Page 49 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Six months ago, I had a plan. A professional, journalistic, definitely-not-personal plan. It went like this:

Step One: Join a scent-matching app. Step Two: Get paired with a random pack.

Step Three: Prove the whole thing is manipulative, unscientific nonsense designed to coerce vulnerable omegas into lifelong bonds with emotionally stunted alphas who own too many leather jackets.

Step Four: Win an award. Or at the very least, a bonus and a smug email signature update.

Simple. Elegant. Some might even say foolproof.

(Spoiler alert: it was not foolproof.)

Because the app didn’t match me with a bunch of emotionally stunted strangers; it matched me with my ex-boyfriend , Wesley Knight. (Yes, that Wesley Knight—the alpha who ghosted me four years ago with nothing but a single emoji and a deep-rooted abandonment complex.)

And not just him, either; but his entire pack, too. A pair of absurdly hot, frustratingly lovely alphas who had the audacity to not only like me—but to care .

Long story short: I changed the plan. Suddenly, it wasn’t just about proving the app was fake: it was about proving that he was. Revenge journalism, if you will.

The plan was tweaked, but still simple. I was going to infiltrate the pack, dazzle the others, and leave him spiraling in his expensive loafers.

It was petty, and debatably ethical; but it was absolutely, beyond-reasonable-doubt level of entertaining.

What I didn’t plan for—what no one ever really does plan for—was catching real feelings. But somewhere between fake dates, pack dinners, and more emotional whiplash than a soap opera finale… I fell.

For Jace: shameless flirt, sporting menace, and human serotonin dispenser. For Cam: the nerdy teacher who coaches kids soccer and educates young minds and gives foot rubs unprompted. And yes , even for Wes; the alpha I once hated so passionately, I could’ve written a thesis about it.

Did I mess it up? Of course I did. Did they find the article I was secretly writing about them? Also yes. Did I spiral into a stress-induced heat and try to ghost them in return?

…Look, it’s called poetic justice.

But fate (and best friends, and a shockingly generous editor) had other plans, and somehow, through heat and heartbreak, tears and truth,they came back.

Not just to forgive me, but to claim me.

So where are we now?

Well. I now permanently live in a house with my three alphas. We have a chore chart and a shared calendar and a very adorable puppy named Biscuit that we adopted from Cam’s shelter to even out the heavily unbalanced female-to-male ratio.

And I’ve never been happier.

So, to everyone who asked for a follow-up, this is it:

Six months ago, I set out to prove scent-matching was a scam. Turns out, it led me straight to my soulmates.

The End