And I’m fuckingsuppressed. How in the hell did Violet navigate this without any kind of suppressor on board?
“Sir?”
A woman’s voice pulls me out of the stupor. She wears the same white shirt and black slacks as the man who guided me outof the car, a purple pin placed inconspicuously on her collar with her first name. When I focus on her, she offers a quick smile.
“Are you wanting to skip the carpet?” she asks. “There are a few photographers to the left where it’s not quite as busy if you’re wanting something more low-key.”
Hell yes, I do.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning every single syllable.
She guides me over to the quieter line away from the bright photography lights. There’s still media personnel over here, but the entire vibe is softer than the high glam to my right. As I’m nearing the group of them, the doors to the venue visible over their shoulders, one of the men notices me. He has an impressive camera looped around his neck and held casually in one hand. An eyebrow raises, and then his expression morphs to excitement. He taps a woman on the shoulder and nods toward me.
She smiles as they approach.
“Are you Cole Fallon?” she asks. “We’d love to ask a few questions.”
When I give the journalist a casual nod and half smile, she lights up like she’s been waiting the whole night for this. The entire sidewalk is full of Omegas working on getting into the event. I’m not the last Omega to arrive, but it’s certainly been going on for a bit.
Shit, I must be one of the well-known Omegas in attendance. I internally groan. Why couldn’t some senator’s son or actor’s daughter attend this one? That’s what happened to Violet. No one really gave her a hard time in April because one of the darlings of Hollywood attended, too.
If I didn’t love my dad so much, I’d hate just how fucking famous he is.
Even as I silently curse my parents’ wealth, she guides me toward the small cluster of press where more than one cameratrains on me. The man captures candids the entire time, a second photographer joining after a minute. The sounds of the shutters closing repeatedly makes my fucking skin crawl. It takes everything in me to not scratch at my neck and loosen the tie. As it is, I breathe carefully through my nose and count to twenty.
Who the hell thought putting a hundred Omegas on a red carpet all at once was a good idea?
“How are you feeling about attending the gala tonight?” the journalist asks, holding the microphone closer to me.
Pulling on the years of media training Sienna required I have, I tuck a hand in my pocket and brighten my smile. Hopefully the panic isn’t apparent in my gaze. I can fake it with my body—I’ve had three years to learn how, after all. But my eyes? They often betray my thoughts.
“Definitely excited,” I say.
Which, technically, isn’t a lie. The possibility of not being in pain anymore certainly is exciting. Getting through all the hoops to potentially reach that mystical pain-free place? Nowthatis daunting and potentially only a pipe dream.
But hope springs eternal and all that.
“And who are you wearing tonight?”
I give the name of the designer, and then she thanks me for my time.
The photographer takes a few more posed photos, and then they’re releasing me for the next unsuspecting, overwhelmed Omega. As soon as I’m through the front doors, I head straight for the bathroom, needing a few minutes without all the lights and sounds. I drop my head into my hands as I lean against the empty counter.
“You can do this, Fallon,” I mutter to myself after several minutes.
The door opens just as I’m running my hands through my hair, the horrific overstimulation finally easing away.
The first things I see are his crystalline blue eyes and high cheekbones. But that lurch in my chest? It’s from the damn bond that I’ve had medically suppressed for nearly three years. It’s shock, and it’s not mine.
Holy fucking hell.
Two
MARCUS
“I’ll be right back,” I murmur in Charlotte’s ear.
I set the half-full glass of wine on the table.
