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Chapter

One

LEXIE

T he label printer jams for the third time this morning and miraculously, I resist the urge to throw it across the room. The way this day is going, I wouldn’t be surprised if it spits out a big sticker that reads “LOSER” for me to plaster on my forehead.

“Come on, you overpriced piece of garbage.” I fiddle with the paper feed, extracting a crumpled shipping label. “We’ve got twenty more packages to go.”

The flickering lightbulb I haven’t gotten around to replacing makes the sea of cardboard boxes surrounding me on the living room floor look more like some serial killer’s seedy lair than the home studio my cramped rental has become.

My laptop sits perched atop a stack of inventory spreadsheets, open to my store’s admin panel where the orders keep piling up. Good for business. Bad for my Saturday.

My system is efficient. Print label, pack item, seal box, repeat. I’ve streamlined everything down to the second. When your entire business runs from a two-bedroom apartment, efficiency isn’t optional.

The bare walls stare back at me as I reach for the packing tape.

I’ve been here eight months and still haven’t hung a single picture.

The cardboard boxes labeled “decor” remain stacked in the hall closet, unopened since I moved in after breaking up with Mark.

What’s the point? This place is temporary, just like the last three apartments.

Just like Mark. Just like they all turned out to be.

My phone vibrates against the hardwood floor, the screen lighting up with Jessica’s face. My sister is caught mid-laugh at last Thanksgiving, when things still felt possible. I pick up on the fourth ring.

“Let me guess, you’re working.” Jessica doesn’t bother with hello.

“No, I’m reorganizing my sock drawer alphabetically,” I say, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder as I seal another package. “What’s up?”

“It’s Saturday morning, Lex. Normal people are having brunch or going for hikes or, I don’t know, interacting with other humans.”

“I interact with the delivery guy every day. We have a very fulfilling relationship. He brings me cardboard, I give him packages. It’s beautiful, really.”

She sighs. I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “When was the last time you left your apartment for an occasion other than buying more packing materials?”

I glance at the empty takeout containers stacked neatly by the door, waiting for my next trip to the trash. “I went grocery shopping on Wednesday.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“The cashier and I had a lovely conversation about cucumbers.”

“Alexandra.” Only Jessica uses my full name, and only when she’s gearing up for one of her concerned-sister speeches. Even our mom hasn’t uttered it since she popped me out twenty-six years ago.

“Jessica,” I mimic her tone, sealing another box with more force than necessary.

“I’m worried about you.”

I stop taping. “Don’t be. Business is booming. I’m thinking about hiring help for the holiday rush.” I don’t mention that the thought of interviewing people, of having someone else in my space, makes me queasy.

“I’m not worried about your business. I’m worried about you being alone all the time.”

Here we go. I resume packing, focusing on folding a cashmere cardigan into tissue paper. “I’m not alone. I have a thriving relationship with my Netflix account.”

“Lexie,” her voice softens. “It’s been six months since Mark. And I know you’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” I ask innocently, taking out my frustration on a role of packing tape.

“That thing where you bury yourself in work instead of dealing with it.”

“There’s nothing to deal with.” The edge in my voice betrays me, but I decide not to remind her it’s actually been eight months. Eight months since my world imploded. Again . “Mark found his perfect little omega pack, just like the others. Good for him.”

A beat of silence stretches between us. I know what’s coming next.

“I found something I think you should try,” Jessica says, her voice taking on that careful tone people use when approaching wounded animals.

“If it’s another yoga class?—”

“It’s a matching service.”

I bark out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“Just hear me out. It’s not like the others. This one actually screens for compatibility beyond just scent matching. They use psychological profiles, lifestyle preferences, long-term goals?—”

“Let me save you the pitch and remind you of my history with so-called ‘compatibility’.” I start counting off on my fingers though she can’t see me.

“Tyler left me for a pack with an omega after two years. Daniel lasted eighteen months before he found his ‘true family.’ Chris made it almost three years before deciding he needed ‘something more.’ And Mark… well, Mark at least had the decency to wait until after my birthday party to tell me he’d been visiting pack houses behind my back. ”

“This is different?—”

“It’s not different, Jess. I’m the common denominator here. I’m what they try until someone better comes along. Alphas, betas, it doesn’t matter. They all want a pack, and a pack only wants one thing. An omega.”

The silence on the other end tells me I’ve said too much, revealed the soft underbelly beneath my armor of practicality. That’s something I usually don’t share even with the one person in this world who knows me the best. I clear my throat.

“Besides, I don’t have time for dating,” I add, forcing a bit of levity into my voice. “The holiday orders are already coming in.”

“The service is called Beyond Bonds,” Jessica continues as if I haven’t spoken. “My coworker Chelsea found her mate through them. They’ve been together for two years now.”

“Good for Chelsea.” I grab another box, folding it into shape with practiced movements. “Some people get lucky.”

I’m not one of them.

“It’s not about luck,” she insists. “It’s about finding the right person, not just any alpha or beta who happens to catch your eye at a bar.”

I think about the four “right” people who all eventually realized I wasn’t right for them and slam my walls up hard. “I’ve got twenty more orders to pack, Jess.”

“Just promise you’ll think about it.”

“Sure, I’ll add it to my to-do list right after ‘develop telekinesis’ and ‘learn underwater basket weaving.’”

“I’m emailing you the link,” she continues, ignoring my sarcasm. “They’re having a special right now. Three months for the price of one.”

“What a bargain. Three months of rejection for the price of one.”

“Lexie.” Her voice drops to that gentle tone that makes my throat tighten. “Not everyone will leave you.”

Hearing my fear spoken out loud hurts more than I want to admit, even if it probably is as painfully obvious to her as to me.

“I need to go, Jess. These packages won’t seal themselves.”

“Promise me you’ll at least look at the website.”

“I promise I’ll think about looking at the website.”

“That’s not?—”

“Bye, I love you, thanks for calling!” I hang up before she can push further, tossing my phone onto the couch like it’s suddenly burning hot.

My sister means well. I know she does. And of course she still believes in things like destiny and true love. It happened for Jessica. It’s happened for other people I know, Mark included, but me? I’m very clearly not one of those outliers, and I’m too exhausted from holding out that kind of hope.

The apartment feels quieter now, the silence heavier.

I look around at the blank walls, the functional furniture, the single plant by the window that’s survived my inexperienced care through sheer stubbornness.

Nothing here marks this space as mine. Nothing says someone lives here who expects to stay.

I reach for another box, but my rhythm is broken. Jessica’s words echo in my head.

Not everyone will leave you.

Easy for her to say. Jessica found her mate in college.

Ten years later, they’ve got the house with the yard and the dog and the two perfect children.

She’s never known what it’s like to build a life with someone, brick by careful brick, only to watch them knock it down and walk away with the pieces that mattered.

My phone pings with an incoming email. Jessica, true to her word, has sent the link to Beyond Bonds. I ignore it and open Instagram instead, which is my first mistake.

Mark’s story appears at the very tippy top of my feed. My finger hovers, knowing I shouldn’t look, knowing it will only twist the knife. I tap it anyway, which is my second mistake.

The image loads. Mark grinning, his arm around a petite blonde woman, surrounded by three others in what looks like a cozy living room.

The caption reads: “Pack movie night! #blessed #foundmypeople”

A cold weight settles in my chest. They’re in our apartment, the one I moved out of eight months ago because I couldn’t bear to sleep in that bedroom anymore.

But now the walls that were bare when I left are covered with photos.

The couch where I used to grade design samples now holds a tangle of people who look like they belong there, like they’ve always belonged.

They’ve built a home in the space where I couldn’t.

I close the app and stare at my reflection in the black screen. My practical bun has started to come loose, tendrils of reddish-brown hair framing a heart-shaped face that looks more tired than I want to admit.

For just a moment, one moment of weakness, I let myself imagine what it might be like. To have someone who stays. To hang pictures and paint walls and buy furniture that isn’t just functional but chosen together. To build something permanent.

The label printer beeps, pulling me back to reality. Right. More packages.

I reach for the next box, forcing myself back into the rhythm. Print, pack, seal, repeat. No time for daydreams that never materialize. No space for wishes that always disappoint.

But as I work, the email from Jessica sits unopened, a quiet challenge. By the time I finish the last package, stacking them neatly by the door for tomorrow’s pickup, my resolve has weakened.

Just look at the website. That’s all Jessica asked. It doesn’t commit me to anything. It’s not like a pack is going to reach through the screen and yoink me into their world only to leave me at the curb when they’re ready to move on like all the others.

I grab my phone and open the email. The link stares back at me.

Beyond Bonds. Find Your Forever.

My finger hovers over the registration button. This is stupid. I’ve been down this road before.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap the link. The page loads with an elegant simplicity. Soft colors, tasteful font, none of the desperate neon flash of other dating sites. A banner across the top reads: “ We go beyond traditional matching to build connections that last .”

I scroll down, despite myself. The testimonials show couples and groups of all configurations.

They’re photos with names, ages and locations, not just stock models.

Traditional alpha and omega pairs, beta triads, mixed pack families.

The common denominator isn’t their designation but the look in their eyes.

They all seem... settled. Like they’ve found their place. Their people.

A knot forms in my throat. I want to dismiss it as marketing, as carefully curated success stories hiding a mountain of failures like mine. But something about the simple certainty in their faces makes my practiced cynicism falter.

I go through the sign-up process on autopilot. Practically an expert at this point.

I get halfway through before deciding this is a mistake.

I lock the screen and set the phone face-down on the floor. I have inventory to count, designs to finalize for next season, a business to run. I don’t have time for false hope.

And I sure as hell don’t have time for a pack.