“Our scent matched Omega.”
Theo’s eyes widened. “She can’t be. We’ve searched for our Omega for years, with no luck. You’re not going to find her singing on a street corner, Kade.”
I threw up my hands. “Why not? Maybe that’s why we didn’t find her, because she’s been hiding all this time.”
“But hiding from what?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, but as soon as she realized I was an Alpha, she ran. She’s clearly scared.”
“Thus, the protection,” Theo said, thinking aloud. I nodded. “Okay, what does she look like?”
“Five-five, slim build, brown hair with red tones. Green eyes. Early twenties. She'll smell like apple pie.” I smiled at that last detail, knowing she smelled like my favorite dessert. “She was injured, favoring her left ankle. And wearing multiple layers of clothing, all worn. A men's gray peacoat, with missing buttons.”
“You got all that from a street performance.” It wasn't quite a question, but the inflection was there, subtle and sharp.
I turned then, and met his eyes directly. “I got all that from being observant. Can you handle this, or shall I wake Lucian?”
“Hell no, you know what he’s like if you wake him. He’s the grouchiest morning person I’ve ever known... and I live with you!”
My eyes rolled. He’s an idiot.
“Fine. I’ll go.”
“Don’t scare her!”
He laughed. “Me? I’m a pussycat, she’ll love me!” and with that, he was out of the door.
I stayed at the window until I heard the elevator chime his departure, then moved back to my desk. My hands were steadier now. Having a plan, having action in motion, that helped. I pulled my chair in and opened a fresh document, the template I used for performance contracts already loaded.
The cursor blinked in the empty space, waiting.
I started with the basics. Performance date, time, duration. Two hours of live performance at the Spring Gala, with a brief intermission. Simple enough. The fee I entered was triple what I'd normally offer for an unknown talent, but she needed it. Needed resources, and I had them. The amount was exorbitant enough to be life-changing but not so excessive that it would seem suspicious.
Next, the preparation requirements. Rehearsal space provided on-site; access to vocal coaching if desired; wardrobe consultation available. All optional, all phrased as benefits rather than demands.‘The artist may utilize the provided rehearsal facilities at any time during the week prior to the performance.’May, not must. Choice, not obligation.
I moved to the accommodations clause, and this was where I had to be careful.‘Because of the preparation schedule andearly call times, the Company will provide lodging in the executive building until the event, should the Artist find this arrangement convenient.’This meant she'd be living five floors below my penthouse, where I could monitor her safety, where she'd be surrounded by the packs combined scents, and us in hers.
Medical coverage during the contract period. That one was legitimate—I'd seen her limp, seen the way she moved with practiced caution around that injured ankle. She needed proper care.‘The Artist will have access to Company medical services for any health concerns during the contract period.’
I hoped in the six weeks until the gala that she’d learn to trust us, and realize who we are to her. But ultimately the choice of staying after the gala had to fall to her. She didn’t need control; she needed options.
I added clauses about creative control so she'd have full autonomy over song selection, performance style, and arrangement. That was important. She needed to feel like this was her choice, her art, not something I was dictating. Even though I'd be watching every rehearsal, monitoring every decision, making sure she was safe and cared for and exactly where I could see her.
Termination clause. This one made my jaw clench.‘Either party may terminate this agreement with seventy-two hours' notice prior to the performance date.’I hated typing it, despised the idea of giving her an escape route, but it had to be there. Without it, the contract would look like a trap. With it, she might believe she had power in this arrangement.
I reviewed the document from the beginning, reading each clause with the mindset of a frightened Omega who'd been hurt badly enough to choose the streets over a pack. Would she see a threat here? Would anything trigger her into running?
I made a few more adjustments, softening the language around rehearsal attendance. Added a clause about privacy, promising that her personal information would remain confidential. Changed‘required to’to‘invited to’in three different places.
By three in the morning, I had something that looked legitimate. Professional. The contract that could change an unknown street performer's life, giving her a platform and resources, and a chance at something better. The kind of contract that also placed her firmly within my territory, under my watch, close enough that I could ensure her safety every single day.
I printed two copies, the machine's quiet hum filling the office. While they printed, I found a leather portfolio in my desk drawer, dark brown and expensive, the kind of presentation that said this was serious business. I slid one copy inside, leaving the other on my desk for my records.
My signature went on both, black ink bold against the white paper. Kade Killion, CEO, Killion Records.
I closed the portfolio and set it in the center of my desk, where I'd see it first thing tomorrow. Everything was in place. Theo would find her and report back on her situation. I'd have the information I needed to approach her correctly, to make the offer in a way that wouldn't send her running. And she'd accept, because the alternative was staying on those streets, singing for coins, living in whatever inadequate shelter she'd found.
She'd accept because I'd make it impossible for her to refuse.
