Chapter 3

The building squats against the darkening sky like a predator waiting to pounce. Concrete walls, grimy windows placed too high to see through, and a metal door that looks heavy enough to seal a vault. Nothing about 42 Industrial Boulevard says "birthday celebration." Everything about it screams "turn around." I stand on the cracked sidewalk, watching my shadow stretch long and thin across the pavement as the sun sinks toward the horizon. The blue sweater suddenly feels too tight across my chest, as if trying to restrict the panicked breaths I'm fighting to control. I check my phone one more time.

Me: I'm outside. This doesn't look right. Are you sure this is the place?

The response is immediate, as if Cassandra has been waiting with her finger hovering over the keyboard.

Cassandra: Yes. Come inside. Don't keep us waiting.

Us. The word sits heavy in my stomach. I glance back the way I came, the familiar world of sidewalks and streetlights already seeming distant. A truck rumbles past, its slipstream pulling at my hair, the driver not even glancing my way. No one knows I'm here except Cassandra and Kelly, and I never sent Kelly that promised text.

My thumb hovers over her contact. One message and she'd come running, probably with her older brother in tow. But then I'd have to explain my paranoia to Cassandra, risk ruining whatever effort she's finally making.

I pocket my phone and approach the door. It opens more easily than it looks, swinging inward on well-oiled hinges.

The smell hits me first – industrial cleaning agents overlaying something metallic that scrapes at the back of my throat. The air feels wrong in my lungs, thick with chemicals and an underlying sweetness that makes my omega senses flare with recognition before I can identify why. My eyes adjust slowly to the dim interior, revealing a space larger than it appeared from outside. Concrete floors, exposed pipes snaking along the ceiling, metal tables pushed against one wall. No decorations. No balloons or wrapped presents. No sign of anything resembling a birthday celebration.

"Cassandra?" My voice bounces off hard surfaces, coming back to me smaller and more frightened than when it left.

"Back here, Justine." Her voice emanates from a doorway at the far end, where yellow light spills onto the concrete floor.

Each step feels heavier than the last, my body physically resisting as I force myself forward. The room beyond is smaller, set up like an office with a desk and several chairs. Cassandra stands near the desk, her posture perfect as always, not a hair out of place. Two men in dark suits flank her, their attention snapping to me as I enter. Their scents hit me immediately – alphas, both of them, but with something cold and clinical in their pheromones that triggers a primal urge to flee.

"Happy birthday, Justine," Cassandra says, her smile tight and brittle as thin ice. "These gentlemen are interested in your... special talents."

The taller alpha steps forward, his eyes roaming over me with detached assessment. I fight the instinct to cover myself with my arms, to make myself smaller under his predatory gaze.

"This is the omega?" he asks Cassandra, as if I'm not standing right here.

"Yes," she confirms. "Sixteen today, as we discussed. Late bloomer, but the doctor confirmed she's likely to present fully within the next few months."

They're talking about me in the clinical language of livestock. My eyes dart around the room, registering details my brain doesn't want to process – the silver briefcase on the desk, the legal-looking documents spread beside it, the small case that might hold medical instruments... or worse.

"I don't understand," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "What is this? Where's the celebration you mentioned?"

Cassandra's laugh is sharp enough to cut. "Oh, Justine. Did you really think I'd waste money on a party for you? After everything you've cost me?"

The taller alpha picks up one of the documents, scanning it with disinterest. "The paperwork appears in order. Medical history, genetic screening, projections for compatibility." He looks at me again. "The omega seems physically adequate, if a bit small. Any behavioral issues we should know about?"

"Nothing significant," Cassandra replies. "Typical omega sensitivity. Occasional defiance that's easily managed."

Understanding crashes through me like a wrecking ball. This isn't a celebration. It's a transaction.

I back toward the door, but the second alpha moves with surprising speed, positioning himself between me and the exit. "Where are you going, little omega?" he asks, his voice smooth as silk and just as suffocating. "We haven't completed our business yet."

"Cassandra," I plead, turning back to her. "What are you doing? You can't... you can't sell me. I'm a person. I'm your stepdaughter."

Her face hardens, any pretense of warmth vanishing like morning dew under a harsh sun. "You've been nothing but a burden since your father died," she says coldly. "Do you know how much debt he left me with? How expensive it is to raise an omega?"

The words strike like physical blows. "Dad wouldn't want this," I whisper.

"Your father isn't here," she snaps. "He left me to clean up his messes, including you. Do you think those suppressants are cheap? The special doctors? The security systems to keep you safe?" Her lip curls. "To keep you contained until you were worth something."

The taller alpha slides the briefcase toward her. "The agreed amount. Half now, half upon delivery to the facility once the first heat begins."

"No!" The word tears from my throat as I lunge for the door, but strong hands catch me, pinning my arms. I kick backward, connecting with something solid that earns a grunt of pain. "Let me go! Help! Somebody help me!"

The second alpha clamps his hand over my mouth, his grip bruising. "The merchandise is spirited," he comments, as if noting the weather.

"Please," I beg when he loosens his grip slightly, my words muffled against his palm. "Cassandra, don't do this. I'll get a job. I'll pay you back whatever it cost. I'll move out when I graduate. Please."

She signs the document with a practiced flourish, not even looking at me. "Don't be dramatic, Justine. The Crimson Order provides for special omegas like you. They'll give you purpose."

The Crimson Order. The name sends ice through my veins – whispered rumors in school hallways, news stories quickly suppressed, an urban legend of missing omegas that adults refuse to discuss. They're real, and Cassandra knows them. Has been planning this with them.

"You can't do this!" I thrash harder, managing to break one arm free. My nails catch the alpha's cheek, drawing blood before he slams me against the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs.

"Sedate her," he orders. "She's making this unnecessarily difficult."

The taller alpha approaches with a syringe, its contents clear and innocuous-looking. I scream and writhe, but the grip on me is iron. The needle bites into my neck, a sharp sting followed by spreading coldness.

"It's nothing personal," Cassandra says, latching the briefcase and pulling it close to her chest. "Just business. Your mother would have understood."

The room begins to tilt and blur at the edges. My limbs feel weighted with concrete, my thoughts fragmenting like shattered glass. The last thing I see before darkness claims me is Cassandra's face, her expression neither triumphant nor regretful – just satisfied, like someone who's finally paid off a long-standing debt.