“The car will be here in forty-five minutes,” I announce, voice crisp and clear. No trace of the woman who begged and moaned and screamed their names just hours ago.
Adrian sits up immediately, transitioning from sleep to alertness with military precision. Caleb groans and buries his face in the pillow, while Miles—who clearly hasn’t slept—simply nods.
None of them seem surprised by my transformation. They’ve watched me wear this mask for over a year, after all. The only difference is that now they know what lies beneath it.
We move through morning routines with practiced efficiency—showers taken separately (though Caleb tries to convinceme otherwise despite me being full dressed already with a playful tug toward the bathroom), luggage checked and double-checked, coffee consumed standing up.
Professional distance reasserts itself with each passing minute, yet I catch the subtle ways they orbit around me—Adrian’s hand at the small of my back as I reach for my suitcase, Caleb’s fingers brushing mine as he passes me coffee, Miles taking my bag without comment.
The car arrives precisely on schedule. The driver loads our luggage while we take one last look at the villa that has housed our temporary escape from reality. In the cold light of morning, it seems smaller somehow, less significant than the memories it contains.
“Ready?” Adrian asks, holding the car door for me.
I nod, sliding into the backseat. Adrian follows, then Caleb, with Miles taking the front passenger seat. The arrangement feels strategic, protective. I find myself sandwiched between two Alpha bodies, their warmth and scent familiar now in ways I never could have imagined a week ago.
The drive to the private airstrip passes in professional silence punctuated by occasional shop talk about the summit ahead. If the driver notices anything unusual about our dynamic, he gives no indication. At the airstrip, we board NovaDyne’s jet with minimal fuss, settling into our usual positions—Adrian and I on one side reviewing presentation notes, Miles and Caleb across the aisle pretending not to watch us while attending to their own preparations.
Only the smallest moments betray what has changed—Adrian’s thumb stroking my wrist as we review his talking points, Caleb’sfoot deliberately nudging mine under the table, Miles’s gaze lingering whenever I look up. Tiny fractures in our professional facades that no one else would notice.
We land and are whisked to the conference center, where the FinTech Summit is already buzzing with activity. The moment we enter the main hall, I feel the shift in attention—subtle but unmistakable. Heads turn, conversations pause, eyes track our movement across the crowded space.
“Quite an entrance,” Caleb murmurs close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
“Focus,” I remind him, but there’s no bite to it. His grin tells me he knows it too.
We separate briefly—Caleb to check in with his team, Miles to review the investor presentation schedule, Adrian and I to the registration desk. As I collect our credentials, I overhear two women at the coffee station, their voices just loud enough to carry.
“That’s Eliot Park with Adrian Cole,” one says. “Did you see her entourage?”
“Three Alphas,” the other replies with poorly concealed interest. “All top executives. Something definitely happened during the storm delay.”
“Lucky Omega,” the first one concludes with a laugh. “Talk about having your pick.”
I should feel embarrassed. Exposed. Instead, I find myself standing straighter, a strange confidence settling over me. Let them talk. My work speaks for itself, and always has.
The morning sessions pass in a blur of technical discussions and networking opportunities. I notice the subtle changes in our dynamic immediately—Adrian no longer maintains his usual professional distance, instead placing his hand on my arm as he introduces me to industry contacts. His touch is proprietary in a way it never was before, a silent declaration that leaves little room for misinterpretation.
Caleb, usually careful to keep space between us in professional settings, now stands close enough that our shoulders brush as we review the conference schedule. His usual charm is directed at everyone but me—with me, he’s surprisingly serious, attentive in a way that draws even more attention.
Miles, naturally reserved in public, positions himself like a sentinel whenever we’re in crowded spaces, his broad shoulders creating a buffer between me and the press of bodies. When an overconfident Alpha from a competing firm stands too close during a breakout session, Miles simply shifts his stance, wordlessly inserting himself into the conversation until the man backs away.
Their collective presence forms a protective circle that should feel stifling but instead feels like safety. Not because I need protection—I’ve navigated Alpha-dominated spaces my entire career—but because their attention is a choice, not an obligation.
During the lunch break, Adrian pulls me aside in a quiet corner of the venue.
“People are talking,” he says, his expression giving nothing away.
“I know,” I reply, straightening his already perfect tie. “Does it bother you?”
His eyes meet mine, searching. “Does it bother you?”
I consider the question seriously. A week ago, the idea of being the center of such speculation would have horrified me. Now, standing in the professional world with the lingering marks of their attention hidden beneath my carefully constructed image, I find I don’t care.
“No,” I tell him honestly. “My work stands on its own. Always has.”
Something like pride flashes in his eyes. “Yes, it does.”
The day ends with a networking reception that feels endless—handshakes and business cards and carefully calibrated small talk. When we finally escape to the hotel, I’m exhausted in that particular way that comes from maintaining perfect professionalism for hours on end.
