I'm an Omega resistance fighter. Woman who burned down the system rather than submit to it.
The two hours that follow are a blur of perfect execution and raw emotion. I feel the audience with me, breathing when I breathe, gasping when Emma makes her final choice. This is why theater matters—this connection, this shared experience, this moment of collective humanity.
The final blackout holds for three seconds. Then the lights come up for bows and the theater explodes.
Standing ovation. Immediate. Complete. The kind that makes your eyes sting and your throat tight.
I bow with the cast. Take my individual bow as the lead. The applause doesn't stop. Two minutes. Three. Five.
This is real. This is happening. This is Broadway.
When we finally escape backstage, the pack is waiting. Dorian picks me up and spins me, all decorum forgotten. Oakley is crying. Corvus looks like someone hit him with a truck of emotions he doesn't know how to process.
"You were perfect," Dad says, and his voice breaks. "Your mother would have been so proud."
The mention of Mom stops me cold. I haven't thought about her in months—the woman who left when I was ten, who disappeared without explanation, who I've spent years trying not to wonder about.
"Dad—"
"I need to tell you something," he says. "About your mother. About why she left."
The theater lobby erupts with after-party chaos around us, but Dad pulls me aside to a quiet corner. The pack follows, protective and curious.
"Her name was Vera," Dad says. "Vera Castellano before she married me. And she was Omega, like you."
I already suspected this. But hearing it confirmed still hits hard.
"She had a bond," he continues. "Not fated. Just a regular claiming from an Alpha she dated in college. She broke it when she met me. Rejected it. Chose me instead."
"That's possible?" Oakley asks. "Rejecting a non-fated bond?"
"It's painful but possible," Dad says. "Not like rejecting fated bonds, which can kill you. But still dangerous. She was sick for months. We thought she'd die."
He pauses, and I see the weight of old grief on his face.
"She survived. We got married, had you, built a life." His voice drops. "But the rejection sickness never fully healed. Omegas who reject bonds—even non-fated ones—sometimes develop long-term complications. Psychological issues. Depression. Disassociation."
"Dad, what happened to Mom?"
"She's alive," he says. "But she's in Riverside Psychiatric Facility. Has been since she left. She didn't abandon you, Vespera. She checked herself in because she was losing touch with reality. Because she was afraid she'd hurt you or herself."
The world tilts. "She's been institutionalized for twelve years?"
"Yes." Dad's eyes are wet. "I couldn't tell you. She made me promise. Said she didn't want you to remember her as broken. Wanted you to think she chose freedom over family instead of—"
"Instead of becoming a cautionary tale," I finish.
"She'd want you to know the truth now," Dad says. "That she loved you. That she left to protect you. That she's proud of whatyou've become, even if she can only understand it on her good days."
I feel the pack around me, their presence stabilizing. Dorian's hand on my shoulder. Oakley's warmth. Corvus's calculating assessment that I know means he's already figuring out how to help.
"Can I see her?" I ask.
"I was hoping you'd ask," Dad says. "I've arranged a visit for tomorrow, if you want. She has good days and bad days. Tomorrow should be good."
I look at the pack. "Will you come with me?"
"Obviously," Dorian says.
