Today I’m watching publicists in black glide through the crowd with clipboards and practiced smiles. Security guards stand at intervals along the walls, their expressions professionally blank. Someone near the bar swings a champagne flute with too much enthusiasm and nearly clips a passing waiter.
The noise builds in layers—conversations overlapping, laughter rising and falling, the distant pulse of music from somewhere deeper in the theater.
I take a sip of water and continue people watching.
Adrian appears beside me without warning. One moment I'm standing alone by the wall, and the next he's there. His hand brushes the small of my back, a touch so familiar it barely registers as contact anymore. He's in a charcoal suit that fits him like he was born wearing it, and his cedar-amber scent reaches me before he speaks. “Is that water?” he asks, glancing at my glass. “Did you eat earlier?”
“I had half a protein bar in the car.”
His expression immediately suggests he finds this inadequate. I tip my head toward his shoulder without thinking about it. His hand rises to the back of my neck, his thumb brushing once along my jaw before he steps away again and heads toward Bash near the center of the lobby.
I watch him go and feel the bond shift softly in my awareness. Two months later, it still catches me off guard sometimes. Not the existence of it, but the ease. The certainty of knowing exactly where he is in a crowded room without needing to look.
Across the lobby, Bash catches my eye. He's in the middle of a conversation with a producer I recognize from three projects back, but his attention flicks to me the second I look in his direction. The corner of his mouth lifts. He raises his glass in a silent acknowledgment before turning back to the conversation.
Elias appears at my side a few moments later. He doesn't say anything. He rarely does when words aren't necessary. One ofhis hands finds mine and squeezes once before lifting to brush his thumb lightly across a bond mark at the side of my throat. Then he lets go and turns toward the entrance, where security is beginning to organize the first arrivals onto the carpet.
A production assistant I don't recognize approaches with a headset and a clipboard. “Ms. Collins? They're asking for final confirmation on your placement for the carpet walk. The director wants you with the core cast.”
I nod. “That's fine.”
She hesitates. Her gaze drops briefly to my bond marks before flicking toward the three alphas moving through the lobby around me. Something shifts in her expression—respect, maybe, or curiosity—and then she's gone, already speaking into her headset as she walks away.
Two months ago, this interaction would have destroyed me. Someone looking at my throat, seeing what I am, and making a calculation about my value would have followed me for days. Now I watch her go and feel nothing beyond the distant recognition that yes, I'm an omega, and yes, those are bond marks. Neither of those things changes the fact that I'm standing in this lobby because I earned my place here.
A few minutes later, Adrian returns and settles beside me, his shoulder pressing lightly against mine as he surveys the lobby. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“I'm okay,” I tell him, and I mean it.
His hand finds the sleeve of my dress and adjusts it where it's slipped slightly off my shoulder. The gesture is automatic. He doesn't even look at what he's doing. His fingers smooth thefabric into place before his hand drops away and reaches for the phone buzzing in his pocket.
A moment later, Bash appears on my other side. The scent of bergamot and spice washes over me as he leans in and brushes a kiss against my temple so casually it barely qualifies as one. “You ate half a protein bar?” he murmurs. “That's not food. That's a suggestion.”
“I'll eat after.”
“You'll eat the almonds in my pocket right now.” He says firmly as he reaches into his jacket, produces a small packet, and presses it into my palm without waiting for a response. Then he's moving again, his hand trailing briefly across the small of my back as he passes.
I open the almonds and eat three without tasting them. My stomach settles almost immediately.
People watch us. I've stopped being bothered by it. At first, every glance felt like exposure. Three alphas and an omega moving through public spaces together, the bonds visible and the dynamics unmistakable. Now the attention has faded into background noise.
Let them look.
Let them see Adrian defer to me in production meetings. Let them see Bash introduce me as the person who runs the floor. Let them see Elias position himself slightly behind my left shoulder in crowded rooms, not because he thinks I need protection, but because that's where he's decided he belongs.
Their respect changed the way everyone else treated me, and I never saw it coming.
The first week back on set after my heat, six people straightened when I walked into the production meeting. Not because I was an omega, but because Adrian Wells pulled out my chair before taking his own seat, Bash had already set my coffee on the table exactly the way I take it, and Elias stood near the door with an intensity that makes even seasoned producers think twice before speaking carelessly.
None of them announced what they were doing.
They didn't need to.
They showed everyone else how to treat me simply by treating me that way themselves.
I finish the almonds and tuck the empty packet into my clutch just as a familiar voice cuts through the noise of the lobby.
“Maya!” Nadia appears from between two clusters of suited executives, her dress catching the light in waves of deep burgundy. She looks exactly like herself—animated, warm, and slightly too loud for the room—and the sight of her makes me smile instantly.
