Page 1 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Aimee

T here are only three reasons Rachel Brooks calls you into her office before noon.

One : you’re getting promoted.

Two : you’re getting fired.

Three : you said something online that made legal cry.

I already know it’s not the first two, which means it’s the tweet.

“You’re late,” Rachel says, eyes still on her laptop.

“I’m not.” I drop into the chair across from her, crossing one leg over the other. “You just started early.”

She sighs, then taps her laptop screen. “You tweeted this at 11:42 p.m. last night: ‘Dating apps are for delusional Omegas and Alphas who can’t pull without an algorithm sniffing their junk.’ ”

“Ok-ay,” I blink. “But, like… where’s the lie?”

Rachel finally lifts her head and looks at me. Her expression is the same one I imagine ancient gods used when peasants started having feelings and unionizing.

“You’re lucky it went viral.”

“I mean, I am the voice of the people.”

“ Please . You’re the voice of a feral omega in discount pajama bottoms with a soy sauce stain.”

“That’s identity, Rachel. That’s branding .”

“And that’s why you’re writing this piece,” she counters.

“What piece?” I frown.

She smirks, and my eyes widen as my brain kicks into gear.

“I’m not writing a puff piece about scent-matching tech, if that’s what this is.”

“Oh, it’s not puff,” she assures me. “It’s spicy. Opinionated. Slightly unhinged. You in article form, basically.”

“I don’t write dating content,” I say. “I write real columns. Investigative, edgy, omega-perspective pieces. I’m not sticking my nose in that pheromonal hellscape.”

“It’s not ‘dating content’. It’s investigative journalism with tits, and it’s why you’re perfect for this,” she counters.

“I want an exposé on modern scent-syncing and algorithmic compatibility scores. The apps, the scent-matching, and the absolute nightmare of it all. You’ll join one and document the experience. ”

I squint at her. “This is because of that documentary, isn’t it? The omega who thought she scent-matched a hedge fund alpha, but he was a bonded beta with a rental car and seasonal allergies?”

“That’s the one. Now she’s seventy grand in debt and still thinks it was fate.”

I frown as I lean back in my chair. “I’m not romanticizing that.”

“You won’t be,” she insists. “I want it shredded . I want you to bulldoze the concept of scent-based compatibility and salt the earth behind you.”

I fold my arms. “This still sounds like a trap.”

“It’s a trap with benefits . Think of the hate-reads,” she shoots back. “It’s pheromones meets machine learning. It’s tech trying to hijack instinct. It’s messy, and it’s got teeth.”

“It’s Tinder with glands.”

“ Right . Exactly.”

“...That wasn’t supposed to be a good thing.”

Rachel levels me with a look. “It’s not. It’s terrifying . But that’s why you’re the perfect person to rip it apart. You’ve got all of that feminine, omega rage that’s super relatable to a modern audience, as well as opinions, and internet clout—and unresolved scent trauma.”

“I’m pretty sure that last one’s a HIPAA violation,” I frown.

“Think of it as immersive journalism,” she continues, ignoring me. “Like it or not, these apps are everywhere . The algorithm uses biometric scent tracking and AI compatibility profiling. It’s being called the future of ethical pack-building by—”

“BuzzFeed?”

She shoots me a look. “By The Guardian.”

I snort. “They also said NFTs were going to save the housing market and that poly-packs were a social experiment gone rogue.”

“And yet, here you are,” she gestures at me with her pen. “Twenty-five years old, iced coffee in hand, and no pack to be seen. Emotionally volatile, yes, but also SPF compliant, and mildly charming on camera.”

“Wow, Rach. Are you flirting with me?”

“God, no.”

“Rude.”

“You should thank me,” she adds. “I just handed you a headline and the opportunity to emotionally eviscerate a generation of over-groomed scent-matching alphas. That’s better than foreplay.”

She slides a document across her desk. It lands in front of me with a dramatic thump that practically screams editorial doom.

“ Scentual ?” I read aloud, raising my eyebrows in her direction. “Seriously? That’s the app name?”

“It’s a branding choice.”

“It’s a cease-and-desist waiting to happen,” I mutter. “Does it come with a trauma kit? A ‘ this alpha may be using a fake scent profile ’ disclaimer? A checkbox that says ‘ I consent to multiple cocks and an existential crisis ’?”

Rachel’s eye twitches, which I take as encouragement.

“I want a ten-date exposé,” she says. “Full immersion, and you document everything . The awkward intros, the scent confusion, and the way you're completely in control. Capture the disillusionment as you see it.”

“But, Rachel... I don’t date,” I protest weakly. “You know this. I’ve retired. I’m off the market. I’ve taken myself out of circulation and slapped a sticker on my forehead that says Do Not Sniff .”

“Then call it what it is,” she shrugs. “ Sabotage. A field study meets controlled demolition.”

I almost laugh at that.

“Let’s title it How to Lose an Alpha in 10 Heats and make it a hate crime. We’ll brand it, maybe even get a sponsor. There’s real potential here.”

I pause. That title is kind of annoyingly good. The heat part needs finessing, but...

Dammit .

“And before you spiral, I went ahead and built your profile. It’s ready to go; I just need you to hit download and finish off a few things that I couldn't.”

I groan. “I don’t want an alpha. I don’t even want a beta. I want frozen lasagna and a heating pad and to live in peace without being sniffed like a bloody appetizer.”

Rachel cocks her head. “So you’re saying you don’t want to roast a bunch of algorithm-dependent, pheromone-addled tech bros who call themselves ‘natural-born leaders’ and spell alpha with a dollar sign?”

“…okay, now you’re the voice of the people.”

“ Exactly, ” she says, smug. “Look, you just have to remember that this isn’t about love, it's about journalism. You’re not dating—you’re infiltrating. There’s a difference.”

I stare at her for a long moment, then sigh.

“I’m not touching it without a bonus.”

She rolls her eyes. “Three figures.”

“Four.”

“...Three and a half.”

“Rachel, I’m begging you to stop insulting me and just pay me properly for once.”

She doesn’t even blink. “Aimee, be serious. You’re the only unbonded omega on staff who’s not mid-breakdown, mid-pregnancy, or mid-divorce.

You don’t have to fall in love. You don’t even have to like them.

You just have to survive a few weeks in their company without committing homicide, and write something funny at the end of it. ”

“Great,” I deadpan. “Can I wear a bodycam?”

“Only if you want to win awards.”

I give the document one last scathing look. “What if I die?”

“You won’t. The apps verification system requires bloodwork and an in-person scent-scan for all alphas. Even as an omega, you can’t create an account without identification, and you have to be signed off by a professional who verifies for you. I was yours, of course.”

“....That’s supposed to be reassuring?”

“No,” she says. “It’s supposed to be clickable .”

I glare. “If I end up bonded to some cryptocurrency alpha with commitment issues at the end of this, then I’m billing therapy to the company card.”

Rachel waves me off. “You’ll be fine. Hell, you might even get laid . It’s been, what, two years? Three?”

“Eighteen months,” I mutter.

She fake gasps. “And you call me heartless.”

“I call you many things,” I mutter. “Not all of them printable.”

I yank out my phone and get to work downloading the app. I log in using my work email, and as promised, my profile is already half-complete. Rachel even used my wedding-slash-bonding-ceremony photo from my cousin’s reception—the one where I look sleek, unbothered, and potentially homicidal.

Omega. 25. Likes: spicy food, spite, and high SPF moisturizers. Dislikes: men.

A heart icon blinks at the bottom of the screen. I stare at it, and for a second, I unwittingly think about the last time I scent-matched.

Wesley Knight was supposed to be everything an alpha should be.

Steady and protective; the kind of guy who’d carry your groceries and rip someone’s throat out if they looked at you wrong.

We met at college, when I pursued an English Literature degree and he studied Law, and quickly realized we were scent-matched.

We dated until just before graduation, and I was so sure that we were going to be bonded, that he was going to officially claim me as we moved away from college and back into the real world.

Instead, he vanished the moment things got real, leaving a trail of silence and unanswered questions.

It’s been four years, and I’ve done an excellent job of pretending he no longer exists.

Despite living in the same city, there’s been no contact, and definitely no scent proximity.

I’ve left our old friends behind, switched which stores I shope at, ducked out of parties early, and even crossed streets to avoid the gym he frequents.

Even now, I still take the long way round to stay far away from his office, which is on my direct route home.

Overall, I have a flawless track record of post-knotting avoidance, if I do say so myself.

And fine —maybe I didn’t handle the rejection well, but what omega would?

So I might have gone a little off the rails after the ghosting, but I’m biologically hardwired for clinginess and chaos.

If anything, he’s lucky I didn’t have a full-on meltdown.

So no, I don’t believe in any of it. Not the apps, not the scent-matched fantasy, and definitely not the happily-ever-afters wrapped in algorithmic pheromone bullshit and alpha growls pitched like lullabies.

It’s not romance—it’s marketing . It’s capitalism with glands; a scam designed to sell overpriced candle sets, matching loungewear, and the idea that being sniffed equals being loved.

I used to believe. I really did. But then Wes happened, and now I believe in boundaries, lasagna, and petty revenge.

And after remembering the way he left—without a word, without explanation, without even a goodbye —I believe in burning this entire scent-matching industry to the ground and dancing in the ashes.

I head back to my desk, open the app again, and finish setting up my profile, providing all of the identification, bloodwork and information that they need.

This is it.

Let the sabotage begin.