Chapter 2 The Last Place I Want to Be

*Lyra's POV*

By the time Lyra elbowed her way off the packed subway, her coat was clinging to her skin, and someone's shoulder bag had left a permanent crease across her side. The air inside the train had been a soup of breath, cologne, and stale tension-not unusual, but tonight her head throbbed from the effort of not breathing too deeply.

She pushed through the turnstiles, climbed the stairs, and blinked against the harsh streetlights. Trash skittered across the sidewalk, and somewhere nearby, a siren wailed.

Three blocks later, she was finally home.

Her apartment building tilted slightly with age and rain damage. The elevator hadn't worked since March, and the stairwell smelled like rust and cheap air freshener. On the third floor, she juggled her tote bag and keys until the door clicked open-only to be met by a familiar, indignant sound.

"Mrrrrow!"

"I'm late. I know," Lyra muttered.

Alexa, her plump gray tabby, was already perched by her empty bowl, glaring up with full Omega guilt-trip eyes. Lyra set her bag down, peeled off her coat, and crossed to the tiny kitchen.

"You act like I don't feed you the same thing every day."

Alexa chirped and circled her ankles, unimpressed.

Once the cat was fed and purring on the window ledge, Lyra allowed herself exactly thirty seconds to lean against the counter and breathe. Not rest. Not relax. Just... exist.

She needed that buffer between the office and the rest of her night.

Her heels were kicked off by the couch. Her hair came down in the bathroom. She changed into sweatpants and an oversized shirt-soft, loose, scent-neutral. She wiped her face clean. Then, finally, sat at the kitchen table with the orientation packet still folded in her bag.

The cover read: Virelux Annual Gala – Departmental Attendance Briefing.

Lyra unfolded the first page.

Mandatory Arrival Time: 6:00 PM sharp.

Location: Virelux Grand Atrium

Dress Code: Formal – black tie (floor-length gowns recommended for Omega attendees).

Security Note: All attendees subject to passive scent scan.

Enclosure: List of Approved Scent-Suppressant Providers

She read it twice, then set it down and stared at her ceiling for a long moment.

A scent scan. Of course.

She hadn't been in a situation that risky in over a year. The last time she passed near a bond-heavy gathering, she'd broken out in a cold sweat and left early under the excuse of a migraine. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself in a room full of Alphas-not when the entire firm would be watching, and certainly not with Cassian Dorne present.

Cassian. God.

He wasn't just the CEO-he was the Alpha prototype, all chiseled restraint and latent threat. The kind of man who never raised his voice, because he didn't need to. His energy did all the work. Lyra had no illusions about his reputation. He didn't sleep with staff, didn't mingle, didn't indulge. But that didn't make him safe. It made him controlled-and that was worse.

Because someone like that... someone like that could destroy you without ever laying a hand.

She turned back to the list.

Items to prepare:

– Formal gown, full-length

– Footwear (closed toe)

– Identification badge

– Suppressants (1 dose before arrival, 1 held in reserve)

Suppressants. She had one old vial left from the last quarterly inspection.

That wouldn't cut it.

Lyra grabbed a sticky note and began a list for the pharmacy: suppressant refills, scent-neutral spray, transport wipes, and probably headache pills, too, if she had any self-preservation left.

The gown she would borrow-from Dalia, a receptionist in Payroll who was always happy to lend a dress if you returned it clean and untorn. It was dark green, silky, with a neckline just formal enough to pass the dress code. A little long, but Lyra could manage.

As for jewelry-there was only one thing she could wear.

From the tiny velvet box in her closet drawer, she pulled out her grandmother's earrings. Vintage gold, leaf-shaped, delicate scrollwork etched into the metal. One of the last things she'd inherited before moving to the city. She rarely wore them. They were too precious, too private. But tonight she would.

Because everything else she wore belonged to someone else.

One more year, and you're out.

She fed Alexa a treat, double-checked her door lock, and went to bed with a sleep patch stuck to her wrist. When she finally drifted off, it was with the image of her own reflection. Faint, ghostlike in her apartment window, swallowed by the city behind it.

---

Gala Night – Two Days Later

The mezzanine was all glass and white marble, lined with ambient lights and orchestral strings piped in through unseen speakers. Lyra adjusted the neckline of the borrowed dress, stepped past a towering floral display, and tried not to notice the weight of her own heart.

She told herself not to look for him.

But she did anyway.

Across the mezzanine, half-shielded by column and shadow, stood Cassian Dorne. He was alone. Black suit, collar crisp, expression unreadable.

And he was watching her.

And in that second, she knew, her suppressants weren't going to be enough

___

*Cassian's POV*

Same evening – Gala Night

Cassian stood just beyond the reach of the music, hands clasped behind his back, watching the room with the expression expected of him-measured, distant, composed. His jaw ached from holding it still.

He had already counted seventeen shareholders, nine board members, and two department heads subtly angling for a private word before the evening ended. His assistant had briefed him on each of their agendas. Mergers, expansions, influence.

And Celeste, his soon to be fiance, hadn't arrived yet.

He could feel that absence like a storm cloud that hadn't broken. Her delay wasn't accidental. It was a statement. One he didn't have the energy to interpret tonight.

Cassian exhaled, reached for the nearest glass of champagne off a passing tray, and tossed back half in one swallow. It didn't help.

The engagement was still pending. Technically. Politically. Financially. That was the point. Celeste's family was old money. Her name bought silence. Stability. And he'd agreed-because the board wanted tradition, not disruption.

But he didn't want it.

He hadn't wanted anything personal in years.

And yet... his eyes found her again. The girl in green.

He didn't know her name. She wasn't one of the socialites or department heads. Staff, maybe. A junior analyst? Assistant?

Pretty. That was all. Just... stillness in a sea of movement.

She wasn't clinging to anyone. Didn't seem interested in being seen. But the way she held herself, quiet, alert, apart. Reminded him of something. Someone. He couldn't place it.

His gaze lingered too long.

She looked up.

For a second, their eyes locked.

Something subtle rippled beneath his ribs.

Reflex, instinct, irritation.

He didn't believe in fate, or chemistry, or any of that primal nonsense people used to justify recklessness.

He looked away first. Drained the rest of the champagne. Reached for another.

He didn't plan to stay long. He had already shown his face.

But tonight, something didn't sit right. And for the first time in years, Cassian Dorne couldn't tell if it was the room... or himself.