Page 1 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

LEAH

T he envelope is cream-colored.

That should have been the first red flag.

I stare at the thick, embossed stationery in my hands like it might burst into flames. It probably should. That would be preferable.

Ms. Leah Carter

Formally Invited to the Union of

Pack Eric Donovan & Melissa Walsh

I groan, dropping my forehead onto my kitchen counter with a thunk.

“Oh my god, no.”

My best friend, Zoe, snatches the invitation from my grip before I can set it on fire with sheer willpower. “Wait, wait— Eric Eric? The guy who dumped you because you weren’t ‘pack material’?”

I lift my head just enough to glare. “Do I know another Eric who mansplained my own omega biology to me with a PowerPoint presentation?”

Zoe winces. “Yikes.”

I snatch the invitation back, flipping it open with more force than necessary. The fancy gold lettering seems to mock me as I read it for the fifth time, hoping the words might magically rearrange themselves into something less humiliating.

“ Mr. & Mrs. Jonathan Walsh request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their daughter, Melissa Walsh, to Eric Donovan and pack .”

Eric. My Eric. Well, not my Eric anymore. Not for two years, three months, and sixteen days—not that I’m counting.

My eyes snag on one line near the bottom, and I let out a sharp laugh. I point to the offending text, wide eyes on Zoe: “ Pack seating arrangements apply. Please RSVP with your pack or designated plus-one .”

Of course there’s a pack requirement.

“They might as well have written ‘No sad, single omegas allowed,’” I mutter, sliding off the barstool and tossing the invitation onto my coffee table.

Zoe kicks off her shoes as she flops onto my couch, mussing up her pixie cut in the process. My best friend has the uncanny ability to make herself at home wherever she goes. Right now, she’s reaching for the glass of really good Le Roux I poured myself when the invitation arrived.

She snorts, taking a generous sip. “It’s tacky. Also completely on-brand for Eric.”

“I’m not going.” I grab the wine back from her and take a gulp. “I’ll send a nice toaster and pretend I have the flu.”

“You absolutely are going.” Zoe sits up straighter, her expression suddenly serious. “Leah Carter, you’ve spent two years hiding from that man. You’re not going to let him think he broke you.”

“He did break me,” I remind her, hugging a throw pillow to my chest. “Remember the ice cream and sweatpants phase?”

“That was then. Now you’re a big-time businesswoman opening a cute bakery. You’re making those fancy omega-inspired desserts that everyone’s obsessed with?—”

“I’m not established yet. The grand opening is over a month away.”

“—and you look hot as hell,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “The only thing you’re missing is a pack.”

I laugh, but it comes out sounding bitter. “Minor detail.”

The truth is, I haven’t dated since Eric.

Not seriously. Not even casually, really.

Finding a single pack of alphas and/or betas looking for an omega isn’t rare.

What’s rare is finding one that doesn’t want to immediately claim and breed said omega.

Nearly impossible in this city. Don’t get me wrong.

Who doesn’t want to be bred? But by the right pack.

Sweetwater City isn’t exactly known for its progressive attitudes.

It has the charm of cobblestone streets and pastel-painted shopfronts, but under the surface, it clings to tradition like an alpha to an unmarked omega.

Omegas host tea parties, betas own bookstores, and alphas dominate everything else.

“So get a temporary one,” Zoe suggests with a shrug, like she’s proposing I borrow a handbag.

“A temporary pack?” I raise an eyebrow. “Should I check the rental section at the local mart, or…?”

“I’m serious!” Zoe grabs her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “There are services for this. I saw an article about it last month. Ah! Here!” She thrusts her phone at me.

I squint at the screen. “ PackPlus: Professional Accompaniment for the Modern Alpha and Omega… ”

“It’s like an escort service, but for omegas who need a pack for events.” Zoe is practically vibrating with excitement. “They’re not real escorts—they just pretend to be your pack for parties, weddings, work functions... Basically any place where showing up alone would suck.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, handing her phone back.

“More ridiculous than staying home while Eric marries Melissa, thinking you’re too heartbroken to show your face?”

I wince. She’s not wrong. “I’d rather fake-marry a cactus than rent a pack of strange alphas.”

“You don’t have to marry them. Just show up with them, act like you’re part of their pack, and leave Eric wondering what he lost.”

The idea is so absurd I almost laugh. Almost. But a tiny voice in the back of my head wonders if it might actually work. No, that’s the wine talking. I drain my glass and set it on the table with a decisive thunk.

“Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—how would that even work? ‘Hi, I’d like to rent three alphas for the weekend, please make them hot and not serial killers?’”

Zoe giggles. “From what I read, they’re all screened. Some are even actors or models doing it as a side gig.”

“Great, so not only would they be strangers, but they’d be impossibly attractive strangers who’d make me look even more pathetic by comparison.” I head to the kitchen to refill my wine glass. My apartment suddenly feels too small, too empty. Just like my life.

“You’re not pathetic,” Zoe says, her voice softening. “You’re just... stuck.”

“Stuck,” I repeat. That’s exactly how I feel—like I’ve been treading water since Eric left, not drowning but definitely not swimming forward either.

Which is ridiculous because I have zero feelings for him and he was a pretentious prick that deserved to be left in the dust.

“The bakery is your fresh start, right? Maybe this could be part of that.” Zoe follows me to the kitchen, watching as I pour more wine for both of us. “Just think about it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“They could be axe murderers.”

“They won’t be axe murderers.”

“They could be terrible actors and embarrass me in front of everyone.”

“Better than going alone and definitely being embarrassed.”

I take another sip of wine. “Eric would know they weren’t really my pack.”

“How?” Zoe challenges. “It’s not like he’s kept tabs on you. For all he knows, you found the perfect pack the day after he left.”

I snort. “Yeah, right.”

“Leah.” Zoe puts her hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. “Two years ago, that alpha broke your heart, told you that you weren’t ‘pack material,’ and then hooked up with Melissa—who, may I remind you, was supposedly just his ‘work friend’—within a month.”

I feel the familiar ache in my chest at the memory. Eric had been so cruel at the end. So dismissive of everything we’d shared.

“Don’t you want to walk into that wedding with your head held high?” Zoe continues. “Don’t you want to show him that you’re thriving without him?”

“Of course I do, but?—”

“But nothing. This is your chance to rewrite the narrative.” She taps my forehead gently. “Stop thinking of yourself as the omega he rejected and start thinking of yourself as the omega who dodged a bullet.”

I laugh despite myself. “That’s a nice spin.”

“It’s the truth.” She gives me a little shake. “Promise me you’ll at least look at the website.”

I sigh, knowing she won’t let this go. “Fine. I’ll look. But I’m not promising anything else.”

“That’s all I ask.” Zoe grins triumphantly, then grabs her wine and heads back to the living room. “Now, can we please order pizza? I’m starving, and renting you a fake pack has worked up my appetite.”

“I didn’t agree to that yet!” I call after her, but I’m already reaching for my phone to order our favorite Hawaiian.

Later, after Zoe has gone home and I’ve changed into my pajamas, I find myself sitting cross-legged on my bed with my laptop open to the PackPlus website. The homepage is sleek and professional, featuring tasteful photos of attractive alphas and betas escorting smiling omegas at various events.

“This is insane,” I mutter to myself as I click through the testimonials.

“ PackPlus saved my work gala! My colleagues never suspected a thing, and my boss finally took me seriously when I had three alphas backing my presentation .” — Sandra T.

“ After my pack moved across the country for work, I didn’t want to attend my sister’s wedding alone. PackPlus provided the perfect temporary pack so I could enjoy the day without awkward questions. ” — Jamie S.

I hover over the “Services” tab, then click before I can talk myself out of it. The prices make me wince—not just wince, but full-body cringe. My bakery startup has cleaned out most of my savings. There’s no way I can justify this expense, no matter how satisfying the revenge fantasy.

“Four thousand dollars for a weekend?” I whisper-shriek at my screen. “That’s a commercial mixer!”

There are different packages available, from a single alpha escort to a full pack experience, but none of them fit my budget—which is approximately “zero dollars plus whatever’s in my change jar.”

The “Premier Pack Experience” catches my eye anyway: three alphas, fully coordinated, with “natural pack dynamics and protective behaviors.” The description promises they’ll act like a real pack, complete with subtle scent-marking and protective instincts.

I chew my lip as I scroll through the sample packs available. They all look like they’ve stepped out of a magazine—all perfect jawlines and broad shoulders and confident smiles.

“This is ridiculous,” I tell my empty bedroom, but I don’t close the laptop.

Instead, I find myself still staring at the screen when a small text link at the bottom of the page catches my eye: “Budget Options: Community Classifieds.”

I click it, curious.

The page that loads looks decidedly less polished than the main site. A disclaimer immediately pops up:

PackPlus Community Classifieds connects users seeking budget-friendly options. These arrangements are NOT vetted by PackPlus. Users connect at their own risk. Basic background verification only. 75% discount on standard agency fee.

“Uh…” I sigh, scrolling through the listings.

Most are single alphas offering to be plus-ones, but occasionally I spot a pair of friends or even small packs looking to make extra cash. The listings are brief, almost like dating profiles:

Alpha (32) available for corporate events. Professional appearance, respectful behavior. References available.

Beta/Alpha pair (28/30) seeking event opportunities. We clean up nice and know how to work a room. Fee negotiable.

As I scroll, I think about Eric and his stupid smug face. How he’d always made me feel like I was lucky to have him. “ An omega like you ,” he’d said during our breakup, “ just doesn’t inspire protective instincts. It’s biology, Leah .”

I’d later found out he’d been seeing Melissa for months—apparently she did “inspire” those instincts. Whatever. I don’t love Eric anymore—I don’t even like who he is as a person—but sometimes those words still sneak up on me during my lowest moments.

“Screw it,” I mutter, scrolling back to the top of the classifieds and clicking “Post a Listing.” This is ridiculous, but what do I have to lose? No one’s going to respond anyway.

I fill out the form with a sort of reckless abandon:

Omega (28) seeking temporary pack for ex’s wedding. He ended things saying I “wasn’t pack material.” Would like to prove him wrong. Event is black-tie. Open bar, gourmet food. Will cover basic fee, but budget is tight.

I hit submit without even rereading it, like I’m sending a risky text after two glasses of wine. The confirmation page cheerfully informs me that my listing is now live.

“Like anyone’s going to respond to that,” I laugh, closing my laptop. I’ve just wasted thirty minutes that could have been spent perfecting my signature pastry recipe, but at least I can tell Zoe I tried.

My phone pings with a text from her, right on cue:

Did you check out the website?

I type back:

I might have done something crazy.

Her response is immediate:

OMG DID YOU BOOK A PACK???

Not exactly. Posted in their discount classifieds. Can’t afford the real thing.

Three dancing emojis appear, followed by:

I’m so proud of you! Eric won’t know what hit him!

I flop back against my pillows, staring at the ceiling. “What have I done?” I whisper to my empty apartment.

But even as anxiety flutters in my stomach, I feel something else too—a spark of excitement, of possibility. For the first time in two years, I’m taking action instead of hiding. Even if that action is completely bonkers.

I grab my phone and type one more message to Zoe:

If they turn out to be axe murderers, I’m coming back to haunt you.

She sends back a string of laughing emojis and a simple:

Worth it.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe it will be.