Chapter 1 The Scentless One

"There will be a twenty percent reduction in staff," my manager Craig announced to the group in our emergency staff meeting. My stomach immediately turned into nervous knots. Craig paused, waiting for the collective gasp to settle down, a small smile quivering at the corners of his mouth. Is that sympathy, or is he enjoying this? I wondered. As if to address my thoughts, Craig's face switched to a mask of regret as he looked around the room. "I'm not happy about it either. Each of you is important to this department in my opinion. But, since the new CEO believes differently, I'll be conducting performance reviews with everyone this week and reporting my findings." My heart sank. I knew my work was good. But if it was going to be a popularity contest, I had no chance. After all, I am “scentless”. In a world of werewolves, scent was just as vital a sense as sight. Werewolves had a built-in system to rate every scent they encountered. Alphas were born with B grade scent minimums. Betas and Omegas, on the other hand, could be very flexible. They could easily smell like a C, D, or F grade to strangers. Whenever one met someone who had the potential to be a best friend or partner, they will immediately register as an A, while A+ is definitely a top match. There was a myth about S grade, but it was only a myth. Therefore, best friends, couples, business partners, even military units, all these social ties were established on scents. I, however, had no scent. Or at least, that's what most people said. Another oddity was that it seemed I lacked the system to grade other people’s scent. I didn't instinctively rate someone before I knew them, but instead judged people on other aspects like personality or behavior. Those who were being kind compared me to air. Some openly asked about my bloodline, another thing usually discernable in one's personal smell. My answer was again disappointing. I was an orphan and had no idea who my parents were. "I'll be sending each of you messages about when we are to meet. Thank you, and again, I'm very sorry that we are in this situation," Craig finished this meeting. My colleagues began to murmur to each other as they walked out, but no one cared about me. I was used to it by now. They didn't mean to be rude. I went out into the hall and began to walk toward the main room and my cubicle, but Craig came striding back down the corridor and blocked my way. "There you are, Elena," he said, beaming. "You're always so hard to track down, you know." He tapped his nose and gave me a wink. I tried not to roll my eyes. Performance evaluation, I thought and smiled. "What's up, Craig?" He handed me a stack of files. "Some new manuscripts just in." His hand went up to my face, bringing his scent of licorice with it. He flicked a lock of my dark hair away before settling his hand on my shoulder. I wanted to brush it off but I forced myself to be still, to keep my smile. I looked around. There was no one else in the corridor. "How are you feeling after the announcement?" he asked. "Nervous," I admitted. His scent was too close and it made me nauseous. I turned my nose away, but he didn't move his hand. "Just do your best. Speaking of, those need to be in my inbox by the time you leave, okay?" "Okay." He rubbed my shoulder and continued down the corridor. I watched him go, trying not to gag at the thick sweetness that drifted in his wake. I used to be okay with the smell of licorice until I got to know Craig. I'd seen him squeeze, hug, and pat other females and no one seemed to give it a second thought. Jerry in marketing even patted him back. Am I being oversensitive? I thought, trying to wipe the licorice smell off my shoulder and glancing at the females around me as I went past their cubicles. No one else seemed to have a problem with his handsy behavior. I sat down at my desk and stared at the folders. I'd wanted to be a reporter. It's what they promised when I first came to the newspaper after graduation. But here I was, years later, still on comics and proofreading, having done nothing more than occasionally write stories for other reporters under their byline. I guess it was hard for them to trust someone without a scent. And yet I tried hard to do well in every work I was given. Surely, I thought, all that good work and so little complaining will allow me to keep my job. A few hours later, the atmosphere began to change. It was Friday, and people were busy planning to meet for drinks and dinner. I went to the manager's office with my proofed copies and was relieved to see Craig had gone for the day. I slapped the packet in his inbox, glancing at the photo of his wife on his desk before I went to pack my bag. I pushed open the doors to the front of the building just as my phone dinged with a text. It was Cathy, my only close friend and sole support since high school. Guess what? Your high school crush is in town. The line was followed by a spray of winking and heart-surrounded emoji faces. My breath caught in my throat and I instinctively turned right, heading toward a popular square. Music and voices from Friday night crowds filled the air and neon lights illuminated the space. Delicious smells of meat and fried food from the restaurants swirled around the people happily hanging out or on their way to food and entertainment. An enormous screen across the square projected the local news. And there he was. Charles. Larger than life, being interviewed by a local reporter, he was breathtakingly handsome with his dark, wavy hair and sharp blue eyes. His face light up the screen. The reporter beamed and leaned in toward him. He'd always that effect on people. Their dialog ran across the bottom. "And a hearty welcome to the young media entrepreneur, Mr. Charles Rafe!" the reporter said. "Thank you, Sandy." He smiled at her, and I suddenly remembered him, a little more baby-faced, on the soccer field or in the school baseball uniform, in the back row of my history class, but still attracting every eye in the room when he smiled like that. Even now I could feel myself grinning at the screen like an idiot, remembering his warm, vetiver smell. "And what are your plans for our fair city?" the reporter asked. "As you know, Sandy, the merger of my family's two companies has been a good move. We're fortunately seeing steady profits." "We all know fortune has nothing to do with it," the reporter said, playfully nudging his arm. "Well, thank you, but it takes a hardworking, loyal set of people to make any business successful." His blue eyes looked directly into the camera. I caught my breath, as did a few other people who had also stopped and looked up. He seemed to be looking down through the square directly at me. I stood, riveted to the spot, gazing back. "So naturally I'm here to find those people, and while I'm at it, acquire some companies and expand the Rafe family's business empire." I couldn’t help but stare at the screen until Charles was gone. Wouldn't it be weird if he were my new boss? I thought. I quickly shook my head with a bitter smile. It was a big city. Surely there was more than one large conglomerate coming to town.