Page 14

Chapter

Nine

LEXIE

T he sewing machine hums beneath my fingers, a soothing drone that drowns out the silence of my apartment.

Fabric flows through my hands as I guide the needle along the seam of what will become someone else's comfort.

A burgundy sweater with tiny gold stars embroidered around the collar.

Fall's bestseller, if the pre-orders are any indication.

Three weeks since the insurance salesman incident, and Jessica has finally stopped sending me apologetic links to different dating sites.

Progress of a sort. She even brought me a "I'm sorry my meddling led to you climbing out a bathroom window" cake last weekend, which was both ridiculous and delicious.

I've forgiven her, mostly because the cake was chocolate ganache and partly because I know she means well.

It's not her fault I'm love-cursed.

I finish the seam and clip the threads, holding up the nearly completed sweater to check my work. Perfect. Exactly as I designed it.

Predictable. Reliable.

Unlike men.

My phone buzzes with a notification, but I ignore it.

Probably Jessica checking in again, or maybe another review on my store.

I'll deal with it later. Right now, I have six more orders to complete before my self-imposed deadline, and the steady click-clack of the machine is the only company I need.

Two hours later, my back protests as I stretch, arms reaching toward the ceiling.

The stack of completed orders sits neatly by the door, ready for tomorrow's pickup.

I should feel accomplished. Instead, I just feel.

..empty. Like I've poured everything into these creations and have nothing left for myself.

"Fresh air," I mutter to no one. "That's what you need."

I grab my keys and a light jacket. It's that perfect early autumn weather where the sun still has some warmth but the breeze carries promises of the coming chill.

Perfect sweater weather, as I remind my customers in every newsletter.

I should be thrilled. Instead, I'm just..

.here. Existing. Making sweaters. Paying rent. Rinse and repeat.

Outside, the neighborhood bustles with evening activity. Couples walking dogs. Families heading to dinner. Groups of friends laughing as they spill out of the craft brewery on the corner. I weave through them all, hands shoved in my pockets, head down.

Fifteen minutes of purposeless wandering later, I find myself circling back toward my building.

As I approach the bank of mailboxes in the lobby, I realize I haven't checked mine in days.

Probably nothing but junk and bills, but it's another small task to fill the endless string of minutes that make up my days.

I twist the key in the lock and pull out a small stack. Credit card offers, electric bill, supermarket flyer, and a thick cream-colored envelope with my name and address handwritten in an elegant script.

The return address catches my eye and my stomach drops through the floor.

Mark Werner & The Daniels Pack.

Seriously?

My fingers go numb as I stare at the envelope. It's heavy, expensive paper, the kind used for wedding invitations or...

Or mating ceremonies.

No. No way. He wouldn't.

It's one thing for him to be flaunting his new relationship all over social media, I didn't think he'd go as far as to actually print an invitation and send it to me. But of course he would. This is exactly the kind of thing Mark would do.

By the time I reach my door, I'm fuming, the envelope crumpled in my white-knuckled grip.

Inside my apartment, I throw the rest of the mail on the counter and tear open the cream envelope with enough force to rip the contents. A pristine card slides out, along with a glossy photo that flutters to the floor.

My eyes scan the elegant typography, each word a fresh slap in the face.

The Daniels Pack joyfully invites you to celebrate their official Mating Ceremony...

Joyfully. God, it even sounds like Mark, fake sincerity dripping from every syllable. I check the date. Eight weeks from now. Just enough advance notice to be proper, but not so much that I can conveniently make other plans.

I bend to retrieve the photo, already knowing what I'll find.

Sure enough, it's one of those insufferable pack portraits with Mark in the center, his arm around the petite blonde omega I glimpsed on Instagram.

Three other people are arranged around them in practiced casualness, all wearing coordinating outfits in muted blues and grays.

And at their feet, a golden retriever sporting—I squint in disbelief—a custom sweater that matches the pack's color scheme as if they all agree on what to wear every morning.

Okay, now that's just adding insult to injury.

"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, flipping the photo over. Someone has scrawled a brief note:

Hope you can make it! Would love for you to see how happy we all are! -M & Pack

The manufactured perfection of it all makes me want to scream. Or vomit. Or both. That would be a mess, but oddly satisfying.

How did he even get this address? I haven't even forwarded all my mail yet.

Unless...

I grab my phone and call my sister, but I know there's a fifty-fifty chance she's busy wrangling kids.

"Please tell me you didn't give Mark my address," I say the moment she picks up.

"Hello to you too," Jessica sighs. "And no, of course I didn't. What happened?"

I sigh, feeling like an idiot. This is making me paranoid. "I just got an invitation to his mating ceremony. With a pack photo. The dog is wearing a sweater, Jess. A coordinating sweater."

"Oh no." Her tone shifts from annoyed to sympathetic in an instant. "That's...wow. That's a special kind of cruel, even for that douchebag."

"How did he even get my address? I was careful."

"Maybe from the lawyer? When you finalized the apartment lease transfer?" she offers. "Or, uh… Jake might have given it to him if he asked. You know he always liked him."

I groan, slumping against the kitchen counter. Our oblivious older brother. Of course. Either option is plausible, and neither matters now. The damage is done.

"Are you okay?" Jessica asks softly.

"I'm..." I stare at the invitation on my counter, at the smiling faces in the photo. "I don't know what I am. Angry? But also... I don't even know. It's like he's rubbing it in my face."

"Because he is," Jessica says flatly. "He's a passive-aggressive jackass who can't just let you move on with your life. Though I'm surprised his omega would let him pull this stunt."

"Maybe she doesn't know. Or maybe she's just as awful as he is." I run a hand through my hair, loosening strands from my messy bun. "What am I supposed to do with this? If I go alone, I look pathetic. If I don't go, they'll think I'm bitter and couldn't handle seeing them together."

"Screw what they think. You don't owe any of them your presence."

"I know that. Rationally , I know that." I push away from the counter, pacing the small confines of my kitchen. "But it still feels like he's won somehow. Like all of them have won."

The line goes quiet for a moment. "You need wine," Jessica says finally. "And I would come over with a bottle, but Luke's out of town and the kids are already in their pajamas."

"I have wine. And I'll be fine. I just needed to vent." I eye the bottle of cabernet on my counter. Not my first choice for drowning sorrows, but it'll do in a pinch.

"Are you sure? I could call the babysitter?—"

"No, seriously. I'm okay." I force a lightness into my voice that I don't feel. "You're right. It's just a stupid invitation. I'll throw it away and forget about it."

Jessica doesn't sound convinced, but she lets it go. We chat for a few more minutes before she has to deal with what sounds like a toddler uprising in the background. After we hang up, I stare at the invitation again, an ugly feeling twisting in my gut.

It's not the fact that Mark has moved on. I've known that for months. It's the deliberate way he's shoving his happiness in my face. The careful orchestration of it all.

I snatch the bottle of wine and a glass from the cabinet, not bothering with the usual ritual of letting it breathe. The first sip burns going down, too tannic and too warm, but I welcome the bite of it.

Mark knows exactly what he's doing. This is his way of saying "See what you're missing? See how perfect we all are without you?" As if I was the problem all along. As if I somehow drove him to cheat, to lie, to secretly visit pack houses behind my back for months.

I take another, larger sip and carry my glass to the couch, sinking into the cushions. My laptop sits on the coffee table, still open to my inventory spreadsheet. I should finish reconciling those numbers. Instead, I find myself opening a browser and navigating to Beyond Bonds.

It's just curiosity, I tell myself. Just a distraction from Mark's bullshit. Nothing more.

The site remembers my login info, and suddenly I'm staring at my profile. Jessica's creation, with those flattering photos that look like someone else's life. Someone who goes to theaters and wears purple gowns and doesn't eat entire pies alone in cafés.

A red notification bubble shows in the corner. Messages. Two of them.

The first is from Andrew, the doctor from my disastrous double date. The timestamp shows it was sent weeks ago.

Lexie, I wanted to apologize for the other night. I thought Brandon was ready to look for something serious, but old habits die hard. If we can make it up to you again, just let me know.

It's nice enough, and probably sincere, but I can't muster any enthusiasm for a do-over.

If Andrew had been truly interested, he would have shut down Brandon's sales pitch or followed me out of the restaurant.

Instead, he sat there while I climbed out a bathroom window.

Not exactly knight-in-shining-armor material.

And clearly, this is a pattern. I'm not quite that desperate.

I don't think.

The second message is from Brandon himself, sent three days ago.

Hey there! Sorry for the miscommunication at dinner. Didn't mean to come on so strong with the business talk! But since we're on the subject, I've been thinking about your situation, and I'd like to have another conversation. How about coffee? My treat!

Yeah, no, I'm definitely not that desperate.

"Unbelievable," I mutter, closing both messages without responding.

Brandon genuinely can't see why ambushing a date with insurance brochures might be inappropriate. And Andrew sat back and let it happen, only reaching out after I'd ghosted them both.

I guess some betas can give alphas a run for their money in the audacity department.

I take another swig of wine and go to the search page. Not because I'm looking. Just because Mark's smug invitation is still sitting on my counter, and I hate the idea that he thinks I'm home alone with no prospects while he plans his perfect pack ceremony.

Even if he's right.

I start scrolling through the available profiles, applying no filters, just mindlessly flipping through faces and descriptions.

Most are the usual—alphas seeking omegas, omegas looking for packs, betas searching for compatible matches.

Nothing catches my interest until I reach a profile with no photo, just a default silhouette.

The username is "PuckPack5" and the headline reads: High-profile pack seeks female beta to round out our dynamic (we're all hot, promise!)

I snort into my wine glass. Sure, buddy. That's why there's no photo, because you're all so devastatingly attractive you'd crash the server.

But the cockiness of it makes me click anyway. I'm already in a mood. The profile text is surprisingly detailed for a faceless account.

We're a close-knit pack of five professional males (four alphas, one omega) in our 20s and early 30s. Due to our public-facing careers, we're keeping things discreet online, but happy to share pics in private messages with serious inquiries.

A member of our pack recently presented as an omega (late bloomer) and has made it clear he's strictly into women, which means our pack dynamic needs to evolve.

Basically, he's tired of us looking at him like the last can of beer in the fridge and we could definitely use some feminine energy in the house to balance things out.

No drama, no games, just looking for the right person to complete our family. Intelligence, independence, and a sense of humor required. Pack experience not necessary. We're figuring this out as we go too.

I reread the description, oddly intrigued in spite of myself. A male omega who recently presented? That's unusual enough to be potentially legitimate. And the straightforward, slightly irreverent tone feels refreshingly honest compared to the polished desperation of most pack profiles I've browsed.

But no photos is still a red flag. They could be anyone. Catfishers, creeps, or worse. And even if they are this "high-profile pack" they claim to be, do I really want that kind of complication? Being with one public figure would be challenging enough, let alone five.

Plus, there's the omega factor. Even if he's not interested in the alphas romantically, he's still an omega in a pack of alphas.

The dynamics there would be... complex, to say the least. Every pack I've encountered puts their omega front and center.

Would I always be second place by default?

The afterthought they added because their omega won't touch them?

No thanks. I've spent enough of my life feeling like someone's consolation prize. I'd rather be alone. I'm good at that, at least.

I swipe past the profile, continuing my mindless scrolling.

No one else stands out. No one who doesn't already have an omega in the pack, or isn't looking for one.

When I go to close out, a popup appears I've never seen before. Blind Match?

A cursory glance of the new feature reveals it to be an algorithmic matchmaking service that pairs users up for a blind date, no strings attached. It's supposedly based on some highly advanced compatibility system that sounds like marketing BS, but what the hell?

It can't do a worse job than I have. And it's not like I have to go if it matches me with a weirdo. The process is simple, too. Just two questions.

What are your must-haves?

I leave that blank, because I don't even know anymore.

What are your hard nos?

I check only two boxes. Packs with an omega. Packs seeking an omega.

After signing for consent, I close the app and pour myself another glass of wine. Time to get back to the one area of my life that isn't a complete disaster.

Work.