They exchange glances, another wordless communication passing between them.
“I’ll bring water and cooling packs in twenty minutes,” Miles says, checking his watch with military precision. “As per the amended schedule.”
“I’ll coordinate the room swap and fresh linens,” Adrian adds, already typing on his phone.
Caleb just gives me a soft smile. “Shout if you need anything sooner. Schedule be damned.”
I rise on slightly unsteady legs, determined to make it to my room with dignity intact. As I walk away, I hear them behind me, already coordinating their next steps with surprising efficiency.
“The resort has cooling gel in the gift shop,” Miles is saying. “More effective than ice packs.”
“I’ll add it to the supply list,” Adrian replies. “And see if the kitchen can prepare those electrolyte popsicles you mentioned.”
“I know how to make them,” Miles offers. “Used to make them every now and again for my sisters.”
Their voices fade as I close my bedroom door, leaning against it as another wave of heat washes through me. My body is accelerating toward a cliff edge, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it now.
But for the first time since this nightmare began, I don’t feel alone in the fall. I have three unexpected safety nets—Adrian’s meticulous planning, Miles’s practical support, Caleb’s emotional intuition—all working together in a way I never could have predicted.
It should be humiliating, having my biological crisis managed by a committee of Alphas with spreadsheets and assigned shifts.Instead, it feels like the first genuine care I’ve experienced in years of maintaining perfect professional control.
The thought terrifies me almost as much as my approaching heat.
Because when this is over—when my heat passes and the storm clears and we all return to our corporate personas—how will I ever go back to being just Elle Park, Adrian Cole’s efficient assistant? How will I face Caleb across negotiation tables or Miles at investment meetings, knowing they’ve seen me at my most vulnerable?
How will I face myself, knowing that part of me—a growing, insistent part—isn’t dreading what’s coming, but anticipating it?
twelve
. . .
Miles
I waketo the sound of movement. Not the storm—though it continues its assault on the villa, rain lashing against windows like desperate fingers seeking entry—but something more primal.
A rustling. A shift of bedsheets. A barely contained whimper that cuts through walls and darkness to pull me instantly into full alertness. Elle. The clock on my nightstand reads 2:17 AM.
My body responds before my mind fully processes what’s happening, tensing, scenting the air for changes, for danger, for her. Because even through the walls separating my temporary room from my former primary suite, I can smell it—the sharp spike in her scent as another wave of heat takes hold.
My feet hit the floor before I make the conscious decision to stand. I pull on sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt. The air conditioning keeps the villa cool, but my skin runs hot. Always has. The sound comes again—a soft, distressed noise that makes something tight and protective curl in my chest.
“Shit,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my face.
The room swap happened eight hours ago. Eight hours of Elle occupying my space, her scent slowly permeating sheets that resort staff had changed at Adrian’s insistence.
Fresh linens weren’t enough, though. Not when the entire room carries traces of me—in the shower products I left behind, in the lingering notes clinging to the curtains, in the very air that circulated around me for days.
I told myself it was practical. The primary suite has better amenities for someone in her condition—larger bathroom, more space to move, better air circulation. I told her the same when I helped her relocate, maintaining careful distance as she carried her belongings into what had been my territory. She was composed then, still clinging to professional poise despite the flush on her cheeks and the tremor in her hands.
“Thank you for this,” she’d said, not quite meeting my eyes. “It’s very considerate.”
“It’s practical,” I’d replied, because that was safer than admitting how much I wanted her scent in my space, how primitively satisfying it was to know she’d be surrounded by traces of me during her most vulnerable moments.
Another sound reaches me—the distinct creak of a door opening somewhere in the hallway. Footsteps, light and quick. Caleb. I recognize his tread, the slightly uneven rhythm of someone moving with urgency but trying to be quiet about it. He’s heading toward Elle’s room.
My room. The room that is now the epicenter of a situation none of us anticipated.
I move to my door, opening it silently as years of situational awareness have taught me. The hallway is dim, emergencylighting casting long shadows along the walls. Caleb’s already at Elle’s door, knocking softly.
