This time, I didn't walk beside them. I walked center.
Alfie flanked my left. Kit flanked my right. Euan took the rear, counting the exits.
"Alfie! Alfie!" The shouting started instantly. "Is it true? Are you bonded? Who’s the Omega?"
"We're not discussing biology," he said, his voice projecting effortlessly. "We're here to discuss the new touring safety standards."
He stepped back, yielding the floor.
Rowan stepped forward. She looked like a guillotine in lipstick, sharp, beautiful, lethal. She held up a heavy document binder.
"The Omega-Safe Rider," Rowan announced. "Version 1.0. Available for public download on the Riot Theory website as of now."
"Is this an admission that there's an Omega in the band?" a reporter from a tabloid shouted.
"It's an admission that the industry is broken," I said.
The cameras snapped to me. The mystery voice. FoxTail.
"My name is Zia Vale," I said. "I produced the track you're all streaming. And this Rider? It’s the reason I’m standing here instead of running away."
"Are you bonded?" another reporter pressed, leaning in. "Who's responsible for your heat care? Which Alpha got you?"
It was the question they all wanted. The sordid detail.Whose property are you?
I felt Kit stiffen beside me. I felt Alfie’s hand twitch toward the mic.
I stepped forward. I looked directly at the camera.
"My heat isn't content," I said evenly. "And my care isn't a transaction. It's a partnership."
"But the bond?—"
"Boundaries are punk," Alfie interrupted, leaning into my mic, his shoulder pressing solid against mine. "Talk policy or jog on."
"We have strict guidelines for this press line," Euan added, his voice cold and flat. "Question three violated Clause 4 regarding invasive biological queries. You are done."
Tammy Rook materialized out of the ether. "You heard him. Out."
The reporter was escorted away. The message was clear,We are a closed system.
We did ten minutes of questions. We talked about credit. We talked about scent-neutral workspaces. We talked about the "Exit Card" concept. We changed the conversation fromwho is she fucking?tohow do we keep them safe?
When we finally piled into the SUV to head to the stage door, a redundant, purely tactical drive to avoid the crush, the privacy screen slid up with a solidthunk.
The lights of London blurred past the tinted windows.
I let out a long breath, sagging back against the leather seat.
"Okay," I said. "That went well."
"You were terrifying," Kit said admiringly, taking my hand. "Proper sovereign."
"I learned from the best," I said, nudging Rowan, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, looking triumphant.
Alfie was next to me. He was vibrating again, the post-press energy mixing with the pre-show jitters.
I turned to him.
