But it’s not a text. It’s a video file from an unknown number.
My stomach drops.
“What is it?” Josie leans closer, trying to see the screen.
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Because I’ve already clicked on the video, and the footage that fills my screen makes my blood run cold.
It’s me and Beau. It’s a weird angle, clearly taken from far away, but it’s clear enough to see me in his arms, his hands in my hair, our mouths fused together. Clear enough to see the way I’m moving against him, the way I’m draped all over him.
Clear enough to ruin me.
The video ends, and a text pops up immediately after:
Unknown:Expect a call from the APBRA regarding your breach of contract and professional conduct. Such a shame to see a promising career end so quickly.
The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering onto the table.
“Willa?” Josie’s voice sounds distant, muffled. “What’s wrong?”
Baby grabs the phone before I can stop her. I watch her face harden as she watches the video and reads the text.
“Son of a bitch,” she breathes.
“What? What is it?” Josie takes the phone from Baby, and I watch the color drain from her face. “Oh no. Oh, Willa.”
The good cheer from moments ago evaporates. The shock hits first—cold and sharp—but it melts almost immediately into something worse. Fear and shame, a thick well of despair that makes my hands shake, and my breath come too fast.
All my hard work. Every late night, every early morning, every time I proved myself despite the whispers and doubts. It’s all slipping through my fingers because someone decided to weaponize a private moment.
Baby’s hand closes over mine on the bar, and I flinch. Actually flinch away from her touch, like she might hurt me.
“Wills. Breathe.” Her voice is firm, grounding. “Look at me. Breathe.”
I can’t. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. The walls are closing in, and all I can see is that video playing on loop in my mind. All I can think about is who else might see it. What they’ll say. What they’ll think. Who took the video? Who would do that? It feels like a violation. The familiar feeling of nausea swims in my belly.
My father’s voice echoes in my head:You’re too emotional. Too weak. You’ll never survive in this industry. Omegas have one purpose.
Felton’s smirk when he’d corner me: Who’s going to believe you? You’re just an Omega.
“Willa.” Baby squeezes my hand harder, demanding my attention. “Stay with us.”
Somewhere distant, I hear Josie on the phone. Her voice is tight, worried, but I can’t make out the words. Can’t focus on anything except the panic clawing at my throat.
What if they post it on social media? I already have that photo of me and Jake circulating. What if this goes viral? What if every rodeo association, every stock contractor, every person I’ve ever worked with sees me like that? A thick wave of shame rolls over me.
“Okay. Okay, yes. Thank you, Daddy.” Josie’s voice breaks through the fog. “We’ll be there.”
She sets her phone down and immediately wraps both arms around me, pulling me against her chest. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
But it’s not. How can it be okay when?—
“My dad just got the video too,” Josie says, her voice steady even though I can feel her trembling. “Someone sent it to the APBRA board. He said to tell you to meet him at his office first thing tomorrow morning. Eight a.m. He’ll figure this out, Willa. I promise.”
Eight a.m. Office. The words register slowly, like I’m underwater.
“What if they post it?” My voice comes out small, broken. Nothing like the confident woman I’ve been pretending to be. “What if someone puts it online? What if?—”
“Then we’ll deal with it,” Baby says firmly. She’s still holding my hand, her grip almost painful now. “But spiraling about what-ifs isn’t going to help.”
