Page 2 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

“Right. Exactly.”

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

Rachel levels me with a look. “It’s not. It’sterrifying. 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 areeverywhere. 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 headlineandthe 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 dramaticthumpthat 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 documenteverything. 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 saysDo 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 itHow to Lose an Alpha in 10 Heatsand make it a hate crime. We’ll brand it, maybe even get a sponsor. There’s real potential here.”

I pause. That titleiskind 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 youdon’twant 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, nowyou’rethe 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.”

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