Lila awoke the next morning feeling less like Adrian's prized asset and more like an over-caffeinated chipmunk clawing its way out of a silk sock. Her body was a roadmap of bruises from the trek and the undignified fall from the bed.
But there was a new, unfamiliar discomfort, a low, dull throb deep in her abdomen.
Oh, great, Lila thought, rolling onto her side. Did that Alpha whiskey Adrian gave me at the ball have questionable ingredients? Or maybe that terrifyingly sweet Beta pastry I stress-ate?
She rubbed her stomach, dismissing the ache as simple indigestion. She had bigger problems than a dodgy pastry. She had Elara to save and a mountain of logistical chaos to conquer.
Lila donned a severely tailored, dark gray suit—a stark contrast to the flowing silks of her peers. She needed to project pure, icy authority.
The Beta Supply Unit was located in the basement of the Omega Dormitory, a vast, echoing labyrinth of storage shelves and mismatched crates. When Lila walked in, the scene was exactly as Adrian had described: inefficient, frantic terror.
About thirty Betas—the logistical support backbone of the Omegas—were milling about, clutching clipboards and whispering nervously. They were terrified of Adrian's wrath and their potential reassignment to breeding stock, and their fear had rendered them useless.
Lila spotted Elara Hawthorne instantly. The poor girl was leaning against a stack of uncounted rations, her eyes darting nervously toward every shadow.
Lila clapped her hands sharply, the sound echoing loudly in the cavernous space.
"Attention!" Lila's voice, amplified by years of internal shouting at bad book plots, rang out with the crisp authority of a corporate tyrant.
Thirty pairs of Beta eyes immediately snapped to her.
Lila planted her hands on her hips, striking a pose she recognized from a CEO in a self-help book. "I am Assistant Blackwood, designated head of this unit. As of this moment, all misplaced anxiety ends. You are not frightened workers, you are the Engine of the True Blood's Victory."
She caught Elara's eye. Elara looked stunned, but a tiny flicker of hope returned to her expression.
"Alpha Wolfhart requires perfection for the Southern Peaks Trial," Lila continued, lying through her teeth about Adrian's goals. "Perfection is achieved through lists, delegation, and silence."
For the next two hours, Lila was in her element. This wasn't about navigating magic or politics; it was about management. She divided the Betas into teams: Inventory, Rations, Equipment, and Communications. She applied every principle she had ever read in a workplace productivity article.
"Inventory Team, you are using the FIFO method—First In, First Out! Stop counting the flour that expired two weeks ago!" she yelled at a small group of flustered Betas.
"Rations Team, your packaging is inefficient! We are not wrapping luxury gifts! We are packing for survival! Efficiency, people!"
She worked her way over to Elara, who was currently wrestling with a tangled pile of heavy-duty rope.
"Elara," Lila said, dropping her voice. "Are you alright?"
Elara nodded quickly. "I am, Assistant. Thank you. They were just... they were so scared about the punishment."
"I know," Lila murmured. "Just focus on the task. Adrian can't punish a perfectly functioning machine. We are going to be that machine." She looked at the ropes. "These are for the mountain climb. We need to measure, cut, and tag them precisely. Get me a meter stick and a cutting table—now."
Lila felt a fierce, unexpected satisfaction. She was good at this! Her mundane skills were actually saving lives in this terrifying world!
The mid-day progress was undeniable. The Betas, relieved to have clear direction and a shield from the True Blood's wrath, were working with focus. Lila was reviewing the final inventory report when a wave of discomfort hit her—but this time, it wasn't a dull throb. It was a sharp, coiling spasm that made her teeth clench.
Oof. Okay, definitely not the pastry. She swallowed a sharp gasp of pain.
She quickly dismissed the Rations Team, telling them to break for lunch, trying to maintain her authoritative composure. The second the door closed behind them, Lila dropped her clipboard onto the nearest crate.
She doubled over, pressing her palms against her lower abdomen. The pain was radiating outward, suddenly making her feel weak and light-headed.
What is this? This is not a regular stomach ache. This is... deep.
She straightened up slightly, trying to remember her medical knowledge from the modern world. The location, the sharp, coiling nature... the rising intensity.
A cold dread washed over her, replacing the heat of the pain. She suddenly remembered a line from the original novel, something the heroine Rose had mentioned during a vulnerable moment: Omegas experienced menstrual cycles, but in this high-magic, high-pheromone world, the cycles were hyper-intense. They were tied to the waxing and waning of the moon and often accompanied by debilitating symptoms far worse than those of modern humans.
No. No, no, no. I'm too stressed, too toxic, too politically exposed! I don't have time for a full-body hormonal meltdown!
Lila looked down at the floor, where the faint, discarded scent of the Beta Neutralizer still lingered. She was completely exposed, without the neutralizer, without Elara (who had gone to the mess hall), and with this terrifying, internal clock about to strike zero.
Another sharp, almost paralyzing cramp seized her. Lila gasped, leaning heavily against the crate, her carefully constructed persona shattering.
She had to get back to Adrian's suite. Now. Before the pain progressed further, and before anyone—especially Adrian—witnessed this unexpected, humiliating weakness. She had successfully managed the Beta logistical crisis, but her body was staging an even bigger, more brutal crisis of its own.
Lila stumbled toward the service lift, clutching her stomach and bracing for the agonizing journey back to the third floor, knowing that the worst pain was yet to come. Her political problems were about to collide with her biology.