Actually squealing—a sound I didn't know she was capable of making, high-pitched and giddy and so full of undiluted joy that it stopped me dead in my tracks. She was on the phone with someone, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a child on Christmas morning, talking a mile a minute about an interview. Something about a woman with connections in the specialty coffee world. Something about a shop—her own shop—specializing in unique hot and cold coffee drinks. A collaboration funded by a program specifically instituted to aid Omegas new to business ownership.
And Hazel—the owner of the bakery where Rosemarie works, the woman who took a chance on her when she had nothing—was apparently willing to expand the infrastructure soRosemarie could open her own shop right next door. They'd share resources, share customers, build something together.
Her dream. The coffee shop she's been talking about since the day she arrived in our lives—mentioned casually over breakfast, wistfully while making drinks, with fierce determination when she thinks no one is paying attention. Someone was offering her a real, tangible chance at making it happen.
I'd stood in the hallway listening to her excitement, hidden in the shadows like some kind of lovesick stalker, the invitation burning a hole in my pocket. And I'd known. I'd known with absolute certainty that I couldn't ask her to give that up—couldn't even risk distracting her from it—for one night of champagne and gossip. I'd known that her opportunity, her dream, her chance at independence was infinitely more important than my pathetic need to not arrive alone at a party full of people who don't actually care about me.
So I'd stepped away. Quietly. Without her ever knowing I was there. And I'd left the invitation on the kitchen counter, face-down, half-hidden under a stack of mail where she'd probably never find it. A coward's exit. A coward's sacrifice.
Noble of me, really. Selfless. The kind of thing Tank or Elias would do without a second thought, without needing recognition or gratitude. The kind of thing I've never been particularly good at.
And now I'm here, alone, surrounded by people who smell like desperation masked by expensive perfume and champagne breath, wondering why I ever thought connections and visibility were worth more than staying home with people who actually want me there.
I take a long sip of champagne and let my gaze drift across the ballroom. Couples waltz in the center of the floor, their movements choreographed to perfection, their smiles fixed inplace like porcelain masks that might crack if they showed genuine emotion. Groups cluster near the refreshment tables, their laughter sharp and performative, designed to be heard rather than felt. Everyone is dressed to impress, dripping in jewels and designer labels and the kind of confidence that comes from never having to worry about where the next meal is coming from.
How did I survive this for so long? How did I spend years convincing myself that this was living? That this was what success looked like?
It's only been about three weeks since Rosemarie came into our lives. Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Barely a blip in the grand timeline of existence. And yet somehow, in that impossibly short span, everything has changed.
She's brought warmth into the atmosphere—a genuine, tangible warmth that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with presence. The house feels different when she's there. The air feels different. Even Tank and Elias feel different—softer somehow, lighter, more prone to laughter and less prone to brooding silence.
I've watched them go on dates, plan surprises, beromanticin ways I've never seen from either of them. Tank—the man who built a cabin in the woods specifically to avoid human connection—bought heart-shaped chocolates and rented a cabin for a stargazing date. Elias—who usually expresses affection through terrible jokes and aggressive optimism—decorated an entire ice rink with fairy lights and hired an internationally renowned barista just because Rosemarie mentioned liking one of her drinks.
These are the manly assholes I call my best friends. My packmates. The men I thought I knew inside and out after years of living and working and surviving together. And she's turned them into hopeless romantics in less than a month. She'scracked them open like she had a key to doors they didn't even know existed.
But it's not just them. It's me, too. And that's the part I can barely admit, even to myself.
I think about the quiet moments—the ones that happen when no one else is watching, when the house is still and the world outside doesn't exist. The way I always seem to be the one who finds Rosemarie sleeping in random places around the house. Curled up on the couch with a book fallen open on her chest, the pages soft with use. Slumped over the kitchen table after an early shift at the bakery, flour still dusting her cheek. Nestled into the corner of the armchair with Sasha draped across her feet, both of them breathing in synchronized rhythm.
And every time—every single time, without fail, without hesitation—I scoop her up. Carefully, gently, like she might break if I jostle her too much. I carry her to whichever bedroom is closest, adjusting my grip when she murmurs in her sleep and burrows closer to my chest. I tuck her in like she's something precious, something fragile, something worth protecting with everything I have. I watch the peaceful expression settle over her features—the way her face relaxes when she's truly at rest, the way her lips part slightly with each breath, the way her scent softens into something warm and trusting and impossibly sweet.
I've started looking forward to those moments. Seeking them out, even. Finding excuses to check on her late at night, to make sure she's resting, to be the one who catches her when she finally crashes after another fourteen-hour day of giving everything she has.
What does that say about me? What does it mean that the highlight of my week has become finding a sleeping woman on the couch and tucking her into bed like she's mine to care for?
And then there are the mornings. Waking up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee filling the house—not just any coffee, buttheperfectcoffee, calibrated to whatever activity she knows we have planned. Strong and bold on gym days, the kind that makes your blood sing and your muscles ready for punishment. Smooth and mellow on lazy weekends, meant to be sipped slowly while doing absolutely nothing. Something with cardamom and honey when she knows I have a shoot and need to be alert but not jittery, the caffeine balanced by warmth.
She pays attention. She notices things—the small details that most people overlook. She does small, thoughtful acts of care without expecting anything in return—without even acknowledging that she's doing them, half the time. Like it's just how she moves through the world. Like kindness is her default setting.
When was the last time anyone in this room did something genuinely thoughtful? When was the last time any of these champagne-swilling, gossip-spreading, smile-faking socialites gave a damn about someone else's comfort? About making someone else's morning a little easier, a little warmer, a little more bearable?
I look around the ballroom again, really seeing it this time with eyes that have been opened by three weeks of genuine warmth. The forced laughter that sounds like breaking glass. The calculating eyes that never stop measuring and comparing. The way everyone is watching everyone else, cataloging weaknesses for future use, storing ammunition for the next social skirmish.
These people don't care about me. They never have. I'm entertainment to them—a source of gossip, a benchmark for comparison, a cautionary tale to be discussed over canapes and caviar. As long as I'm trending, as long as I'm relevant, they'll smile to my face and whisper poison behind my back. The moment I stop being interesting, I'll cease to exist entirely. My name will fade from their lips like smoke.
The realization should hurt. Maybe it does, somewhere deep down where I've learned to bury inconvenient emotions behind walls of cold professionalism. But mostly it just feels... clarifying. Like finally admitting something I've known for years but refused to acknowledge because the truth was too uncomfortable.
I'm a figment in their lives. A flickering flame that will be forgotten the moment something brighter comes along. And deep down, that's terrifying. To accept that you're truly meaningless to the people you've surrounded yourself with for years.
I hate it here.
I hate everything about this—the fake smiles, the hollow conversations, the constant performance of success and happiness when everyone in this room is probably miserable in their own gilded cages. I hate that I came here thinking I needed these connections, needed this visibility, needed to remind people that Julian North is still relevant.
I should leave. Cut my losses. Go home to the house that actually feels like home now, to the people who actually give a damn whether I live or die.
I'm about to do exactly that—set down my champagne and make for the exit—when a group materializes in front of me, blocking my path.
Three women, two men. All of them dressed to the nines in designer gowns and custom suits, all of them wearing expressions of barely concealed malice disguised as friendly interest. I recognize them vaguely—children of old money, socialites who've made careers out of being seen at the right parties with the right people. The kind of people who've never worked a day in their lives but consider themselves experts on success.
