Professional. Be professional.
This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Don't screw it up by sounding like an overexcited puppy.
"I would gladly take it. Obviously, I'd want to review the contract, understand all the details, but this sounds incredible. Absolutely incredible."
"Wonderful!" Charlotte sounds delighted. "I'm so glad you're interested. I'll have our legal team send over the contract today. Take your time reviewing it, ask any questions you have. We're not trying to rush you into anything."
This is real. This is actually happening. I'm going to do a campaign with Evergreen Media Collective. I'm going to get paid to love my town and share it with the world.
But then my practical side kicks in—the part of me that learned the hard way to ask questions, to look for catches, to protect myself.
"Is there—" I hesitate, then push forward. "Are there any conditions? Anything specific I should know about?"
Please don't let there be a catch. Please don't let this be too good to be true.
"Ah, yes." Charlotte's voice shifts slightly, becoming more businesslike. "There is one condition. Just one, but it's non-negotiable for this particular campaign."
My stomach tightens. Here it comes. The catch.
The thing that makes this impossible.
She's going to say I need a certain number of followers. Or that I have to move to a different town. Or that I have to dye my hair or change my content or become someone I'm not.
I grip the phone tighter, preparing myself for disappointment. "What's the condition?"
Charlotte takes a breath, and I can hear the slight apologetic tone creeping into her voice.
"The campaign is focused on pack dynamics and holiday traditions. We're specifically looking to showcase how packs celebrate the holidays together, how they support their Omegas during this special time of year. It's a big part of the narrative we're building."
Oh no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
"So for this campaign to work," Charlotte continues, her voice gentle but firm, "you'll need a pack."
The words land like a bomb in my tiny apartment.
You'll need a pack.
I sit there, phone pressed to my ear, staring at my bedroom wall where I've hung string lights and motivational quotes, and pictures of book covers I love. My sanctuary. My safe space. The place I built after leaving Kael and swearing I'd never put myself in that position again.
A pack. She wants me to have a pack.
The thing I ran away from. The thing that broke me. The thing I swore I'd never need again because needing a pack meant being vulnerable, meant trusting people with the power to destroy you, meant opening yourself up to the kind of pain that makes you question if you're even worth loving.
"Reverie?" Charlotte's voice is concerned now. "Are you still there?"
"I—yes. I'm here." My voice sounds distant, even to my own ears. "A pack. You need me to have a pack."
"Yes," Charlotte confirms, and I can hear the sympathy in her tone. She knows. Somehow, she knows this isn't simple. "We understand that pack dynamics can be complicated, and we're not asking you to bond with someone you don't want to bond with. But for the campaign to work, for the narrative to be authentic, we need you to be part of a pack. Even if it's a new pack, even if the bonds are still forming—that's actually a beautiful story in itself."
A beautiful story. My trauma repackaged as content. My fear turned into a marketing opportunity.
But also... twenty-five thousand dollars. Freedom from debt. Security. The chance to build something real.
"I understand," I say slowly, my mind racing through possibilities. "And what's the timeline? When would I need to... have a pack?"
"The campaign officially launches the first week of December," Charlotte explains. "So ideally, we'd need you to be part of a pack by then. That gives you a couple of weeks to figure things out. I know it's fast, but?—"
