The office goes quiet except for the hum of the club’s sound system warming up below. Wilson lifts one of the mugs to hislips, eyes still on the lease. “How much do you need to survive the quarter?”
Something about this conversation strangely feels like business mixed with someone we want to share our pleasure, as if this moment could tip the scale in either direction. It’s clear Wilson’s guard is back up after the other night when he melted between us but I’m hoping this version of him isn’t instead of the version we see after everyone’s left.
Wilson doesn’t even flinch when I mention the number.
“And to fight it? Legally, long-term, with enough cushion to keep operating while the battle plays out?”
I tell him that number too, which is significantly larger. Oliver’s hand finds mine and squeezes so hard I feel it through my bones. Wilson sets down the mug. “Then maybe it’s time to start looking for an investor?”
I open my mouth to protest, ready to form the same speech I always do about refusing to let an Alpha take over. Oliver is on the same wavelength, Wilson letting out a small smile as he shakes his head.
“Not a controlling party. An investor who will come with a contract and what his say is. He’ll probably get a cut of the profits but he won’t be on the decision board or whatever you have here. Besides, it’s just a step. If you don’t find something you like, you don’t have to take it.”
I hate this. I hate that we have to make these kinds of decisions but even more so, I hate the way Wilson is talking to us, like a business advisor and not someone we’ve shared a bed with.
My shoulders fall as my gaze moves to the second mug Wilson brought it. His eyes mirror my movement and he just shrugs. “Felt Oliver distressing and I don’t know. I just made one.” He shrugs again, not even realizing what he just said.
Felt.
He felt my Omega’s distress, something that only happens when bonds start to form between mates. His guard might be up, but his walls are starting to crumble.
“Okay, yeah. I think I have a list of names we can look through.”
9
Wilson
A name pops up on my screen on the following Tuesday. Lorenzo’s laptop sits open in front of me at the bar as I’m cross-referencing investor profiles with boardwalk property holdings, tedious work nobody asked me to do, but better than going home to an apartment that smells like nothing and sleeping on a mattress that’s too quiet.
The guest bedroom upstairs has been my temporary home, though, eventually, I’ll have to face the music and return to my own place.
Refocusing, I scroll down on the screen. Most entries belong to Alpha-run firms with intertwined boards. A few smaller outfits show potential, none with the kind of capital to challenge a landlord who owns half the waterfront. My thumb halts mid-scroll on a business article about local real estate developers. A consultant quoted on mixed-use projects: Sebastian Cavallero.
My fingers freeze on the keyboard at the mention of my ex’s name. The scar at the base of my neck throbs beneath my collar, a phantom signal from a bond long since dead.
I inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth. My left hand trembles on the laptop’s edge, so I press it flat against the bar, hoping that will help ease the edges of a panic attack threatening to ruin me.
He can’t control you anymore,I tell myself, breathing through the tunneled edges of my vision. He’s gone. His bite was removed, albeit rather dangerously in a black market operation that I still wonder what would have happened had I not come out the other side. He can’t hurt me, though. Sebastian has no claim to me.
I repeat those statements several times before I can focus again. Three names down from Sebastian, buried in a sidebar about independent investors, is another face I know.
Nicholas Cavallero.
His profile photo stares back at me, all curly hair, glasses, and that grin that wrinkles the corners of his eyes. I read further to see that he’s the founder of a boutique real estate investment firm specializing in independent commercial properties. His portfolio is undeniably impressive, filled with small businesses, mixed-use developments, and a handful of nightlife venues.
A kitchen light flicks on overhead and I hear Oliver’s voice drifting down the stairs. “Wilson, are you still here? It’s almost three in the—” He freezes at the foot of the staircase, eyes flicking between my face and the open laptop. “What are you looking at?”
“Investor profiles,” I say, angling the screen away. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Join the club. Lorenzo stole all the blanketsinmynest.” Oliver pads behind the bar in Lorenzo’s oversized shirt, grabs a water bottle from the fridge, then leans in close enough that hisscent drifts around my shoulders. He peeks at the screen. “Find anyone good?”
“A few possibilities. Nothing definitive.”
Lorenzo appears in the doorway fully dressed, his expression carrying the pinched look of a man who woke up to an empty bed. His gaze finds Oliver first, then me, then the laptop.
“You’re both supposed to be asleep,” he says.
“Wilson found investors,” Oliver says.
