Page 5 of Pack Plus One

Zoe nearly spits out her coffee. “Oh my god, let me see!”

I screen share to show her my screen full of messages. Her laughter fills my bedroom.

“This is why premium packs cost four thousand dollars,” she says between giggles. “You’re getting the Craigslist special.”

“I’d still take the cactus,” I mutter, flopping back onto my pillows. “I never should have posted that stupid ad.”

“Oh, come on, there has to be someone normal in there.”

“Define normal. There’s a ‘pack’ of three college freshmen offering to be my ‘alpha studs’ for the price of an open bar.”

Zoe’s eyes widen. “Are they cute?”

“They’re CHILDREN.”

“Right, right. Bad idea.” She takes another sip of coffee. “But seriously, just keep looking. The wedding’s still two weeks away.”

I shake my head. “No way. This was a terrible idea. I’m deleting the ad and going with plan ‘show up alone, smile through the pain, and leave early.’”

“Boring,” Zoe singsongs. “But I respect it.”

“I gotta go,” I say, glancing at the time. “The bakery supplier’s coming at nine, and I still need to finalize the menu.”

“Still planning to name it ‘Sweet Omega’?” Zoe asks with a smirk.

“You know it.” I grin despite my morning disaster. “What better way to annoy Eric than to become a successful business owner with that name?”

“I love your petty heart.”

“Thanks. It’s one of my best qualities.”

Three hours later, I’m standing in my soon-to-be bakery, facing off with a supplier who looks like he stepped out of a 1950s alpha handbook.

“Omegas don’t like espresso-infused desserts,” he insists, crossing his arms over his chest. “Too bitter. You need more vanilla, more caramel. Sweet things for sweet omegas.”

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I need his wholesale pricing more than I need to educate him on omega stereotypes.

“This one does,” I say, tapping the order form. “And since I’m the omega opening a bakery specifically marketed to other omegas, I think I might have some insight.”

He looks unconvinced. “Without pack backing, you’ll need to play it safe. Traditional sells.”

The comment stings more than it should after my morning of rejection.

“Just fill the order as written,” I say, my voice tight. “The espresso grounds, the cardamom, and the baking chocolate. If my business fails because omegas can’t handle complex flavors, I’ll take full responsibility.”

He shrugs and takes the form, but not before mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “your funeral.”

As he leaves, a delivery truck pulls up outside. The driver unloads a large tube and brings it inside.

“Banners for Sweet Omega Bakery,” he announces, handing me a clipboard to sign. As I’m signing, I catch him eyeing my neck—specifically, the lack of a bonding mark there.

“It’s brave to open a business without pack backing,” he says, trying to sound supportive but landing somewhere closer to condescending.

I hand back the clipboard with a tight smile. “Thanks.”

Uh. I want to scream.

But I’m dignified.

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