"You're an angel," Mila croaks. "A beautiful, lifesaving angel. The details are in the email I forwarded you—venue, time, dress code. Thank yousomuch, Rosemarie. Seriously."
"Yeah, yeah." I wave a hand she can't see. "Go be sick in peace."
She thanks me again—sincerely enough that I almost feel bad for the internal grumbling—and hangs up. The line goes dead, leaving me alone with my chaos and a new obligation.
I look around the apartment one more time.
What do I have to lose with some random mixer? It's not like I've got anything pressing to do here. The boxes will still be waiting when I get back. The organizational crisis will still need addressing. Might as well delay the inevitable with free drinks and forced small talk.
I push myself off the bed—mattress protesting slightly at the movement—and start picking my way through the obstaclecourse of my living space. Somewhere in this chaos, there's a dress. A specific dress. One I'd bought right before I became a "castaway," as I've started calling it in my head. Before I had to run for the hills to Oakridge Hollow. Before my life became a series of evasive maneuvers and early-morning workouts and pretending everything was fine.
I find it in the third box I open—the one labeled "CLOTHES - NICE" in handwriting that's only slightly more legible than a doctor's prescription. The dress is black, simple, the kind of understated elegance that whispers money without screaming it. It's a designer piece—I forget which one, but the fabric feels expensive against my fingers, smooth and cool and perfectly weighted. Fitted through the bodice with a subtle V-neck that's sexy without being desperate, flaring slightly at the hips to skim over my curves rather than cling.
This will work. No one's expecting me to show up in glamorous attire anyway—I'm covering for someone, not trying to impress anyone. But the dress is branded enough that with some makeup and a bit of effort with my hair, I can look hot without looking like I tried too hard.
I hold the dress up against my body, checking my reflection in the small mirror I've propped against the exposed brick wall. Dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders. Hazel eyes that still look a little tired from this morning's emotional marathon. The glint of my piercings catching the afternoon light filtering through the single window.
You know what? This can be an empowering moment.
The thought surprises me with its optimism. I'm not usually one for pep talks, internal or otherwise. But something about the idea of going out—of putting on a beautiful dress and doing my makeup and walking into a room full of strangers like I belong there—feels like an act of rebellion.
My family wants me hidden away, terrified, jumping at shadows and waiting for them to collect me like a package that got lost in shipping. They want me broken and compliant and ready to accept whatever fate they've decided I deserve.
What if I showed up to a party instead? What if I wore a killer dress and did my hair and laughed with strangers and drank champagne like a woman who has nothing to fear? What if I lived my life in spite of them rather than in reaction to them?
A smirk tugs at my lips—small but genuine. Thiscanbe an empowering moment. And even if it's not, at least there will be free alcohol and appetizers.
I lay the dress out on my bed—carefully, because it's been shoved in a box for months and the last thing I need is to show up looking like I got dressed in a tornado—and start gathering everything else I'll need. Heels that are comfortable enough to stand in for hours but tall enough to make my legs look incredible. Jewelry that's understated but expensive.
Armor. All of it. The dress, the heels, the jewelry, the makeup I'm about to apply—it's all armor. The kind you wear when you're walking into battle but want everyone to think you're just there for the champagne.
The bathroom is barely big enough for one person to turn around in, but I've made it work. The counter holds my essentials: a skincare lineup that my mother would approve of (old habits die hard), makeup products I've collected over years of learning exactly what makes my features pop, a curling iron that's seen better days but still functions.
I take my time with the routine, finding comfort in the familiar motions. Cleanser, toner, moisturizer, primer. Each step is a ritual, a meditation, a way to center myself before walking into the unknown. Foundation that matches my skin tone perfectly. Concealer under my eyes to hide the evidence of too many sleepless nights. Contour that sharpens mycheekbones. Highlight that catches the light like I'm glowing from within.
This is my element. Not as much as creating coffee, but close. There's something about transformation—about taking raw materials and turning them into something beautiful—that speaks to a deep part of me.
I'm halfway through setting up my makeshift vanity station—bathroom counter covered with the skincare and makeup products I actually managed to bring with me—when my phone buzzes with a text notification.
I glance at the screen, expecting something from Mila. Maybe the email with the event details, or another thank-you message, or instructions on what exactly I'm supposed to do at this mixer besides exist.
But it's not Mila.
It's Ruby.
I frown, swiping to open the message. Ruby doesn't usually text out of nowhere—we'd only reconnected yesterday, and she's probably busy with her acting prep and horse-riding lessons and whatever else goes into becoming a western romance star.
The message makes my blood run cold.
RUBY: hey babe, not trying to freak you out but I think your folks are trying to marry you off? that's what's being whispered around. some of the industry people I know have connections to those elite omega circles and they're saying the Carlisle family is looking to 'reclaim' a runaway. be careful in Oakridge ok?
I stare at the screen, reading the message once, twice, three times. The words blur and reform, each pass confirming what I already knew but had been desperately hoping wasn't true.
They're actively looking for me. Not just waiting for me to come to my senses—actively searching. Putting out whispersin elite circles. Using their connections to track down their wayward omega daughter.
Be careful in Oakridge.
The warning sits heavy in my chest, pressing against my ribs like a physical weight. I think about the gym this morning—how I'd stood there spiraling, completely vulnerable, lost in my own head for nearly fifteen minutes. How anyone could have approached me. Could have grabbed me. Could have done whatever they wanted before I even registered the threat.
