The morning air felt different at Crescent Academy—cleaner, crisper, more expensive somehow. I adjusted the rearview mirror of my beat-up Honda Civic, catching a glimpse of my carefully neutral expression. No one here could know who I really was. Luna Reyes, transfer student with a modest scholarship—that's who I needed to be today. Not the missing heiress to the Silva Global empire. Not the daughter of Maria Silva, whose "accidental" death five years ago had been anything but.
"Remember the plan," I whispered to myself, checking my watch. Four hours until my next suppressant dose. The small blue pills had become my lifeline, keeping my Omega biology hidden beneath layers of artificial Beta pheromones. In a world where Alphas ruled and Omegas were seen as valuable commodities rather than people, I couldn't afford to be discovered.
I tucked the tiny recording device—disguised as a simple pendant—beneath my sweater. Today was just reconnaissance: map the terrain, identify key players, blend in. The children of my mother's killers walked these hallowed halls, oblivious that justice was coming for their families.
The student parking lot was a showcase of wealth—Range Rovers, Mercedes, and even a few Porsches gleamed under the morning sun. I guided my Honda into an empty spot between a Tesla and a BMW, feeling like a crow among peacocks. The contrast suited my purpose; nobody notices the ordinary.
I grabbed my backpack and checked my reflection one last time. The face that looked back at me was carefully constructed—hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, minimal makeup, forgettable clothes. I'd learned years ago that invisibility was a superpower in its own right.
"First day, don't screw it up," I muttered, stepping out of the car.
The campus sprawled before me, all Gothic architecture and manicured lawns. Students moved in tight-knit groups, their designer clothes and confident postures screaming old money and established hierarchies. I took a deep breath and started walking, mentally reviewing the dossiers I'd memorized. The Blackwoods, the Montgomerys, the Chens—all families connected to my mother's death, all with children attending this academy.
I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I almost missed the roar of an engine—too close, too fast. The screech of tires jerked me back to reality as a black Lamborghini swerved around the corner, barreling directly toward me.
Time slowed. I froze between two parked cars as the sports car bore down on me. At the last possible second, the driver slammed on the brakes, the vehicle skidding to a halt mere inches from where I stood.
Fear transformed instantly to rage. Without thinking, I slammed my palm down on the gleaming hood.
"Are you trying to kill someone?" I shouted, heart hammering against my ribs.
Through the tinted windshield, I could make out a figure on a phone, seemingly unbothered by the near-miss. The casual disregard ignited something primal inside me. I smacked the hood again, harder.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!"
The driver's door swung open, and a tall figure unfolded from the leather interior. My breath caught involuntarily. Even from several feet away, his Alpha presence was overwhelming—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, and eyes that flashed with irritation. I recognized him immediately from my research: Adrian Blackwood, heir to Blackwood Industries and son of Marcus Blackwood—one of the men potentially responsible for my mother's death.
A strange heat flooded my body, starting at my core and radiating outward. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The familiar chemical balance of my suppressants seemed to waver, like a radio signal losing clarity.
Adrian opened his mouth, likely to deliver some entitled rebuke, but then he stopped. His nostrils flared slightly, and his expression transformed. The irritation vanished, replaced by something far more dangerous—hunger, recognition, claim.
"Mine," he growled, the word seeming to bypass his conscious mind.
Horror dawned as I realized what was happening. The adrenaline spike from the near-accident had temporarily overwhelmed my suppressants. My Omega scent was leaking through.
I backed away, watching his pupils dilate, his body go rigid. Every instinct screamed danger—not of violence, but of something equally devastating to my plans. Discovery. Exposure. Claiming.
"Stay away from me," I hissed, turning to run.
Behind me, Adrian Blackwood stood frozen in the parking lot, one word hanging in the air between us like a promise or a threat. I didn't look back as I fled into the school building, but I could feel his eyes tracking my escape, his Alpha instincts irrevocably locked onto my scent.
Day one, and my cover was already compromised. The mission to avenge my mother had just become infinitely more complicated.
