Chapitre 2 : In Front of the Winged Goddess

When Ava, her maid Sophie, and Rupert arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport, a chauffeur sent by Aunt Maureen was already waiting for them. Sophie was delighted to be back in her city, but Ava noticed how Rupert, the ever-stoic Brit, was frowning at the man’s driving style. He loathed French and Italian drivers—reckless, he called them.

Fortunately, traffic was smooth – Paris was nearly deserted in August – and they reached Avenue Montaigne quickly. Their destination was one of Aunt Maureen’s favourite refuges in the City of Light: the Plaza Athénée. She had viewed countless apartments in the capital but had never found exactly what she was looking for. Choosing her château in the French countryside had been easier. However, she still longed for an exceptional pied-à-terre parisien, though she had yet to find la perle rare.

As they stepped into the hotel’s lavish lobby, its polished marble floor gleaming under the grand chandeliers, a tall man stood waiting near one of the wide, fluted columns.

“Lumina Ava, quel plaisir de vous revoir,” the hotel director greeted warmly, stretching out his hand.

Ava shook it, and he held hers a fraction too long before finally letting go. She had often accompanied her aunt to the Plaza, where they were always received with the utmost care.

“Moi aussi, Lionel.” Ava glanced around the grand lobby. “It looks different. Did you change something?”

“New chandeliers and more gold. We aimed for grandeur without décadence, though,” he replied, grinning at his attempt at a joke.

“It’s exquisite. You can never go wrong with more gold,” Ava agreed, admiring the high ceilings domed with gilded details.

“Indeed, exquisite,” Lionel murmured. When Ava turned to him, she found his eyes fixed on her.

Alphas were far too easy, Ava thought.

Sophie rolled her eyes, and Lionel quickly composed himself. “Please, allow me to escort you to your suite. Your aunt has been with us for a few days now—she’s been looking forward to your visit.”

They made their way to a bank of elevators off to the side of the lobby. Lionel accompanied them to the royal suite, the four-bedroom residence Aunt Maureen always booked when in Paris. She frequently hosted guests, and sometimes they even stayed overnight.

In the suite’s elegant salon, where multi-tiered chandeliers hung over plush cashmere carpets, a bouquet of colourful peonies awaited Ava. She also spotted a carafe of cucumber water, a bottle of Krug champagne, and a basket of seasonal fruits. Beside them sat two boxes of Pierre Hermé macarons—her absolute favourite.

She leaned in to inhale the scent of the flowers. “Quelle délicate attention, je vous remercie,” she said, thanking him. Then, looking up through her long lashes, she smiled. “You seem to know the way to my heart, Lionel.”

Ava gave him a beaming smile. She enjoyed playing with Alphas’ attention from time to time—a very innocent game. It was almost second nature. She wondered if she would ever grow tired of it. But Lionel was a kind man, and he deserved to feel appreciated.

The man swallowed hard. “Nous sommes toujours heureux de vous avoir parmi nous,” he replied, his voice thick with appreciation. “If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more pleasurable – I mean, comfortable – please let me know.”

Behind him, Rupert cleared his throat.

Lionel straightened at once. “I’ll let you settle in. The majordome will be here shortly with your luggage.”

Ava leaned in slightly. “Thank you, Lionel. I always feel at home here.”

She extended her hand, and Lionel took it, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His lips lingered a moment too long.

“Our keys, please?” Sophie asked impatiently.

“Of course.” Lionel, visibly flustered, handed over two key cards. His gaze flickered back to Ava one last time before he nodded and left.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Ava heard Rupert sigh.

“What?” she asked.

Rupert shook his head. “My lady, every time I see how easily an Alpha can lose their composure when you flirt with them, I can only wonder why they rule our world.”

Ava laughed. “You’re terrible, Rupert.”

“The usual room, Lumina?” Sophie asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

A knock at the door signalled the arrival of the majordome and grooms, who entered to unpack the luggage. Ava stepped onto the balcony, taking in the breathtaking view—the grand Haussmannian buildings, the Eiffel Tower in the distance. She never tired of it. Snapping a couple of pictures, she sent quick messages to her family and friends to let them know she had arrived safely.

Inside, Sophie was already unpacking, carefully hanging a few evening gowns in the wardrobe. Meanwhile, Rupert carried a heavy suitcase across the room.

Ava stretched her arms. “I need a shower. You’re both free to do as you wish.” She cast a teasing glance at Rupert. “Perhaps a visit to the lobby? That redhead was eyeing you very intently.”

“My lady?” Rupert asked, feigning innocence.

“For goodness’ sake, Rupert, have fun. Get laid. I can manage without you.”

“I’d rather not, my lady. I prefer your company.”

Ava grinned. “Liar.”

The man smiled. “I respectfully disagree, My Lady.”

“Sophie? Why don’t you go visit friends, family—past paramours?”

“I’d rather stay, Lumina.”

“Fine, do as you wish. But Aunt Maureen went shopping—she won’t be back for at least two hours, maybe more. And I need a nap,” she declared, grabbing her shower essentials and disappearing into the large marble bathroom.

After her shower, Ava decided to sleep for an hour. When she emerged from the bedroom, Rupert and Sophie were in one of the living rooms—Rupert flipping through the European press, Sophie knitting. They both take their duties far too seriously, she thought.

Ava spent some time on her phone, scrolling through updates from her friends. When she grew bored with that, she checked the emails from the wedding planners.

A high-pitched squeal announced Aunt Maureen’s arrival.

“My sweet, sweet child!” she exclaimed, extending her arms.

She was dressed in one of her favourite brands, Chloé, wearing a pussy-bow pleated silk-georgette maxi dress, her blonde hair falling freely over her shoulders. She handed her handbag to one of her assistants, who were already struggling under the weight of several shopping bags.

Ava rushed into her embrace. “Aunt Maureen.”

With her leather platform sandals, Aunt Maureen almost towered over her. She hugged Ava as if they hadn’t seen each other in months—though they had spent time together just two months prior, when she had visited New York.

Aunt Maureen stepped back, holding her by the shoulders. “Let me look at you, my little dove. Every time I see you, you’re even more gorgeous—a little wonder. I understand your man’s nervousness and impatience to sink his teeth into that neck of yours.” She kissed her cheek. “You look stunning in Vieux-Rose,” she said of Ava’s flowing summer dress.

“Now, tell me—what did you do to poor Lionel, you naughty child? I was stuck with him downstairs, and he wouldn’t stop talking about you.”

Ava shrugged. “Nothing.”

Rupert cleared his throat. Ava shot him a glare. Aunt Maureen laughed.

“Rupert, Sophie, how are you?” she inquired.

“I’m well, Mrs. Steiner,” Rupert replied.

“I’m well, thank you,” Sophie added—still slightly shocked to be addressed. High society women rarely spoke to the help, let alone inquired about their well-being. But Maureen Steiner had always been different.

Aunt Maureen gestured gracefully toward the doors. “You should go wandering somewhere while I catch up with my niece. Girls, you as well. I’ll call for you when it’s time to get ready. Just drop the bags in my room, and leave those for Ava here.”

Once her instructions were given – fully expecting them to be followed – she turned back to Ava, immediately forgetting the others in the room.

“Let’s sit, darling. My feet are killing me,” she declared, settling onto the couch and slipping off her shoes.

“Before you go, Rupert, be a dear and open the champagne. A woman needs it after a long shopping trip.”

Rupert smiled and did as he was told, pouring them both a glass before nodding and taking his leave.

Aunt Maureen picked up a remote from the coffee table and pressed a button. Françoise Hardy’s Seras-tu là filled the room, the volume low enough for conversation. Her aunt always said that no one spoke about love or heartbreak better than French singers.

She raised her glass once they were alone. “To us.”

Ava clinked her glass against hers and took a sip.

“Now, darling, tell me—how have you been? And how are the wedding plans coming along?”

“I’m fine. Mum and Granny are planning this wedding as if it were a military campaign Wellington himself would admire. I’m happy to let them take care of everything and just make choices when they ask me to. We finally agreed on the invitations—they should be sent out in two weeks, I think. They booked four venues because they couldn’t settle on just one. And poor Mrs. Wentworth has been completely left out of the process.”

“As she should, the Harringdales are paying for it.”

“Aunt Maureen, it’s her son’s wedding too.”

His maternal grandmother didn’t care for Mrs. Wentworth and ignored all of her suggestions. Ava had even overheard her telling his mother that the woman had no taste.

Her aunt set her glass down and reached for a golden cigarette case on the coffee table. She retrieved a thin, white cigarette and placed it in her long, golden cigarette holder. The piece, a work of craftsmanship adorned with tiny rubies and emeralds, had been a gift from her husband.

Ava picked up the lighter and held the flame steady as her aunt lit the cigarette. The tip glowed softly. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then exhaled a slow stream of smoke, pushing her long blonde hair back from her face.

“How is that fiancé of yours?” she inquired, blowing out the smoke.

“He’s fine. He’s giving me carte blanche for everything.”

“He’s probably too afraid to anger you—for fear you might change your mind.”

Ava nodded.

As a Pure Omega from one of the oldest and most prestigious families in the Golden Republic, Ava was expected to marry young—and marry well. Omegas traditionally wed between nineteen and twenty-one, at the peak of their youth, with their most fertile years ahead of them. Most marriages were arranged, structured as contracts—transactions between two powerful families.

For the Gilded Class, marriage was essential to preserving and consolidating social prestige, honour, and wealth. Bonding and union contracts were often drawn up as soon as an Omega reached puberty, ensuring their lineage remained untainted by tacky nouveaux riches or, worse, commoners—who couldn’t even dream of approaching their caste. Love matches did happen, but only if one was fortunate enough to find an acceptable partner within their privileged circle.

High society families would stop at nothing to secure the perfect Omega for their Alphas. Well-bred Omegas – and above all, Pure Omegas – were in such high demand that an Alpha’s family was required to pay a Kerm, a bride price, to the Omega’s family. The amount varied, often reaching millions of dollars, depending on the Omega’s family name, wealth, and status.

The Wentworths had paid over five million dollars for the privilege of bringing a Pure Omega Harringdale into their lineage. In the Middle East and Asia, Kerm prices could reach astronomical sums.

Ava, as a Pure Omega, was one in a million—a rarity that only added to her value. They were immediately recognisable, distinguished by their sweet and soothing scent, ethereal aura, delicate features, soft voices, and eyes that changed colour with their emotions.

Society revered their grace, charm, and beauty—but it also coveted and controlled them.

Pure Omegas were treated as prized possessions, symbols of status for the wealthiest families. Many worshipped them, yet others resented them, viewing their effortless ability to command an Alpha’s attention as some sort of sorcery—ridiculous.

Even among their own kind, Pure Omegas had detractors. Some ordinary Omegas resented the privileges afforded to the rarest and most beautiful members of their class. For some, being a Pure Omega was a blessing; for others, a curse.

But Ava knew the truth: for Pure Omegas born into high society, if they played their cards well, they could have everything they ever dreamed of—simply by using society’s biases to their advantage.

If Alphas were so sensitive to Omegas in general and Pure Ones in particular, it only meant for Ava that Alphas, despite their strength and endurance, were weaker mentally. She had met exceptions—Alphas who did not crumble so easily, who were not ruled by instinct alone. But they were rare. And rarity did not change the rule. As for Omegas, they had to rely on their minds, be strategic, far cleverer.

A Pure Omega would birth other Omegas of the same kind, but more importantly, there was the assurance of siring a purebred Alpha, superior – at least in theory – in strength and intelligence. That prestige, the guarantee of a thoroughbred lineage from an Alpha-Omega union, was irresistible to blue-blooded families. A Pure Omega offered even more certainty of such a legacy. Even in the twenty-first century, for traditionalists, one thing mattered above all else: the purity of their line. And if it came with status and wealth, it became inestimable.

They had all heard stories of Pure Omegas being kidnapped from their families and sold. Their price could reach considerable heights. The only way to prevent such a fate was for the Pure Omega to be claimed and bonded young. But until Ava bore that mark on her neck, Alphas would continue to compete for her. She still received offers—for her body, for her name. Because of that, Omegas eager to bond looked at her with envy. And with anger, for the attention she received from the blue-blooded Alphas they desperately wished to wed. Ava didn’t care for those idiots. She already had one—a man who adored her and would give her all the freedom she desired.

Fortunately for Ava, her father wasn’t a traditionalist but bore modern opinions about life, love, and personal happiness. She was grateful he was nothing like his paternal grandfather, an extremist, truly archaic in his views on rank, status, and gender. Her father had allowed Ava to choose her Alpha—a reasonable and honourable choice, of course. And she had chosen Henri Randolph Wentworth III, aka H. They had known each other since childhood. The Alpha had been in love with her for most of his life. Under Ava’s tutelage, H. would become the perfect Alpha for her. He did everything to please her, minor pushbacks were handled. She cared for—the eager-to-please man, addicted to her attention. H. was loyal, and he loved her.

In their world, marriage wasn’t considered an obstacle for Omegas who wished to pursue higher education or business ventures, and any money they earned belonged solely to them. However, traditionalists in power continually sought to suppress Omega liberties, attempting to control them with laws from another era. Too many people were nostalgic for a past when Omegas were more dominated, more controlled. If the worst were to happen, H. wouldn’t let it affect Ava’s life. He wouldn’t let anything make her unhappy. She had made sure of that.

Ava had never met anyone who made her heart race—or any of that nonsense one found in love novels. She was always puzzled watching some of her friends fall in and out of love as if it were a passing illness. Sometimes, it bordered on madness. It was ridiculous. And she refused to put herself in a position where her entire happiness depended on one person.

People assured her it would happen to her too, eventually. As if she were waiting. As if she wanted it. No, thank you. She had no interest in being contaminated by such foolishness.

She considered herself pragmatic—love was overrated. What mattered was the harmony of personalities and, above all, a devoted, obedient Alpha. She had affection for H. They would bond and build a great life together, one based on stability, not reckless emotion.

Aunt Maureen expertly tapped her cigarette against the lip of the ashtray, sending ashes tumbling into it. “When I think you could have become British royalty. The prince liked you. You deserved a title. Now the poor man has settled for that Austrian duchess, who doesn’t even have half of your wit and beauty.”

Ava’s maternal grandfather had worked for the U.S. embassy in the U.K. for many years when he met and married her grandmother, the daughter of a count. For some reason, Aunt Maureen had always believed Ava would one day become a member of the royal family.

“I wouldn’t be able to live with all that protocol and being used as a museum piece. I’m a proud republican—monarchy belongs to the past.”

“But that title, Ava? People would have to curtsy and bow to you,” she pouted.

Ava laughed. “Not worth the trouble, nor the burden of belonging to a fundamentally flawed and dysfunctional family. Have you forgotten that the latest Princess of Wales tried to murder her husband?”

Maureen took a sip of champagne. “You’re right. I always thought there was something rotten in that family anyway. But giving up a prince for a mere Wentworth when you have Ashfordes and Fairfields courting you? What about the Villarceaux and the Albrets? That’s just two countries, not even considering the rest of the world.”

Yes, there had been other candidates, and for a moment, she had wondered if she had made the right choice. But now, she was certain—H. was the one. His kindness, generosity, and immense love for her, his willingness to make sacrifices to ensure her happiness—that was what she needed to build a great future, for herself and for them.

“What do you have against my fiancé’s family and their clan? They’re as old as the Harringdales.”

“Please. While our ancestors were conquering and building the world, theirs were probably chasing wild boars. And I never liked Wentworth Sr.—he’s such a phoney.”

“I’m not fond of him either. His only language is banknotes and prestige. You’d think he wasn’t born into money.”

Maureen caressed her cheek. “My little dove will be married next spring. How time flies. I still remember when you used to grab my earrings as a baby. Still happy with your choice? You can tell me, and I can arrange your escape. I know someone who can make the most convincing fake passports you’ll ever see.”

Ava laughed. “I’m still happy.” The words came easily, perhaps too easily. Not because she doubted her decision, but because she knew that, in her world, to hesitate was to invite scrutiny. And she had never been one to waver.

“Then I’m ecstatic for you. I know you made your decision wisely.”

“Thank you. I did.”

“And if he turns out to be a disappointment, many will fight for the privilege of distracting you.”

Ava smiled. “I know.”

Her aunt smirked. “Oh, you cunning girl. Just don’t forget—discretion is paramount.”

“I won’t. How is Uncle Richard?”

Her uncle owned a diamond firm in Switzerland. He had fallen in love with Maureen at first sight during a fundraiser in Monaco. At the time, Aunt Maureen had just finished at her Omega boarding school in Devon. Talks had already begun between her family and an Alpha from London, but the idea of marrying the dull Geoffrey Wilcox, 14th Baron of Mowbray, quickly lost its appeal compared to the promise of an adventure that seemed too irresistible.

They had eloped the day after the party, to the stupor of the world and the outrage of London’s high society. Her parents had been furious. When Aunt Maureen and her husband returned three months later, there had been a great deal of yelling and threats, but in the end, all was forgiven, and Maureen had earned the title of the terrible child of the family.

Ava had never seen her aunt and uncle fight. They always spoke fondly and respectfully of each other, and he never refused her anything. They had a son, Arthur – her cousin – an entitled Alpha who was currently at Eton and constantly getting into trouble. Seeing from a young age how her only son lacked promise, Aunt Maureen had decided long ago that she wouldn’t burden the world with another example of such mediocrity. Years before, she had announced that she would not have another child.

Ava knew her aunt had lovers – she had told her so herself – but she always returned to her husband. They had been married for twenty years now. People expected scandals, but there were none. Ava found it highly amusing that the sharks in their society were deprived of any controversies, no pictures, no rumours. Ava had come to the conclusion that they had an agreement and that their marriage worked because it was built on honesty. She admired that. She wondered if one day, she would need such an arrangement, not if H. remained as possessive as he was today.

Aunt Maureen crushed a barely smoked cigarette in the crystal ashtray, dropped her cigarette holder onto the coffee table, and clapped her hands excitedly. “Plans for tonight: dinner at Le Jules Verne with my friends, Vivienne and Serge. Vivienne is an actress—you saw her in that movie you liked about the woman with amnesia. She slept with a former French president but refused to reveal which one. Serge, the director, knows le Tout-Paris. You’ll love them. And for la pièce de résistance—Le Louvre by night.”

“What?”

“Your uncle got us tickets to an exclusive event at the Louvre tonight, knowing how much you love art. Les Parfums de Tourenne and the Louvre teamed up to create perfumes inspired by the museum’s greatest masterpieces, and many of your favourites have been selected. I will buy all of them. Tell me you want to go.”

“Of course! Yes, yes!”

Aunt Maureen smiled. “It’s at ten.”

She stood and went to the shopping bags she had brought. “I got you this red dress from Dior and black stilettos. Good thing they already had your measurements—no need for tailoring.”

“I have an appointment with them on Friday to pick up more pieces.” She grabbed the dress and rushed to the mirror, holding it against herself before rising onto her tiptoes.

It was a vibrant red silk dress, embodying timeless elegance and modern design, as Dior so effortlessly mastered. The one-shoulder cut, paired with the soft, expertly draped waistline, created a flattering and sophisticated silhouette. Flowing from a fitted bodice into an A-line shape, the dress fell gracefully to the knee.

The gorgeous silk, clean lines, and minimalist design made it a true statement piece.

“I love it,” Ava said, “Thank you, Aunt Maureen.”

“Wonderful. Let’s visit the spa and then get ready to be naughty.” She strutted through the living room like a runway model. “I’m aiming for something extravagant—sheer and diamonds. We’ll be all over the internet and the papers tomorrow.”

Ava laughed at her antics. “Mum won’t like that.”

“I thought my sister was Americanised by now.”

“Nope. I heard her call us barbarians.”

Her aunt burst into laughter, then started dancing to Marc Lavoine’s C’est la vie, making grand hand gestures. “Come and dance, little one,” she said, motioning for Ava to join her.

Ava did.

***

During dinner, Ava enjoyed listening to Vivienne and Serge share anecdotes from their experiences in French cinema. Afterward, they all got into a car and headed to rue de Rivoli, toward the Louvre. Rupert had insisted on driving.

Entry was by invitation only, and inside, only a small crowd was present. Ava was pleased to admire the artwork without a sea of tourists. Thanks to her uncle Richard’s friend, François, the Louvre’s Director of External Relations, she was granted access to several pieces, including some hidden from the public.

One piece deserved her time. She sighed when she finally reached it, as majestic as ever, standing on the upper landing of the Daru staircase as though floating through the air—Ephae. The statue of the winged deity, known as the goddess protector of Omegas, always humbled her. Ava began climbing the stairs, as always entranced by the Hellenistic sculpture until she reached the top and stood before it.

It was a vivid example of mastery in form and motion. The goddess looked spectacular, braced against the strong winds that seemed to ripple through her dress. According to legend, she had called upon dolphins to save twenty Omegas of Rhodes. At the time, Omegas were seen as lascivious, seductive, and dangerous creatures, possessing the ability to make Alphas lose their minds, turn on each other, forget their duty. They had been condemned to death, but the goddess had come to their rescue.

Ava suddenly felt a tingling sensation at the back of her neck. Her heartbeat quickened, her breathing grew unsteady—a reaction nature had inscribed in Omegas’ genes to warn them of potential predators. She knew her eyes had changed colour—they always did when she felt like this. She tensed, then turned around. No one.

Her nostrils flared. In the air, she detected a faint scent—earthy, musky. An Alpha, for sure. Ava looked around, searching for the source. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. The scent was like a sunlit forest, carrying the warmth of a peaceful afternoon. For a moment, something in her wanted to lean into it, to let it wrap around her like warmth after a winter’s breeze. But a comforting scent could be deceiving—a trap, perhaps.

She suddenly looked up at the gallery. The space was unlit, nothing but a stretch of deep black—but for a second, she thought she saw movement. A ripple, the briefest distortion in the darkness. Then, nothing.

“Lady Ava?” Rupert’s voice broke the silence. “Your aunt needs you to settle a bet about Picasso.”

“I’m coming,” she replied after a few seconds.

She descended the stairs, her pulse steadying, but before joining Rupert, she glanced up one last time. The gallery remained shrouded in darkness. But the feeling lingered—something had been there.

***

In the gallery, a man emerged from the shadows, watching the woman leave. His phone vibrated. He picked it up, his eyes still on her retreating figure.

“Yes?”

“It’s done,” his interlocutor replied.

“Thank you.”

“Where to now?”

“New York,” he answered, then hung up.

Where it all began.

He was going back home. He had been waiting for this moment his entire life. And he wouldn’t show any mercy.

“Ready or not, here I come,” he whispered.