"Ready to see inside?" I ask when we've packed up the remains of lunch.
"Lead the way, Mr. Stone," she says, taking my offered hand and letting me pull her to her feet.
"Yes, ma'am, Ms. Hale."
As we walk toward the building I've been pouring my heart into, her hand warm in mine, I can't help but think some things are worth the wait. And some second chances are worth everything you've got.
25
SAVANNAH
I'm stress-eating my third donut of the morning while staring at my phone like it might spontaneously develop the ability to solve all my problems, when the realization hits me like a freight train carrying a cargo of pure panic.
Something's wrong with my cycle.
"Shit," I mutter, nearly choking on glazed donut number three as I frantically scroll through my period tracking app. The kitchen feels too bright, too cheerful for this kind of biological crisis. Sunlight streams through the windows, highlighting the chaos of my morning routine: coffee cups scattered across the counter, vendor contracts spread like confetti, and enough sugar-coated evidence of my stress-eating to power a small bakery.
"Shit, shit, shit."
The app is helpfully informing me that everything's completely fucked. My cycle should have started three days ago, but instead of the usual clockwork precision that's defined my adult life, I've got... nothing. Radio silence from my reproductive system.
How did I miss this? I'm the woman who color-codes her grocery lists and plans her outfit choices a week in advance. I don't just "miss" things, especially not things that could derail the most important wedding of my career.
Except, apparently I do when I'm surviving on limited sleep, enough caffeine to power a small aircraft, and a diet that consists primarily of whatever vendors offer me during tastings and whatever takeout places deliver to the venue at midnight.
The stress-eating suddenly makes perfect, horrible sense. The weird cravings that had me demolishing an entire bag of salt and vinegar chips yesterday while reviewing catering contracts. The fact that I've been irrationally angry at the florist for having the audacity to suggest baby's breath as filler flowers. Baby's breath! Like I'm some kind of amateur who doesn't understand that baby's breath is the botanical equivalent of giving up on life.
My suppressants sit in their little white bottle on my bathroom counter, mocking me with their pharmaceutical efficiency. I've been taking them religiously every morning with my coffee, same routine I've had for years, because that's what you do when you're a professional omega who can't afford biological chaos.
Wait.
I stop mid-chew, donut turning to sawdust in my mouth as my stress-addled brain finally catches up to reality.
I've been claimed. For weeks now. The pale scar on my throat where Logan marked me are proof of that. So why the hell am I still taking suppressants like some unmated omega?
I've been going through the motions. Swallowing pills that do nothing because the routine feels safer than admitting everything's changed. Because acknowledging I don't need them anymore means facing the fact that I'm claimed. Bonded. That Logan's mark did exactly what it was supposed to do.
"Oh my God," I whisper to the empty kitchen. "I'm an idiot."
I grab my phone with shaking hands and speed-dial Dr. Martinez, because if anyone can explain why my newly-claimed brain apparently stopped working the moment wedding stress took over, it's the woman who's been managing my omega health since I moved to Denver.
"Savannah?" Dr. Martinez's voice carries that particular blend of professional concern and barely concealed amusement that means she's been expecting this call. "Let me guess. You're confused about your cycle?"
"How did you..." I start, then shake my head. "Never mind, of course you know. Dr. Martinez, I think I've been doing something really stupid."
"Oh?" Her tone shifts to interested concern.
"I've been taking my suppressants," I blurt out, feeling heat flood my face even though she can't see me. "Every day. Like normal. Even though I've been claimed."
The silence that follows is so loaded with professional judgment that I want to crawl under my kitchen counter and hide.
"Savannah," Dr. Martinez says finally, her voice carefully controlled, "how long have you been claimed?"
"Three weeks," I admit, my voice small with embarrassment. "Three weeks, and I've been popping suppressants every morning like some kind of... of..."
"Like someone who's been under extreme stress and not thinking clearly about major life changes?" she suggests kindly.
"Like an idiot," I correct.
