Chapter 2
819words
I was reading in the living room when he walked in.
"Baby, I'm so sorry." He moves to embrace me, his Alpha pheromones reaching out tentatively.
I calmly turn a page, not looking up.
His scent carries traces of something else.
Not cigarettes or alcohol. Not cologne.
Another Omega's signature.
Faint, but unmistakable to another Omega.
"Pack business ran late. I crashed at the office," he explains.
The office.
His pheromones betray him—Alphas release a bitter note when they lie.
"How was your heat? I had Mrs. Davis bring you suppressants—"
"Just fine." I close my book and finally meet his eyes.
Guilt flashes across his face.
Quickly masked by his practiced smile.
"Good. Next month I'll be there for you, I promise."
Next month.
It's always next month.
He drops onto the sofa, shrugging off his coat.
Something small falls from his pocket.
An earring.
Rose gold with a tiny moonstone charm.
"What's this?" I pick it up.
His expression falters. "Oh, that's… Mother's. She left it in my car. I need to return it."
Another lie.
Eleanor would never wear something so youthful.
The earring is brand new—no wear marks.
Recently purchased.
"I see." I hand it back to him.
His fingers brush mine as he takes it.
His Alpha instinct makes him grasp my hand.
"Emma, is something wrong?" He searches my eyes.
"Your scent is… cold."
An Omega's scent betrays their emotions.
I know this.
That's why I've been taking scent suppressants.
"Post-heat side effect, I suppose." I pull my hand away.
He frowns. "You're on suppressants? Why?"
"Because I had to survive my heat alone. Suppressants were the only option."
That shuts him up.
Guilt seeps into his scent.
His phone rings.
"Jess" flashes on the screen.
He quickly declines the call.
"Spam call," he mutters.
I say nothing.
He stands. "I need a shower. What would you like for dinner? I'll have the kitchen prepare anything."
"Whatever's fine."
He hesitates.
I used to plan our meals meticulously, ensuring his favorites were always served.
Now I can't even pretend to care.
He disappears into the bathroom.
Water runs.
I move to his coat and take a careful sniff.
Beyond the girl's rose scent, there's more.
Hotel soap.
Distinctive shampoo—not our brand.
And beneath it all, the unmistakable musk of recent sex.
My hands start to shake.
Deep breath. Stay calm.
The bathroom door opens suddenly.
Alexander emerges in a towel, water tracing the lines of his muscles.
"Forgot clean clothes."
He walks to the closet but stops abruptly.
"Emma, where's my black button-down?"
"At the cleaners."
"Which one?"
"The one from Friday night. It had lipstick on the collar."
The air between us freezes.
"Oh… must have brushed against someone at that business dinner." His expression remains carefully neutral.
But his scent betrays him—sharp with panic.
"Must have," I smile thinly.
He studies me for a moment, then grabs clothes and retreats to the bathroom.
His phone chimes again.
A message notification this time.
The preview appears on screen:
"Jessie: Tonight was amazing❤️ I'm obsessed with my new necklace!"
A selfie follows.
She's making a heart with her fingers, the moonstone necklace glittering at her throat.
I pick up his phone.
The password is our bonding date.
At least he hasn't changed that.
I open their conversation.
Photos.
Videos.
Voice messages.
All of it.
The earliest messages date back four months.
Right when I first brought up having a baby.
I'd said: "Alex, I want us to start a family."
He'd replied: "Let's wait, the timing isn't right."
Then messaged her: "Don't worry, I won't let her get pregnant. That would make leaving even harder."
I tap on a video.
The girl poses in black lingerie, pouting at the camera.
"Alex, do you like what you see?"
"Damn, baby. Take it off slower."
"So you're coming over tonight?"
"Of course. The wife's heat is acting up again. I'll make some excuse and slip out."
Wife.
That's how he refers to me.
Like I'm an inconvenience.
A problem to manage.
The shower shuts off.
I quickly replace the phone and return to my book.
Alexander emerges, dressed.
"Something came up at the office. Don't wait up."
Three a.m.
I hear the door lock click.
He slips in, reeking of roses.
He tiptoes to bed, thinking I'm asleep.
Carefully undressing.
Then into the shower.
For a long time.
He scrubs for ages.
Trying to wash away the evidence.
Finally, he slides into bed, spooning me from behind.
"Emma?" he whispers.
I don't respond.
His arm tightens, his scent trying to soothe me.
I feel nothing but revulsion.
Pure disgust.
He's gone when I wake up.
A note on his pillow:
"Early meeting. Dinner tonight? Booked your favorite place. xo"
I tear the note to pieces.
I email the Berlin Institute:
"Please arrange this Friday's flight. Thank you."
