Chapter 5
535words
A former colleague sidled up, champagne in hand, eyes gleaming with gossip.
"Maggie, you'll never guess who I ran into last week."
I swirled my drink, feigning disinterest.
"Who?"
"Lily." She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "God, she's completely transformed. Barely recognized her."
My mind flashed to the weeping Omega who'd confronted me—fragile and pale as her namesake flower, greenhouse-grown and sheltered.
My colleague's description painted a completely different picture.
"She's sporting these wild waves now, blood-red lipstick, and that dress—I checked the label—haute couture, easy six figures."
"And her pheromone signature? Used to be that delicate peach blossom thing, but now…" She frowned, searching for words. "It's like top-shelf whiskey—spicy, commanding. Hits you like a freight train."
Apparently, Lily had been arm-in-arm with some silver fox, laughing with practiced elegance, commanding every eye in the room.
She wasn't the desperate-to-please Omega anymore. She'd become the center of attention, basking in every envious and hungry stare.
I felt oddly stunned.
That girl who'd trailed after Luke, wailing about being a "proper Omega," must have died that afternoon during our confrontation.
Over time, more snippets about her trickled my way.
Some claimed she'd spiraled into decadence after failing to snag Luke.
Others insisted she'd finally woken up.
A photo made the rounds in our old work group chat.
In it, Lily wore a razor-sharp black suit, seated at the head of a conference table with several Alpha executives standing deferentially behind her.
She wasn't looking at the camera—her profile sharp and cold, a slim cigarette between her fingers, smoke coiling around her like a familiar spirit.
That wasn't an Omega's posture—it was the stance of someone who wielded power.
The group chat went nuclear.
"Wait, wasn't she dating that loaded old guy? How'd she end up in the C-suite?"
"Heard he signed over part of his business to her. Fast-tracked her to the top."
"Jesus, what a gold-digger. Isn't she just sleeping her way to the top?"
"Why so salty? If you've got the goods, go sell 'em yourself. She's a legit director now, board seat and everything."
I stared at this stranger in the photo, remembering how she'd once screamed herself hoarse at me.
"You only love his money! His status as the golden boy!"
Turns out that wasn't an accusation—it was a confession of her own desires.
Not contempt, but envy.
The day I returned from my program, Luke came to pick me up.
As we drove through downtown, a massive LED billboard displayed a jewelry ad.
The star of the commercial? None other than Lily.
She wore a diamond necklace worth a small fortune, flashing a seductive smile at the camera, her eyes naked with ambition and hunger.
That night, I stumbled across Lily's interview on social media.
The reporter asked carefully: "How do you respond to critics who call you 'materialistic' and 'ruthless'?"
Lily faced the camera, languidly stroking the massive diamond on her finger.
She smiled, crimson lips curving into a contemptuous smirk.
"Critics?"
"Only the weak care what others think."
"I only care about the numbers in my account—and whether I can add another zero to them."
