Page 5 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

No one even looks up.

“NO,” I say, louder now. “No, no, no. This is a hate crime. This is targeted harassment.”

Sarah from Finance yawns. Someone in Content is unboxing a ring light. Nobody so much as glances in my general direction.

I swipe down, borderline frantic. The full pack preview loads, and then—because the universe apparently wants me dead—two more profiles appear beneath his, both labeled asBonded to: Wesley Knight.

The dumpling corpse steams gently behind the printer as my eye twitches, and I know in my soul that I’ve made a terrible,terriblemistake.

The photos load, and I recognize them instantly: Cameron Richardson, and Jace Callahan.

I don’t believe it. This pack not only includes the emotionally constipated alpha who ghosted me four years ago, but alsoCam, his sweet, cinnamon-roll stepbrother who he basically raisedfrom the age of seven and would absolutely throw himself in front of a moving truck for. Jace is their high school best friend turned shirtless fitness mogul who skipped college, started training clients at nineteen, and now owns half of the gyms in the city.

Cam’s photos load first, and serve as Exhibit A in why omegas can’t be trusted around soft smiles and rolled-up sleeves. He’s got full golden retriever energy: bright grin, floppy blond hair, and amber eyes that I swear are warm enough to thaw trauma. He looks like he was custom-built in a lab for emotional whiplash, and the freckles—

Oh, thefreckles.

They're a biohazard, not a feature.

The next photo’s even worse. He’s surrounded by tiny soccer players, clearly coaching, and his profile casually mentions teaching high school history and volunteering at a local animal shelter at least once a month.

If I didn’t know he was Wes’s stepbrother, I’d already be halfway to a scent-bond and naming our future rescue dog. He’s unfairly gorgeous. Weaponized wholesomeness in a Henley.

Andthenthere’s Jace.

He’s shirtless on his photo,obviously. I’m not sure the man evenownsa shirt. He’s got brown wavy hair, neatly styled facial hair, and abs that genuinely look illegal in at least four states.

I scroll, and yep—there's more shirtless content. This man’s social media is a shrine to gym culture and ego sprinkled with sponsored protein deals, workout videos that start with “rise and grind,” and the occasional thirst trap for charity that somehow makes me hate him less. His whole vibe is cowboy-fuckboy-gym bro wrapped in sweat and dangerously low sweatpants, and against my better judgment… it kind of works.

God help me.

All three of them. A full pack.

And apparently, I’m their 99.7% dream omega.

I close the app, turn my phone screen-down on my desk, and stare at the wall for a solid five minutes straight. In my gut, I already know that I really should stop this madness now.

Instead, I open my notes app.

Operation: Survive the Scented Apocalypse.

Step One: Don’t die.

Step Two: Don’t bond.

Step Three: Don’t let Wes win.

I close my eyes, inhale a deep breath, and whisper to myself.

“I amsofucked.”

And not even in the fun way.

*

Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, I try to live my life like a normal, non-matched citizen.

I go to work, I drink bitter office coffee, and I write half an article about pheromone-driven dating apps being a capitalist scam designed to emotionally compromise omegas into thinking they’re unlovable without alpha validation. It’s far too scathing, and I know Rachel will never publish it, but I don’t even care.It’scathartic.

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