Later,wesomehowmanageto all fit in the bed—a logistical nightmare that Corvus has actually made a diagram for, mapping optimal sleep positions.
"We need a bigger apartment," Oakley mutters, half-asleep.
"Maybe after the show runs," Dorian says. "If we pool income, we might afford a one-bedroom."
"Living the dream," I say dryly.
"We are though," Corvus says from somewhere near my feet. "Living the dream. Just a different dream than we expected."
He's right. This isn't the dream I had at seventeen, accepting my Northwood scholarship. This isn't the dream the pack had, claiming me during heat and expecting me to be manageable.
This is better. Harder. Real.
I fall asleep wedged between three Alphas in a bed too small for four people, in an apartment we can barely afford, in a city that doesn't care who we are or where we came from.
And I wouldn't change a single thing.
forty-eight
Vespera
EightmonthsinNewYork, and we've not just survived—we've thrived.
"The Omega's Gambit" closed after a twelve-week run—extended twice because of ticket demand and critical acclaim. The reviews called my performance "revelatory" and "fierce" and "the kind of raw talent that reminds you why theater matters."
The New York Times compared me to a young Meryl Streep. Village Voice said I was "what happens when you give an Omega a platform and get the fuck out of her way."
But the review that mattered most was Vivian Strasberg walking into my dressing room after closing night and saying, "I have three scripts for you to read. All leading roles. All starting within the next six months."
Three scripts. Three jobs. A career that's actually happening.
We're still in the Queens one-bedroom—comfortable with Corvus and Oakley's family support covering what my theaterincome doesn't. Dorian works at the Brooklyn Community Theater, determined to build his career without Ashworth money. It's tight sometimes, but we're making it work.
I'm sitting in our actual living room reading through the first script when someone knocks on the door.
Dorian answers it, then goes very still.
"Hello, son," Harrison Ashworth says.
Dorian's father. I've only seen him in photos—distinguished, salt-and-pepper hair, the quiet power Eleanor performs but Harrison justis. He's standing in our doorway in an expensive suit, looking completely out of place in our modest Queens building.
"Dad," Dorian says, shocked. "What are you doing here?"
"May I come in?" Harrison asks.
Dorian steps aside, and his father enters. Eleanor is behind him, and my stomach drops. Both of them. Together. This can't be good.
"We won't stay long," Harrison says, taking in the apartment with a glance that reveals nothing. "We wanted to speak with all of you."
The pack has gathered—Corvus and Oakley emerging from various corners, forming a protective unit around me.
"Say what you came to say," Dorian says, voice tight.
Harrison looks at his son for a long moment. "I owe you an apology. I've owed it for eight months, but I was too proud to give it."
Silence.
"When you left," Harrison continues, "I told myself you'd fail. Come crawling back within a month. When you didn't, I told myself you'd fail by six months. When the reviews for your Off-Broadway show started coming in—when I saw that you were actually succeeding—I realized the only person who'd failed was me."
