Page 145 of Pack Plus One

A small crowd has gathered, attracted by our raised voices. I’m dimly aware that I’m making a scene, but I can’t seem to stop the words pouring out.

“You told me I’d never succeed,” I remind him, jabbing a finger at his chest. “That I’m not ‘pack material’. That omegas don’t have the temperament for business ownership. You said my baking was ‘adequate at best.’ And now you’re opening a competing bakery? Are you that threatened by me?”

Eric’s nostrils flare, his alpha pheromones spiking with anger. “I’m not threatened by you,” he growls. “I’m providing an alternative to your chaotic little... whatever it is you’re doing.”

“What I’m doing,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet, “is creating something authentic. Something that matters. Something that isn’t defined by outdated stereotypes about what omegas should want or be.”

“And how’s that working out for you?” Eric gestures to my glue-stained appearance. “Playing business owner while frantically DIY-ing everything because you can’t afford professionals? Real success story there, Leah.”

It’s a direct hit, targeting my deepest insecurities about the bakery’s financial situation. I flinch, and Eric’s expression shifts to one of satisfaction.

“At least I’m doing it myself,” I counter. “Not hiding behind hired help because I don’t actually have any skills of my own.”

Eric’s jaw tightens. “I have plenty of skills.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Zoe interjects, her voice sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re so pathetically hung up on your ex that you’re literally building a business to spite her. Do you have nothing better to do with your life?”

Eric’s scent sours with embarrassment. “This isn’t about Leah,” he insists, but the slight flush creeping up his neck betrays him.

“Really?” Zoe presses. “So it’s just a coincidence that after she rejects you and starts her own bakery, you suddenly discover a passion for pastry? Please. This is sad even by alpha standards.”

A ripple of amusement runs through the gathered crowd, and Eric’s expression darkens further.

“Careful,” he warns Zoe. “You’re making assumptions about things you don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Zoe says sweetly. “You’re a textbook example of alpha entitlement. Can’t handle rejection, can’t stand seeing an omega succeed without you, so you throw money at the problem and try to crush her.”

Mrs. Finley nods vigorously. “Shameful behavior. In my day, alphas had dignity.”

The bell above Alpha Bites’ door jingles, and Eric’s new omega emerges. She assesses the situation, jaw tightening as her gaze lands on me.

“Is there a problem?” she asks.

“No problem,” Eric says quickly. “Just catching up with old friends.”

The omega’s eyes flick to me, taking in my disheveled appearance and the fury I’m sure is radiating from me. “I see,” she says, clearly not buying it. “Well, the interior designer needs your input on the display case arrangement.”

Eric nods, visibly relieved at the excuse to escape. “We’ll have to continue this another time, Leah,” he says, his confidence returning now that he has an exit strategy. “Good luck with your... project. You’re going to need it.”

With that parting shot, he turns and retreats into Alpha Bites, his omega woman following close behind.

“What a complete ass,” Zoe mutters once he’s out of earshot.

“Language, dear,” Mrs. Finley chides, then immediately adds, “though I can’t say I disagree with the sentiment.”

I stare at the Alpha Bites storefront, my mind racing. The pristine black and white color scheme, the sleek modern furniture visible through the windows, the professional staff already bustling inside—it’s everything Sweet Omega isn’t. Polished. Corporate. Backed by actual money.

“He’s going to destroy me,” I whisper, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. “He’s got resources and connections and an actual business background. I’m just... me.”

“And ‘just you’ is going to kick his perfectly moisturized ass,” Zoe declares, linking her arm through mine. “Come on. We’re not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you worry.”

Mrs. Finley pats my arm. “She’s right, dear. That young man may have money, but he lacks something far more important.”

“A soul?” Zoe suggests.

“Taste,” Mrs. Finley corrects. “Both in baking and in women.”

Despite everything, I laugh. “Thanks, Mrs. Finley.”