Irene’s pov
I stormed out of the packhouse, heels stabbing into the gravel with every furious step I took. My face burned—not from embarrassment, but from rage. How dare he speak to me like that? In front of her. That filthy, low-ranked, dirt-smelling omega who could barely put a sentence together without trembling like a leaf.
Enzo had humiliated me.
And for what? Because she bumped into him and mumbled an apology?
I reached my car and slammed the door so hard the window rattled. My driver, that half-asleep oaf, flinched and dared to ask, “Ma’am, is everything alright?”
“No, everything is not alright!” I snapped, glaring at him through the rearview mirror. “Why are you still sitting there? Drive!”
He fumbled for the ignition like he suddenly forgot how the car worked, stuttering apo
