And so has the woman responsible.
“Do you think it’s... permanent?” Diego asks, voicing the question we’re all afraid to consider. “Or will it come back if we don’t find her?”
The panic that flares through me at the thought is immediate.I can’t go back to that constant, brain-melting buzz. None of us can.
“We’re not going to find out,” I say, my voice hard. “We’re going to find her. Now.”
My words break the spell, and the others start moving, pulling on clothes. But as I grab my socks, Diego walks past me toward the kitchen, his face pale.
“She didn’t even make coffee,” he says, his voice hollow.
We all pause, turning to stare at him.
“I showed her where the good beans were last night,” he explains, running a hand through his dark hair. “She was excited to try them this morning. She wouldn’t have left without at least one cup.”
It’s a small, ridiculous detail, but the certainty in his voice makes her absence feel suddenly, painfully personal. She didn’t just leave. Shefled.
Now we’re in a frantic rush. Tristan pulls on jeans while hopping toward the door. Diego disappears into his closet and emerges seconds later fully dressed, somehow looking like he’s headed for a fashion shoot rather than the search for our runaway mate. Dane is somehow already dressed without me even noticing.
We pour out of the bedroom and into the main living area. My eyes sweep the space, looking for... I don’t even know what. A sign. A clue.
It’s Dane who spots it first.
“Rett,” he says. He’s looking at the sleek, narrow desk near the door. There’s a single folded sheet of paper propped against a pen holder.
I’m across the room in a second, the others right behind me. I snatch it up.
Rett,
I know what happened. I see the marks. This was a mistake.A huge, catastrophic, champagne-fueled mistake. I'm a beta. You know what that means. Whatever this is, it can’t happen.
Please, don’t come after me.
Zoe
I read the words, and a cold, vicious rage coils in my gut. ‘Don't come after me’. It’s a rejection.
“What does it say?” Tristan asks, his voice tight.
I don’t answer. I just hand him the note. I watch as his face falls, the hope on it replaced by a raw, wounded look.
“Like hell,” I growl.
Dane is already checking his phone, his expression grim.
“Security footage?” I ask him.
He nods. “Pulling it up now. She left...” He frowns at the screen. “Twenty-three minutes ago. Took the main elevator down to the lobby.”
“Twenty-three minutes,” Tristan groans. “She could be halfway to Canada by now.”
“She doesn’t have her car,” Diego points out, running a hand through his dark curls. “It’s still at the gala parking lot. We took her home, remember?”
I do remember. I remember everything about last night with a clarity that’s almost painful.
She didn’t simper or flirt like the omegas circling us all night. When Tristan made some joke about modern art being ‘rich people’s refrigerator doodles,’ she’d arched a brow and shot back, “Says the man whose company donates to these ‘doodle’ galleries. Hypocrisy or tax write-off?”
Diego had choked on his drink. Tristan looked delighted. And I?
