Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
𓇢𓆸
The Garden was vibrant with life, pulsing in the dark; it had become lively with glitter shimmering on the bodies of fellow Omegas, sequined outfits clinging tight, leaving little to the imagination. Delicate lace veiled supple breasts as The Temptations moved across and on the stage, teasing and flourishing under the flashing lights. The air was thick with the intoxicating blend of expensive colognes, smouldering cigars, and the raw, undeniable pull of pheromones. It was a heady cocktail potent enough to make anyone dizzy, especially Harry on nights like these.
On stage, under the red glow of overhead lights, Harry moves like sin incarnate. A slow, fluid and deliberate dance. A mating call of sorts. He moves with purpose, a magnetic and hypnotic gaze, pulling the Alpha’s in and leaving them wanting more. His body curves and sways around the pole in a teasing promise of something just out of reach. Dressing in black silk and lace, a contradiction of delicate and dangerous.
The Black Dahlia.
As a stage name, Harry knew that it caused intrigue for anyone and everyone. Whispers of the flowers that rested in the Garden always caused a commotion as to who was the deadliest and why they worked for Louis Tomlinson. Each girl has a backstory: Avery, Harry, Ana, Ivy, Annette, Daya and Lillian. All were girls who suffered at the hands of Omega trafficking and were freed by the man they called their boss. Each named after a deadly flower that can kill within minutes, Louis felt it was proper to help these girls get back on their feet and reclaim what was rightfully theirs, their bodies.
It was an empowering idea, an idea in itself that helped these girls take back what society deems to be theirs, safeguarded by the rules of the club. Look, but don’t touch. As long as there was consent between the Omegas and Alphas, the Garden became more of the flowers’ playground.
Draped in glitter that catches the strobe lights like stardust, Harry stands as an ethereal vision, his high cheekbones shimmering, reflecting the pulsing lights, while his evergreen eyes pierce the crowd, relentless. On stage, he is everything and nothing at once —a dream to behold to many, a fantasy for them to admire.
Untouchable.
The black fabric slides over his skin as he moves, sheer enough to tempt, but not sufficient to satisfy. The kind of thing that makes the crowd of Alphas lean forward, their pupils blown wide, their hands twitching on the arms of their seats. Each Alpha was a thirsty man in a desert looking for water. The Dahlia knows how to play his cards right to earn a living, while watering her garden full.
He knew The Don was watching from his private booth, a one-way glass window separating the smoke and pheromones on the second floor, which overlooked the club. Manspreading the way he does when he’s relaxed, cigarette in his right hand and a glass of whiskey in his left, untouched, or maybe it was cherry wine today, a secret only Harry knew from being one of the serving girls at the Alphas’ beck and call. Harry could feel that gaze, heated and heavy, the kind that lingered, the kind that burned.
The kind that always found him on nights like this.
The bass continued to thrum through the walls of The Garden, a rhythm so deep it settled in the bones of the dancers. Smoke curls into the air through the dimly lit room, clinging to the space like a whispered secret
It truly was a predator’s paradise.
The scent of Alpha always triggered the Omegas to slick their underwear, dancing on their chosen prey and slick-marking their territory on the Alpha’s of their choosing. Anything for more money, anything to impress The Don. But Harry was never available for dances, no matter who asked, begged, or downright bribed the manager of the Garden; he was not to be touched.
Dahlia plays his part well—slow and deliberate. He knows better than anyone that the real game isn’t won under the flashing lights. It’s won in the shadows, where power shifts with a glance, where desire is a weapon, and where The Don’s gaze is a promise, waiting to be cashed in.
And yet, even in his untouchable state, his body betrays him. Because amidst it all, amidst the thick perfume of lust and power, Harry’s Omega craved only one scent. The one that cut through the haze like a promise, like a brand against his skin. The one that called to him, that his body sought in the chaos, that he could never resist: tobacco and bourbon.
The Don to his fellow associates or Alpha Tomlinson.
But to Harry, ‘The Don’ was just Louis.