2

An hour earlier, I had walked into a private room above a crowded campus bar with my second-presentation results folded in my pocket.

I had been excited.

Mason Reed and I had only dated for a week, but he had told me he liked me even as a beta. I wanted to surprise him with the news that I had presented as an omega.

Instead, I found him kissing someone else.

Mason had a beautiful omega pinned against his side while their friends counted down the seconds and cheered. Music shook the walls. Glasses flashed under the neon lights.

I backed into a bottle. It hit the floor and rolled.

The room fell quiet.

Mason looked at me. Guilt crossed his face, then disappeared beneath a careless smile. He kept his arm around the other omega.

“Jamie. Since you’re here, let’s not drag this out. We’re done.”

I stood frozen with my test results crushed in one hand.

“I thought I could date a beta,” he continued. “Turns out I can’t. You don’t have a scent. Holding you is like hugging a roll of paper towels—soft, bland, and pointless.”

A few people laughed.

Someone muttered that Mason should stop, but he only grinned.

“After me, he’ll have to settle for another beta. At least he can brag that one alpha wanted him.”

Every face in the room turned toward me. Some looked amused. Some looked sorry for me. Both were unbearable.

I had come to tell him that I was an omega now.

For one foolish hour, I had thought the news would make us even more compatible. I believed love should matter more than presentation, but I had still wanted to know his scent and share that new part of myself with him.

Instead, the man who had promised that my designation did not matter used it to humiliate me.

I dropped the crushed test results at his feet.

“Keep the omega,” I said. “I’m keeping my self-respect.”

Then I walked out before anyone saw me cry.