Omega No More

The gala was a mask. Glittering gowns, champagne flutes, and orchestral music played like it belonged in a world untouched by blood and lies. But Lyra Ashbourne knew better.

She stood on the marble balcony, watching the corporate elites mingle in the ballroom below. Beneath her borrowed silver dress, a stolen comm-link buzzed against her ribs. In her ear, Cade's voice broke through the noise.

"Ten minutes until impact. You in position, Ghost?"

Lyra didn't answer. She adjusted the velvet mask over her face and stepped back inside the ballroom. The code name still tasted like poison in her mouth-Ghost. Like she didn't exist. Like she hadn't once been someone's mate. Someone's love. Someone's property.

Her heels clicked softly on the obsidian floor as she slipped past waiters and security, her movements trained, precise. She was heading toward the west wing-the servers' control room where the Gala's security system could be fried in under sixty seconds.

"Ghost, I swear, if you freeze up again-"

"I'm moving," she whispered, eyes scanning the crowd.

And then she saw him.

Zander Thorne.

Her former mate. The Alpha enforcer of the Regime. The man who had looked into her eyes and signed the bond erasure order. He stood tall, suited in black like a blade carved from shadow, speaking to a councilman with his back turned to her.

But Lyra's bond scar pulsed under her skin.

"You've got five minutes," Cade barked.

She ducked into the hallway.

Zander turned just in time to catch the shimmer of silver disappearing through the double doors.

The control room was cold, humming with low power. Lyra locked the door behind her and shoved a flash drive into the main port.

Lines of code spilled across the screen.

The virus would short out the Regime's surveillance for two full minutes. Enough time for the rebel team to plant the explosive, destroy the Project AlphaCore files, and vanish before anyone knew better.

She exhaled. Her hands shook.

"Don't freeze," she muttered to herself. "You don't owe him anything anymore."

Except she did. She owed him a taste of what it felt like to be powerless.

The timer hit zero.

From the east wing came a deafening boom.

The gala descended into chaos-screams, bodies rushing for exits, security barking orders.

Lyra yanked the drive, sprinting toward the exit tunnel.

But as she rounded the corner-he was there.

Zander.

The hallway narrowed. His eyes locked onto hers.

He didn't speak. Just stared, frozen, as if seeing a ghost.

And then he whispered, "Lyra?"

She didn't wait. She spun, ducked beneath his arm, and bolted down the back stairwell.

"Ghost is made," she hissed into her comms. "Abort backup-going dark."

Lyra burst through the alley exit, into night and smoke and alarms. She ripped the hem of her gown, vaulted a trash bin, and vanished into the lower city streets. Sirens howled behind her.

Inside, Zander stood still, heart pounding.

He hadn't seen her in four years. She'd died. He'd signed the cremation papers himself.

But that was her.

And she'd looked right at him like he was the villain in her story.

Twenty-three floors beneath the city, Lyra ripped off the mask and collapsed onto the cold floor of the rebel safehouse.

Cade greeted her with a protein bar and an eye-roll.

"You were supposed to plant a second device. And you look like you saw a ghost."