"We've never even been to New York," Oakley points out.
"Doesn't matter," she says. "It's home because we choose it. Same way we chose each other."
She's right. Northwood was assigned to us—legacy students following family tradition. But this? This is ours.
WedriveintoManhattanas the city wakes up. Hell's Kitchen is cramped and chaotic and smells vaguely of garbage and pizza and possibility.
The apartment is a fifth-floor walk-up in a building that's seen better decades. The studio is tiny—barely room for a bed and a couch and a kitchenette that's more suggestion than reality.
"It's perfect," Vespera says, dropping her duffel bag with the kind of reverence usually reserved for palaces.
"It's a shoebox," I say.
"It's ours," she corrects. "No RAs. No curfews. No Eleanor Ashworth deciding what's appropriate."
She's right. It's perfect.
We spend the morning figuring out logistics. Who sleeps where (all four of us on the bed, apparently). Where to store clothes (creative stacking). How to share one bathroom (prayer and coordination).
Around noon, Vespera's phone rings. She looks at the screen and grins.
"It's Vivian," she says, answering on speaker. "Hello?"
"Ms. Levine," Vivian Strasberg's voice is amused. "I've been receiving emails all morning from Northwood faculty, boardmembers, and one very angry matriarch demanding to know if I'm aware I've hired a 'scandalous Omega with inappropriate pack dynamics.'"
"And?" Vespera asks.
"And I told them the video of your performance has two million views already," Vivian says. "Along with hashtags like #ChoosingLoud and #DifficultWomen trending on three platforms. You're already famous, darling. Before you've even set foot on our stage."
Vespera's grin widens. "Is that good or bad?"
"It's perfect," Vivian says. "You're exactly the kind of artist we want. Controversial. Unapologetic. Impossible to ignore. See you at rehearsal tomorrow?"
"I'll be there," Vespera promises.
She hangs up and looks at the three of us—her pack, her Alphas, her choice.
"We did it," she says. "We actually fucking did it."
"You did it," Corvus corrects. "We just followed."
"No," she says firmly. "We did it. Together. You chose me over everything your families built. That matters."
"So what now?" Oakley asks.
"Now?" Vespera considers. "Now we order pizza, because I'm starving. Then we figure out how four people share a shower. Then we sleep, because we've been up for twenty-four hours. And tomorrow?"
She grins, sharp and dangerous and free.
"Tomorrow I start rehearsals. Tomorrow you three figure out New York. Tomorrow we start building something real."
"No plans?" I ask. "No strategy?"
"Plans are for people who have safety nets," she says. "We're freefall now. Just hold on tight and see where we land."
She's right. We're freefall. No money, no connections, no family support. Just four people and claiming marks and a tiny apartment in Hell's Kitchen that smells like someone else's life.
It's terrifying.
