"Long story short, I met Reverie in the elevator before my meeting. Didn't know who she was at first—just knew she smelled incredible and looked nervous as hell. Like she was about to walk into something that terrified her but was doing it anyway."
She'd been wearing normal clothes, not the Mrs. Claus costume. Tights with snowflakes on them, t paired with a sweater dress that looked soft, hair pulled back in a messy bun. No wig, no contacts, just her natural beauty making my brain short-circuit in a professional elevator.
"We had a moment," I continue, knowing how inadequate that sounds but not having better words for it.
"A moment," Grayson repeats, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline like they're trying to escape his face entirely.
"A moment," I confirm, defensive. "She was... fuck, she was adorable. Rambling about life choices, apologizing for nothing, just this burst of nervous energy and sunshine that made me want to cancel my meeting and spend the rest of the day making her laugh."
Grayson and Theo are both staring at me now. I can feel their judgment even without looking at them.
"Then I went into the main office for my meeting with Charlotte Webb, their head of talent acquisition. Professional shit, contract review, standard legal consultation. And there on her desk, at the very top of the candidate list with a paperclip marking the page, was Reverie's profile."
I can see it in my mind—crystal clear despite the alcohol—the photo of Reverie smiling at the camera with that genuine joy that you can't fake. Her real hair visible instead of the silver wig, honey-gold with those orange tips that make her look like a sunset. Those blue-grey eyes bright with genuine happiness, not the ice-blue of contacts. The kind of smile that makes you want to be the reason for it.
The statistics underneath painted the picture of an Omega who'd worked her ass off to build something from nothing: follower counts in the hundreds of thousands, engagement rates that most influencers would kill for, demographic reach across multiple platforms. All impressive. All pointing to someone who understood social media and knew how to connect with her audience authentically.
"Charlotte said they'd been considering her for years. Literally years. Watching her content grow from small-time book reviews to full lifestyle content, tracking her engagement metrics month by month, waiting for the right opportunity to approach her with an offer that would be big enough to be worth the contract but not so big it would overwhelm her."
"And now they finally had one—a holiday ambassador campaign that would pay her twenty-five thousand dollars for six weeks of work and give her the kind of mainstream exposure that could change her entire career trajectory. Network television spots during morning shows, national brand partnerships with companies that have actual advertising budgets, feature articles in magazines that people actually read. The kind of opportunity that could take her from 'successful influencer' to 'household name' if she played it right."
I remember Charlotte's exact words, clear as day despite the beer: 'She's got something special. That authenticity you can't manufacture or fake. The audience responds to her because she's genuinely that person, not because she's performing. But corporate wants pack representation for liability reasons, and I can't fight them on it. It's policy.'
"But?" Theo prompts from the backseat, his voice suddenly alert.
"But she needs a pack for the deal," I explain, frustration bleeding into my tone. "Some bullshit about brand safety and Omega protection policies. They won't sign an Omega without pack representation. And Charlotte was about to pass her up for the role—give it to someone else who already had their pack in order."
Grayson's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "That's discrimination."
"That's corporate policy," I correct. "Legal, unfortunately. They can require pack representation for contracts involving travel and public appearances. It's written into federal Omega protection laws."
"So you signed us up," Theo says. Not a question. A statement of fact.
"Yeah. I did." I don't apologize. Won't apologize. "The alternative was watching them give the opportunity to someoneelse. Watching Reverie lose out on something she's worked years for because she doesn't have a pack to rubber-stamp her career."
"And the timeline?" Grayson asks, always thinking about logistics.
"Twenty-four hours," I admit. "Charlotte said if Reverie didn't come back with pack representation within twenty-four hours, they were moving to the next candidate. And honestly? I don't think it would have lasted that long. There were three other Omegas on that list, all with packs, all ready to sign immediately."
Grayson gawks at me, his mouth literally hanging open. "So you just... signed us up for it. Just like that. Without asking us first."
I shrug, unapologetic. "Well, yeah. And apparently now it's a conflict of interest for me to work for them as legal counsel, so I guess this is our main quest for the foreseeable future. At least until I get a different assignment that doesn't involve our fake Omega's employer."
Our fake Omega. The words taste strange in my mouth. Wrong. Because nothing about what I felt in that elevator or what I saw in that bar felt fake.
Grayson is quiet for a long moment, processing. Then: "I met her at the bookstore. Briefly. She was reviewing books and looked like she was doing mental math to figure out what she could afford. So I got her a few extra. She deserved to be pampered."
That's so Grayson. Sees someone struggling and immediately wants to help. Wants to make their day better. It's why he writes romance novels—to give people happy endings, even if they're fictional.
"Seems like good fucking timing for me then," Theo says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. "So when are we telling her the news?"
I roll my eyes so hard it actually hurts. "Well, you're gatekeeping the fucking number, so you tell me."
"Hmm. Yeah..." Theo trails off, noncommittal.
Grayson sighs, putting the truck back in gear and continuing down the road toward the house. "Then this is going to be an interesting Christmas if we're acting like her fake pack so she can get this deal."
"Agreed," I say. "But I think maybe it'll be helpful for her. Her ex-pack was clearly a bunch of douches who didn't deserve her. Maybe we can show her what a real pack looks like. Even if it's temporary."
