“Oliver—”
“Thirty-two percent?” His voice rises at the last syllable. “Lorenzo, this is… What the fuck is this?”
“It’s the new lease terms from Voss.”
“New. Since when? When did this come in?” He flips through the pages, eyes scanning faster than his brain can process. His free hand pushes wet hair out of his face. “The code violation too? And this bullshit from the merchants’ association? Lorenzo, how long have you been sitting on this?”
“The lease terms came this morning. The code violation was last week. The merchant complaint—”
“Last week?” He slaps the folder down on the desk. “You’ve known about this for a week and you didn’t tell me?”
“I was working on a response.”
“You were working on a response.Alone. While I was out there restocking the bar and kissing Wilson over the counter and thinking everything was fine because you let me think everything was fine.” His voice cracks on the last word, and I feel it hit me in the ribs.
“I didn’t want to worry you until I had a plan.”
“A plan.” He laughs, and it’s the worst sound I’ve heard this week and I’ve spent the last several minutes on the phone with Marcus Voss. “What plan? What possible plan covers a thirty-two percent rent hike and fabricated code violations and a complaint from businesses that make twice the noise we do? Lorenzo, they’re trying to push us out.”
“I know.”
Tears glaze over his eyes, the pain in his eyes gutting me to the core. “Zo, this is our club. This is everything we built. We started this place with nothing. We had no money, no backing, no Alphas to cosign the loan. We begged the bank for six months and scraped together every cent and you worked three jobs while I bartended for tips and we built this from the goddamn ground up.” The tears spill over his cheeks, tracking through the glitterhe must have applied before coming down here. “They can’t just take it.”
“They’re not taking it, baby. They’re making it too expensive to keep.”
“That’s the same damn thing.”
It is. I know it is. When it was just numbers on paper the distinction felt important. Now it sounds exactly the way Oliver’s calling it.
His shoulders fold inward as the sobs hit him, the kind only Oliver produces when something reaches past every layer of brightness and warmth and strikes the raw center underneath. I push out of my chair and around the desk as his knees wobble, my arms wrapping around my Omega.
His face presses into my chest, tears soaking through my shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric at my sides. His scent curdles with distress, making my stomach clench. I press my mouth to the top of his head and hold him while the sobs work through his body, each one shaking both of us. “We’ll figure it out,” I whisper into Oliver’s hair. “We always do.”
“This is different. Youknowthis is different.”
A knock at the open door pulls me back. I look up to see Wilson standing in the frame, two mugs of coffee in hand, his expression carefully neutral. He glances from Oliver’s tear-streaked face to my arms around him, then to the open folder on my desk.
He doesn’t ask if we’re okay or what happened. He simply steps into the office, sets both mugs on the desk, and pulls a chair around from the other side so he can sit facing us.
“How bad is it?”
Oliver lifts his face from my chest, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing glitter across his cheekbone. He opens his mouth to deflect, but Wilson’s steady gaze stops him. There’s a stillness behind Wilson’s eyes I’ve never seen before,less detachment and more sharp assessment, as if rent increases and code violations are a language he speaks fluently.
I take a breath before explaining. “The landlord’s using the lease to squeeze us out with a thirty-two percent hike on base rent, plus new fees and a manufactured code violation to pile on pressure. He’s backed by the Alpha-owned businesses on the boardwalk who can’t stand a Beta-Omega operation outperforming them.”
Wilson reaches over to the desk and grabs the lease terms, eyes scanning the pages so fast it’s almost a blur. “How long has this been escalating?”
I shrug. “This round started three months ago but the pressure’s been on and off since we opened.”
“And before the thirty-two percent jump, where were you relative to market?”
“Fifteen percent above.”
He sets the papers down. “So it was already punitive. This isn’t a market correction. It’s a slow suffocation strategy. Price you out just enough that it looks like you failed instead of being driven out.” It’s terrifying how fast Wilson catches onandunderstands what we’re dealing with.
Oliver watches Wilson, tears still wet on his cheeks but posture suddenly straight, as though he’s recognizing an old tactic. “You’ve seen this kind of thing,” Oliver says, half question, half realization.
Wilson’s voice comes out flat. “I spent two years inside a system built on manipulation and paperwork engineered to look legit. Whether it’s an Omega center or a nightclub, they use the same mechanics. Document everything, make the pressure seem procedural, and count on you being overwhelmed or too proud to ask for help.”
