I hate that name. Rose. It's not my name—it's a shortcut, a dismissal, my family's collective refusal to take the three extra seconds required to say Rosemarie. As if I'm not worth the effort. As if the full measure of who I am can be pruned down to something more convenient.
The only ones who respect me enough to use my full name are my brothers—Malcom and Adrian—but they're in China for a year-long business deal, and I'm positive my parents aren't telling them that they're trying to practically sell my rights away to the highest bidder. If they knew even a glimpse of what's been happening, I'm confident they'd be on the first flight back to personally murder whoever Alphas think they're financially benefiting from being with me.
God, I miss them. I miss having someone in my corner who actually gives a damn.
"How long are you going to be a disobedient child and delay the inevitable?" Aunt Vivienne's voice is a razor blade wrapped in silk, each word precisely enunciated. "This is a multimillion-dollar deal you're playing around with, Rosemarie.Multimillion."
Oh, she used my full name. Must be serious.
I frown, realizing the call must have defaulted to speaker instead of routing through my headphones—probably because I was recording and the Bluetooth got confused. Her voice echoes off the gym's cinder block walls, turning my private nightmare into a public broadcast.
Whatever. Not like anyone's here to hear it anyway.
I roll my eyes—a gesture completely lost on a phone call but satisfying nonetheless—and make my way toward my duffle bag. The phone stays on the tripod; I don't want to touch it, don't want to give her the validation of my full attention. Instead, I strip out of my drenched workout top with zero ceremony, peeling the soaked fabric over my head and tossing it aside.
The cool gym air hits my sweat-slicked skin, raising goosebumps across my stomach and back. I'm left in my pink sports bra and matching shorts—Lululemon, because even budget-conscious runaways have standards—the set bright and bold against my tanned skin. My butterfly tattoos are visiblenow, the fine-line ink scattered along my ribs catching the fluorescent light like secrets coming out of hiding.
Pink. I don't usually wear color—black and charcoal and wine are my comfort palette—but the new year vibes have been making me bold. Trying new things. Just like my conversation with Ruby.
Maybe this year I'll be someone who wears pink. Someone who posts their workout videos. Someone who doesn't run from things.
Or maybe I'll just sweat through expensive activewear and argue with my aunt at 4 AM. Both are equally likely at this point.
"Is that the only reason you're calling?" I ask, my voice flat. "If so, I'm hanging up."
Aunt Vivienne explodes. Not literally—though wouldn't that be convenient—but verbally, her voice rising to that particular pitch that tells me she's been building up this lecture for days.
"You're wasting your life span, running away frommoney," she seethes. "Money makes the world go round, Rosemarie. And once your father and mother cut you off—which theywill, mark my words—you'll be broke and have no choice but to go try to become anurselike all those peers of yours desperate for financial stability."
She saysnurselike it's a slur. Like caring for people in their most vulnerable moments is somehow beneath the Carlisle dignity. Like an honest day's work is the worst possible fate that could befall a member of our precious bloodline.
I crouch down to grab my stuff, shoving my water bottle and towel into my duffle with more force than necessary.
"Nursing is a respectable career," I say, and I'm proud of how calm my voice sounds when inside I'm screaming. "But let's be real—I ain't doing that shit. I'd rather work at Starbucks."
I literally already work at a coffee shop, technically. Well. A bakery with a coffee program. Same energy.
The silence on the other end is thunderous. I can practicallyhearher blood pressure rising, can picture the vein throbbing in her temple, the way her perfectly manicured nails are probably digging crescents into her palm.
"Howungratefulcan you possibly be?" she hisses. "You have an amazing pack lined up.Amazing. Damien Ashford comes from one of the most prestigious Alpha lines in the Northeast—his family's portfolio alone is worth more than some small countries. Milo Vance's father owns half the shipping industry. And Caden Mercer? His tech empire is valued at?—"
"Oh, right." I cut her off, straightening up with my duffle bag clutched in white-knuckled fingers. "So I guess you forgot how theytreatedme like shit. Didn't respect me. Would rather treat me like a dog and fuckingbulliedme." My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate it—hate that they still have this power over me, hate that the memories can still draw blood. "None of that matters, does it?"
"Men bully women to express their love," Aunt Vivienne says, and she sounds somatter-of-factabout it that I want to throw my phone against the wall. "It's how they show affection. You're being dramatic."
Dramatic. I'm being dramatic. Sure. Totally. Let's just normalize emotional abuse as a love language because it makes arranged marriages more convenient.
"That's funny," I say, and my voice has gone cold now—that dangerous kind of calm that my brothers would recognize as the warning sign it is. "Then why is the number one reason for deaths of omegas domestic violence that leads to manslaughter?" I let the question hang there, sharp-edged and bloody. "Hmm. I wonder."
Aunt Vivienne sputters. Actuallysputters, like the statistics are somehow a personal affront rather than a devastating reality that omegas face every single day.
I rise up fully, throwing the rest of my belongings into the duffle with zero regard for organization. My phone is still on the tripod across the room, still broadcasting this family dysfunction to the empty gym, and I stalk toward it while shaking the wet strands of dark hair that have escaped my ponytail and plastered themselves to my face.
My reflection in the aged mirror catches my attention for a split second—flushed skin, determined jaw, hazel eyes burning with the kind of anger that keeps you warm when everything else has gone cold. The gold flecks in my irises seem brighter somehow, like embers waiting to ignite.
This is me. This is who I am. Not who they're trying to make me be.
I close my eyes and sigh, knowing my aunt is just going to go on and on if I let her. She's already launched into another tirade about duty and legacy and the Carlisle name, words washing over me like static noise.
