The Worst Timing Imaginable

[Affirmation logged. Tomorrow: refine launch timeline, review venue contract, schedule first showcase rehearsal.]

"Tomorrow," I echoed, dragging my briefcase off the desk like it weighed one metric ton of missed vacations. The lights in the corridor winked awake as I stepped out. Twenty hours of crisis control had hollowed my skull; my body ran on leftover espresso and spite. All I wanted was a back seat, a blanket, and a chauffeur who understood the sacred vow of no small talk after 10 p.m.

I thumb-dialed the car service. "It's Ryvenhart. Front entrance. Five minutes."

"Yes, Miss," came the blessedly terse reply.

Elevator down, marble lobby, late-shift guards nodding in synchronized terror. Outside, the city breeze slapped the fatigue from my cheeks. Horns honked, neon hissed, and someplace in the distance a street vendor sang about fried dumplings with the conviction of a doomsday preacher.

I exhaled and then felt it: a soft, floral bite at the edge of my senses.Pheromones. Omega-grade, sweet and insistent, like honeysuckle dunked in moonshine.

Oh no.

"Miss Ryvenhart!" A voice sugary, breathy materialized behind me. I turned to find a petite omega striding from the shadow of the columns. Pencil skirt, stilettos, lips glossy enough to blind small mammals. Her scent swirled richer now, artificial and focused, the olfactory equivalent of a neon vacancy sign.

She stopped disturbingly close and tilted her head, letting a curtain of copper hair glide off one bare shoulder. "Late night for an alpha. You must be tense. Maybe… lonely?"

I blinked. "And you are?"

"Ophelia," she purred. "We met at last quarter's launch party. You complimented my perfume."

That narrowed it down to thirty people and zero memories. "Did I, now?"

She stepped closer too close and her pheromone cloud hit like cheap champagne: fizzy, sticky, headache-bound. My scent blocker patch strained; I felt its faint prickling warning like static under skin.

"Look," I began, planting my briefcase between us like an electric fence, "It's late. I'm waiting for my car."

Ophelia's lashes fluttered. "I can keep you company while you wait."

Her hand brushed my lapel. Reflexively, I sidestepped right shoe skidding on polished stone. Elegant. She followed, undeterred, hips swaying in the universal language of 'I want your last name or at least your credit limit.'

"Ophelia," I said, voice sliding into CEO frost, "this isn't happening."

She pouted, dialing the pheromone faucet from 'tease' to 'fog machine.' My blocker patch valiantly tried to neutralize it but couldn't mute biology entirely: my pulse ticked faster; a warm flush crept under the collar.

Time for the hammer.

"I don't fraternize with employees," I said. "Nor strangers who ambush me outside my own building."

Her pout sharpened into a coy smile. "I'm freelance. And ambush is such a harsh word."

"Security!" I called over my shoulder, tone business-casual, as if ordering coffee.

Ophelia's eyes widened a fraction, but she held her ground. Brave. Or oblivious.

A guard hurried from the desk the older one with the father-of-five patience. "Miss Ryvenhart?"

"Please escort Ms…?" I glanced at her.

"Ophelia Vale," she supplied, chin high.

"…Ms Vale to a cab. Make sure she gets home safely." I managed not to add and far away from me.

Ophelia's smile flickered, scent spiking sharper amusement curdling into irritation. "You'll regret refusing me," she murmured, low enough for only my enhanced alpha hearing. "Most alphas beg for half a glance."

"Then consider me minimalist." I stepped back as the guard gestured politely but firmly. Ophelia tossed her hair, scent trailing like frustrated perfume, and sashayed toward the curb where my town car was supposed to be.

Of course the chauffeur wasn't here yet.

The guard hailed a taxi; Ophelia climbed in with theatrical languor, shooting me a final look that promised either vengeance or a LinkedIn connection request. The cab sputtered into traffic. I exhaled, dizzy.

The system's window blinked alive in peripheral vision.

[Alert: Blocker absorption at 86 %. Adrenaline elevated. Host successfully rejected unauthorized pheromone assault. Recommend hydration and replacement patch within thirty minutes.]

"Add 'omegas with weaponized perfume' to tomorrow's threat matrix."

[Logged. Would you like a portable scent-neutralizing field generator? Now available in stylish matte black.]

"Put it on my birthday list." I pressed fingers to my temple. "At least Sera didn't witness "

"Witness what?"

I pivoted. Sera Lin stood half a dozen steps away, hoodie zipped to her chin, earbuds dangling around her neck. Her expression was stone-cold neutrality a stage mask painted I-saw-everything.

Perfect.

"Sera." I forced my spine straight. "Late night?"

"I left my notebook upstairs." Her eyes flicked to the departing cab. "Looked like you had… company."

"Not my choice."

She hummed, unconvinced. "Fans can be persistent."

"That wasn't a fan. That was opportunism dipped in pheromones."

She folded arms, gaze chilly. "No comment."

I bit back frustration. "Believe what you want, but I turned her down."

Her brows climbed. "For now."

The words stung precisely because my past self would have verified her cynicism. "For always," I said, softer than intended. "I'm trying."

Our eyes locked in the wash of streetlights. Cars whooshed past; a stray flyer skittered across pavement. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.

Then my chauffeur a miracle on four wheels pulled along the curb. Sera stepped aside. The driver hurried to open the door, shooting me a puzzled look: why were we having a staring contest with an exhausted omega?

I started to get in—then paused. "Need a ride?" I asked Sera.

She shook her head. "I prefer subways. Less… cologne."

Ouch. I inclined my head and slid inside. The door thunked shut; tinted windows framed her retreating figure as she walked toward the station with shoulders set like armor.

The car eased into traffic. I let my head drop against the seatback.

[Trust decrement: –1.1 %. Relationship status: delayed growth.]

"Because a random pheromone peddler crash-tackled me?"

[Optics matter. Also, omegas witnessing alphas in compromising scent storms tend to assume the worst.]

"I did nothing."

[Correct answer: you haven't done anything yet. Past behavior still echoes.]

I pressed cool fingertips to the blocker patch, then sighed and peeled it off, slapping a fresh one on. The new patch chilled, chemicals leeching pheromone residue from the skin.

Outside, skyscrapers receded, replaced by residential high-rises and shuttered cafés. Fatigue stretched along my bones. Yet Sera's disappointed eyes stuck harder than Ophelia's sweet venom.

I opened the privacy screen to the driver. "Detour. 24-hour pharmacy, please."

"Of course, Miss."

While the car glided, I drafted an internal memo: Security protocol update unauthorized pheromone incidents. I included a training module link, because corporate redemption apparently required PowerPoints as penance.

We pulled to the pharmacy. I purchased a travel pack of blocker patches for staff emergencies, I told myself plus an electrolyte drink shaped like a cartoon koala, because I needed one win.

Back in the car, city lights blurred. I sipped the syrupy drink, grimacing. The system delivered its nightly wisdom:

[Today you held boundaries, signed 59 documents, and survived one coercive flirtation. Statistically, that's admirable.]

"Statistically, my life is a farce."

[Correlation acknowledged. Would you like a joke?]

"Hit me."

[Knock knock.]

I groaned. "Who's there?"

[O-mega.]

"O-mega who?"

[O-mega stop ambushing alphas after midnight.]

A laugh burst out, half-groan, half-genuine. "Terrible. Keep practicing."

The car turned onto the long drive to the mansion. Gates opened; manicured hedges glittered with sprinkler spray. Home lonely but at least scent-free.

Before exiting, I composed a short text to Sera: I apologize for the lobby incident. Security protocol updated. Boundaries remain. I hovered over send then deleted the last sentence, replaced it with: Thank you for waiting to make sure it ended safely.

I hit send. No emoji. The system purred approvingly.

Inside, the foyer lights glowed warm. Staff long gone, silence reigned. I kicked off shoes, but my mind replayed Sera's skeptical face. Could I blame her theory? A leopard shedding spots required more than one memo.

I climbed the stairs slower than usual. Halfway up, my phone vibrated:

Noted. Good night.

Two words. Neutral. But not hostile.

Exhaustion finally won. In bed, I listened to the hush, debating irony: I could negotiate millions with a boardroom of apex predators, yet one omega's guarded gaze tied my thoughts in knots.