Page 2 of Heat Clickbait
"You mean the literal foundation of my entire brand? The thing that makes me relatable to my audience?"
"I mean," she sighed dramatically, "save the trauma bonding for when you're actually considering working with someone long-term, not during three-minute speed rounds." She gave me a quick hug, careful not to disturb the cloud of Beta enhancement chemicals that surrounded her like armor. "Twenty minutes, Callie. You've survived worse than this. You've got this."
The first bell rang, and yes, it was adorably little, like something from a meditation app designed by someone who'd never experienced actual stress. I dropped into the chair across from my first Alpha like I was settling in for a dental procedure.
Connor something, according to his name tag, which was decorated with little dumbbells because subtlety was apparently dead. Fitness influencer, because of course. His scent hit me even through my multiple layers of chemical protection. Pine and protein powder, with an undercurrent of desperation that probably matched my own.
"So," he said, leaning forward with what I'm sure he thought was a charming smile, his muscles straining against a tank top that was definitely a size too small, "an Omega who doesn't need an Alpha. That's like, your whole brand thing, right? The independent Omega who gives relationship advice?"
I popped my watermelon gum, having switched flavors to match my neon nails that I'd already chipped from nervous picking during the walk from the hotel, and gave him my sweetest smile. "And you're a fitness bro who probably has 'Alpha' somewhere in your bio and posts shirtless gym selfies with motivational quotes about dominance. That's your whole thing, right?"
His confident expression faltered slightly, confusion flickering across his aggressively symmetrical features. "I mean, fitness is about pushing boundaries and?—"
"Three minutes," I reminded him, glancing at the timer on the table. "What did you want to discuss?"
"Right, yeah. I was actually thinking we could collaborate on a workout series specifically designed for Omegas. You know, building physical strength and mental resilience to resist unwanted Alpha pheromone influence through targeted conditioning?" He leaned forward eagerly, like he'd just pitched the next great streaming revolution. "Call it 'Alpha-Proof: Fitness for Independent Omegas' or something catchy like that."
I almost laughed. Almost. "That's not how biology works, babe. You can't gym your way out of genetics."
He stared at me for a few beats as though he couldn't understand why I wasn't mounting him right then and there due to the brilliance of his idea before he said, "But think about the content angle?—"
The blessed bell rang before he could finish that thought. Thank every streaming god that ever existed.
The next four tables blurred together in a parade of predictable Alpha stereotypes and terrible collaboration ideas. Table two was a gaming Alpha who spent the entire three minutes explaining why female streamers had it easier because "guys just throw money at pretty girls" (statistically incorrect and offensively reductive). Table three was a lifestyle guru who suggested I'd get exponentially more views if I "embraced traditional pack dynamics" and showed my audience "the beauty of Omega submission" (I wouldn't, and there wasn't). Table four was a comedy creator who opened with a knot joke and seemed genuinely surprised when I didn't laugh (originality was clearly not his strong suit). Table five was a music producer who actually seemed relatively normal and professional until he mentioned his "ex-Omega" twelve separate times in three minutes (red flag parade with confetti).
I made elaborate notes on the little pink cards they'd provided, mostly just drawing increasingly detailed middle fingers in glitter pen and rating each Alpha's scent on a scale of "mildly offensive" to "biohazard."
"This is actual torture," I muttered to Michelle as she materialized beside my chair between rounds, appearing with water and concerned manager energy. "Like, medieval-level psychological warfare."
"Five more tables and you're done. You're doing amazing, by the way."
"I'm dying inside. Slowly and painfully."
"Your subscriber count is up two thousand since you posted that Instagram story about being here." She showed me her phone screen, where my follower numbers were climbing in real-time. "The comments are incredible. Everyone's living vicariously through your speed dating adventure."
That did make me feel marginally better. Numbers didn't lie or try to dominate you with poorly applied cologne and protein powder pheromones. Numbers just went up or down based on how well you understood your audience and played the content game. And I was very, very good at playing the game.
Table eleven was completely empty when I reached it, the Alpha probably taking a bathroom break or having an emergency phone call. I used the blessed moment of solitude to reapply my scent blockers from the emergency supply in my purse, the sharp chemical smell making my eyes water as I dabbed the clear gel along my pulse points. A year ago, this entire event would've been effortless. A year ago, I was still taking enough suppressants to kill a horse, my body locked down tighter than my streaming schedule, every biological response muted to nothing.
But then everything had happened with Kara. She had needed support during her transition to being openly Omega, and I couldn't be a hypocrite. Couldn't sit there telling her to be proud of who she was while I hid behind pharmaceutical walls, chemically neutering myself to maintain my brand image. So I'd tapered off slowly, trading chemical numbness for the constant low-level anxiety of feeling everything my body was designed to feel.
Now look at me. Sitting at speed dating, pretending my skin didn't feel too tight every time an Alpha's scent managed to slip past my defenses, pretending I wasn't terrified that one of them might trigger something I couldn't control.
"Sorry, sorry!" A voice came from behind me, cultured and apologetic with a crisp British accent that immediately made me sit up straighter. "Got caught up talking to another creator about a potential collaboration opportunity and completely lost track of time. Terribly unprofessional of me."
I turned in my chair, ready to deliver some cutting remark about punctuality and time management, and the words died in my throat.
Five Alphas stood there, moving together with the kind of seamless pack dynamics you usually only saw in nature documentaries or really expensive Alpha leadership seminars. The coordinated way they positioned themselves, the subtle hierarchy in their body language, the way they seemed to communicate without words.
This wasn't just a group of friends who happened to stream together.
This was a real pack.
The one who'd spoken, tall and lean with perfectly styled dark hair and designer glasses that probably cost more than my rent, was clearly the pack's primary Alpha. His posture radiated the kind of confident authority that came from actual leadership experience, not gym-bro posturing. The others arranged themselves behind him with practiced ease: a shorter one with flour somehow dusting his dark brown hair, a massive one built like he could bench-press small cars for fun but with surprisingly gentle eyes, one with purple and neon green hair who was literally bouncing on his toes with energy, and one hanging back in all black who hadn't looked up from his phone yet but radiated the kind of dangerous stillness that made my hindbrain sit up and pay attention.
"We're Bond Pack," the primary said, extending his hand with a slight smile that transformed his entire face from intimidating to devastatingly charming. "I'm Nova, and we'reactually here specifically looking for an Omega collaborator for a new series we're developing about modern pack dynamics and changing relationship structures in the streaming community."
I stared at his outstretched hand for a heartbeat too long, my brain struggling to process what was happening. Then I reached out automatically, and the moment our skin made contact, even through my industrial-strength scent blockers, even through every chemical barrier I'd carefully erected, something deep in my chest wentoh.
