Page 5 of Omega’s Fold

I’d be a huge loss to the company and he knows it. My patience is wearing thin and I think he knows that too.

My office is on the fourteenth floor. I close the door, sit down, open my laptop. The waterfront scheme is still up. I minimize it.

I take a deep breath. I’m in the habit of giving myself five minutes of nothing after a successful presentation before I go back to the next thing.

I log in and check my personal email.

There’s a Bureau notification at the top of my inbox.

I look at it for a second.

Prime Match found. Compatibility Score: 97.2%

I sit back in my chair. What the hell.

Ninety-seven is a very high score, high enough that it counts as practically mandatory.

A damned prime match. I can’t say I’m overly pleased. I should be. A prime match is the closest thing that the real world has to a soul mate.

That’s a big deal. I’ve dated, of course. I’ve had a few fleeting relationships. None have ever stuck. I’m just not interested. I have a busy life and a full-time, demanding job. I don’t have time for a full-time relationship and I don’t particularly want one either.

I read further. Name: Briggs, Wyatt. Designation: Omega. Age: 23. Compatibility: 97.2%.

There’s that 97.2 again. I’m going to have to marry this guy, aren’t I? The Bureau doesn’t usually enforce matches, but it gets weird about prime ones. Legally, they can’t force them but there are enough penalties that it’s effectively mandatory.

The only positive thing is that this guy Briggs, whoever he is, is in the exact same position that I’m in. We’re both expected to suddenly enter a lifelong relationship with a stranger.

I feel a laugh bubble up. My mother is going to be over the moon.

I scroll to his profile next. He lives on a ranch outside of a town called Parish Ridge two states over. Recognition flickers. I know the name.

I know it because I’ve been there. I was there four years ago, during the early scoping work on the Linden development.

We stayed at a motel for two weeks and all I can remember is that there was nothing there. There was one diner in town and the food was terrible. There were no other options. I trawl my memory and try to remember what else was there, but I come up blank. It’s not a town anyone goes to unless they’re being paid to.

That was the purpose of the development. Put the little town of Parish Ridge on the map and turn it into a place that people will actually want to move to and work in.

There’s a photograph. I scroll down to it.

It’s clearly not a photo taken for a dating-market profile. It’s the kind of shot a man might have on a passport. It’s just a headshot on a plain background. He isn’t smiling. His hair is dark and slightly too long for the collar. His eyes are pale — grey or green, hard to tell at this resolution.

He’s good looking enough but I don’t feel anything. He’s still a stranger.

The profile gave his age as twenty-three. Registered via blood drive, four months ago. Occupation listed as rancher. No prior Bureau engagement.

Rancher. What the hell am I supposed to do with a rancher? I’m not moving to a ranch. Is he supposed to come out here? Give up his ranch?

This whole thing is stupid.

I know some people find the whole prime match thing romantic but I never did. I’ve never paid it much attention. The chances of it happening to me seemed too remote.

I pick up my phone.

Eli answers on the third ring. He’s in a taxi, by the sound of it.

“What?”

I roll my eyes and try to resist telling him off for answering the phone like that. He already sees me as a stuck up older brother. I don’t need to give him more ammunition.