Mated to the Four Hockey Billionaire Alphas

The first thing I learned after presenting as an omega was that love always comes with conditions.

​My parents loved me when they thought I’d become an Alpha like my father. They loved my perfect grades and academic awards. But the moment I presented as an omega at twenty-one, I became an embarrassment.

​“Do you have any idea what people in our circle are saying? An omega son? We should’ve sent you away years ago," my father had spat three months ago, tossing my two battered suitcases onto the wet pavement before slamming the front door in my face.

​Rain had poured from the dark Chicago sky that night, soaking straight through my thin sweater as I stood alone on the sidewalk outside my childhood home. My mother hadn't even come downstairs to say goodbye.

Three months had passed since then. Three long, exhausting months of sleeping in the back of my rusty hatchback, pulling double shifts at a local coffee shop, and skipping meals whenever my suppressants became too expensive to buy.

Sitting in my car after another agonizing ten-hour shift, my feet throbbed and my back ached. I pulled out my cracked phone and opened my bank app.

$23.41. 

​I stared at the tiny red numbers in absolute defeat. My landlord had already sent three final eviction notices this month alone. My college tuition was past due, and if I didn't pull off a miracle by the end of the week, I was going to be living out of my hatchback in the middle of a brutal Midwest winter.

Being an unbonded, unmasked omega in a city dominated by high-status Alphas made corporate hiring virtually impossible. Most offices viewed unbonded omegas as walking liabilities—distractions waiting to happen during sudden heat cycles. The news was constantly flooded with stories of desperate omegas targeted by ruthless Alphas who believed power and pheromones gave them the right to control anyone weaker.

The thought alone made my stomach turn. But survival didn't leave much room for pride.

I opened my backpack and pulled out a small, hidden silver box. Inside lay three heavy-duty scent-blocking patches and a double-strength bottle of black-market suppressants I’d bought off a shady online forum. They were illegal, ridiculously expensive, and tore up my stomach, but I had no choice. I couldn't afford to let anyone catch a whiff of my scent profile.

​Ding.

My cracked phone buzzed with an incoming email notification.

​VANGUARD ELITE STAFFING: APPLICATION APPROVED

Position: Lead Executive Assistant – Private Residence

Client: Confidential (High-Profile)

Pay: $8,500/month + Full Benefits

Note: Immediate trial interview required. 

Address: Lakefront Tower, Penthouse 1.

​I nearly dropped my phone. Eight thousand five hundred dollars a month? There was no way that salary was legitimate. I clicked into the details, skimming through the listed responsibilities: managing complex schedules, high-end grocery orders, private travel arrangements, and maintaining strict household privacy.

​"This has to be a scam," I muttered to myself, rubbing my tired eyes. No one paid a twenty-one-year-old college student eight thousand dollars a month to manage an apartment. Unless they were secretly planning to harvest my organs on the dark web, it made zero sense.

​Still... I looked back down at the twenty-three dollars in my checking account. At this point, I was desperate enough to risk losing a kidney if it meant paying off my tuition and putting a roof over my head.

I didn't even care who the client was. I didn't care if they were demanding, eccentric, or impossible to work for. I quickly smoothed down my oversized thrift-store sweater, checked the mirror to ensure my scent patch was completely hidden beneath my collar, and shoved the car into drive.

​Thirty minutes later, I stood in the breathtaking marble lobby of Lakefront Tower.

​The building screamed wealth, but as I stepped inside, the air hit me like a physical weight. It smelled faintly of immense power, territorial dominance, and raw Alpha energy. My stomach churned in immediate, primal recognition.

​"Name?" the receptionist asked, barely glancing up.

​"Orion Vance. I'm here for the assistant interview at Penthouse 1."

The receptionist’s head snapped up instantly. Her eyes dragged slowly over my slender frame, my faded jeans, and my pale, nervous face. "You're the replacement candidate?”

​I frowned. "Replacement?"

She quickly looked away, clearing her throat as she tapped a keycard against her desk. "Never mind." She slid the shiny security badge across the marble counter toward me with an expression that felt suspiciously like pity. "Private elevator on the left. Press PH1. And... good luck. You're going to need it.”

​My throat went bone-dry. I took the keycard, my heart hammering against my ribs as I stepped into the private elevator. 

The doors slid shut, and the display panel rapidly climbed toward the top floor. I stared at my reflection in the mirrored wall, adjusting my collar one last time to make sure my patch wasn't peeling. Just act professional. Keep your head down. Get the job.

​The doors opened directly into a dark, cavernous living room with soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. The space smelled heavily of rich cedarwood, sharp peppermint, and something dark and ancient, like rain-soaked earth. It was a suffocating concentration of dominant Alpha air that made my knees wobble.

​I took a tentative step out onto the cold marble floor, clutching my leather folder to my chest like a shield.

​"Hello?" I called out, my voice sounding impossibly small in the vast room. "I'm Orion Vance... from the staffing agency?"

​From the shadows near the sweeping windows, a deep, icy voice resonated through the silence, making every hair on my arms stand up.

​"You're late.”