The irony was a physical blow. It twisted in my gut, sharp and toxic. I had sent her out there to be the face of the truth, while I hid in the shadows carrying the exact lie he was using to hang her.
I couldn't protect her from this. I couldn't warn her. I just stood here and watched her act as the shield for a secret she didn't even know I was keeping.
Crack.
The sound may have been in my mind, but the sensation was visceral. The chemical wall I kept built around my biology, the high-grade suppressants I popped like candy, finally gave way. The stress of the last week and the specific, mirror-image horror of this moment was too much.
The scent hit the wings like an explosion.
Burnt sugar. Scorched earth. A wave of distress so potent, so sweet and terrifying, that a cameraman ten feet away stumbled and looked around, confused.
It wasn't a leak. It was a dam failure.
My knees buckled.
"Juno?"
Mateo turned. His eyes went wide. He smelled it instantly, the panic, the biology, the truth bleeding out into the air.
"Juno," Stephen hissed, turning from the monitors, his face paling as the scent hit him.
I grabbed Mateo’s arm. My fingers dug into the fabric of his suit, desperate, clawing. I was shaking. I was going to be sick.
"We need to leave," I choked out, the words tearing through a throat that felt like it was closing up. "Now."
"Mateo, get him to the car," Stephen ordered, his voice low and urgent, stepping between me and the stage crew to block their line of sight. "Ventilation is cycling. If that scent hits the stage..."
If it hit the stage, Rowan would smell it. King would smell it. The cameras would pick up the confusion.
And they would know. They would know there was an Omega in the building. A distressed, passing Omega. One every Alpha would want to find.
"Move," Mateo growled.
He didn't wait. He scooped me up, wrapping his massive arm around my waist, partially shielding me with his jacket. He moved with terrifying speed for a man his size, heading for the loading dock exit, away from the lights, away from the victory, away from the woman I had just watched dismantle a lie that was actually my truth.
I squeezed my eyes shut, burying my face in Mateo’s shoulder, the smell of burnt sugar choking me, drowning out everything else.
I'm sorry, Rowan. I'm so sorry.
TWENTY-THREE
Rowan
The adrenaline of a live broadcast usually has a serviceable half-life of about ninety minutes. It’s a specific kind of chemical high, a sharp, buzzing clarity that coats the nerves and makes you feel like you can dodge bullets, or slander lawsuits, right up until the moment you crash.
I didn't get ninety minutes. I got about forty-five seconds.
I walked off the stage to the cacophony of Mitchell King shouting at his lead producer, a sound that bounced off the studio walls like a ricochet. The audience was in a state of riotous confusion, a sea of murmurs and shifting bodies, while the red "ON AIR" light finally flickered dead above the exit.
My heels clicked against the polished concrete of the wings. I felt ten feet tall. I felt like I had just surgically removed a tumor from the industry with nothing but a single piece of rider paperwork and a backbone made of contract law.
I adjusted my cuffs. I expected high-fives. I expected Juno’s shark-like grin, the one he wore when he’d successfully charmed a viper. I expected to see Mateo standing there like a triumphant mountain, arms crossed, nodding a silent approval.
Instead, I found Stephen. Alone.
He was waiting in the shadows of the cable run, his silhouette sharp against the gloom. He didn't wait for a greeting. He grabbed my arm before I cleared the last technician’s station.
His grip wasn't romantic; it was an extraction hold.
