind Elise, unsure whether to pout or bolt.
"I mean it," I said, softer, but with all the steel my new body could muster. "Don't call me again. Not for money. Not for company. Not for anything."
I left them there—stunned, angry, unable to process the idea that Alessia Ryvenhart had finally locked her own cage.
************
I watched the show through the front window, noodle halfway to my mouth, best friend halfway to jumping through the glass to start a fight.
The whole place had watched Alessia Ryvenhart's crowd descend like sharks smelling blood and free credit. The scene outside looked like a breakup on the set of a reality show. For a moment, the great playboy CEO looked… lost. Uncomfortable in her own skin.
I didn't buy it.
People like her didn't change overnight. If she was dumping her friends, it was a move. A strategy. She'd try something new maybe go for public sympathy next, or start collecting new "pets" from a different circle. Either way, it wouldn't touch her.
My friend nudged me. "I swear, Sera, if she comes over here, I'm tripping her."
I smirked. "Get in line."