My heart stutters in my chest.
No. No way. It can't be—the odds of that are—there's no possible way?—
A man rounds the corner into the kitchen, and?—
Oh. Oh God. It's him.
He's taller than I remember—6'2" of lean, elegant Alpha in a suit that probably cost more than my car. He's walking with the kind of sophisticated irritation that suggests his morning has not gone well. His suit is impeccable—clearly bespoke, probably worth more than everything I own combined—in a shade of charcoal that makes his green eyes look even more striking than I remember. His dark blond hair is styled with deliberate carelessness, and his jaw is set in a way that broadcasts his annoyance to anyone paying attention.
Julian. The man from the gym. The man who gave me iron gummies and noticed I was spiraling before I did. The man whose scent made me forget, just for a moment, that all Alphas were dangerous. The man I haven't been able to stop thinking about since that morning.
He looks pissed. Genuinely, thoroughly pissed about something.
But then his eyes lift from whatever mental calculation he was running, and they land on me.
He stops mid-step.
Blinks.
And his entire expression transforms.
The irritation melts away completely, replaced by something I can't quite identify. Surprise, definitely. Recognition—deep and immediate, the kind that comes from a memory that's been replayed many times. And beneath that, something softer. Something that looks almost like...wonder.
He remembers me. He actually remembers me from the gym. It wasn't just a forgettable interaction for him—he remembered my face, my scent, the nickname he gave me when I was spiraling too hard to even protest being called "ditzy."
Three Alphas. Three incredible, confusing, terrifyingly attractive men who've crossed my path in the last few days. And somehow, impossibly, they all know each other. They're all connected. They're all standing in this kitchen, looking at me like I'm something unexpected and fascinating and maybe—just maybe—worth keeping.
What the hell is happening to my life? What cosmic joke is this?
"It's Sweet Ditzy."
CHAPTER 14
Ultimatums And Unexpected Offers
~JULIAN~
The sweet aroma around Tank's house mixed with the delicious smell of freshly cooked breakfast tells me one of two things: either my packmates have finally hired someone to cook for them, or whoever stayed the night smells absolutely divine and has already left.
Either way, I'm in a grumpy fucking mood.
The news that slid into my DMs at six o'clock this morning—confirmed by my management agent via a very pointed phone call at seven—has proven what I've been dreading for months: the inevitable has finally happened. All my work is on hold. Every contract. Every shoot. Every opportunity I've spent the last decade building toward.
All because I don't have an Omega.
Seventy-two hours. That's what they've given me. Seventy-two goddamn hours to produce an Omega or watch everything I've worked for go down the drain.
I've tried every avenue to get around this. Every loophole, every alternative, every possible workaround. I've argued withlawyers and agents and publicists. I've pulled favors and called in debts. I've done everything short of begging—and frankly, I'm not above that at this point.
Nothing has worked.
The industry has spoken: unbonded Alphas over thirty-five are a liability. A risk. An embarrassment to the carefully curated image of pack-oriented success that every major brand wants to project. It doesn't matter that I'm at the top of my game. It doesn't matter that my last three campaigns generated more engagement than any of their previous work. It doesn't matter that I've dedicated my entire adult life to perfecting my craft.
It doesn't matter that I've turned down dozens of omegas who only saw dollar signs when they looked at me. That I've walked away from relationships that felt more like business transactions than genuine connections. That I've held out, year after year, hoping that someday I'd find someone who wantedme—not my face, not my career, not what I could provide.
What matters is that I'm thirty-five, unbonded, and apparently incapable of attracting a mate.
Late Alpha. That's what they call us. Like being unmated at this age is some kind of defect. Some kind of failure. Like there's something fundamentally wrong with wanting to find the right person rather than just settling for anyone who'll have you.
