The red carpet is exactly as awful as I expected.
The moment we step through the doors, lights explode. Flashes pulse in staggered waves, too bright to look at directly, and the sound hits like a wall—reporters shouting from behind velvet ropes, photographers calling names, the crowd beyond the barricades roaring with enthusiasm.
Adrian’s hand finds mine immediately. His palm is warm, and his grip is firm enough to ground me without being possessive. On my other side, Bash falls into step with the easy confidence of someone who has done this a thousand times. His posture is relaxed, and his smile is calibrated to the exact degree of charm the cameras expect.
Elias walks slightly behind us. His presence at my back is as much a part of our formation now as Adrian's hand in mine. I can feel him there without looking—the bond between us keeps me steady amid the chaos.
A reporter shouts Adrian's name. Another calls for Bash. Someone yells a question about the pack dynamic that I can't quite make out over the noise. Bash handles it without missing a beat, his voice carrying with practiced ease as he offers something charming and vague that satisfies the curiosity without actually answering anything.
My dress suddenly feels too tight across my shoulders. The lights are too hot. The smell of too many bodies packed into too small a space presses against the back of my throat.
For one disorienting second, I'm back in the kitchen during that first flare, clutching Adrian's shirt in both hands while the world narrows down to scent and survival.
Then Elias's hand settles against the small of my back. His fingertips barely brush the fabric of my dress, but the contact is enough to ground me. I'm able to breathe again, and the moment passes.
We reach the midpoint of the carpet where the interviews cluster. A woman with a microphone intercepts Adrian, and he shifts smoothly into the conversation without releasing my hand. Bash is already engaged with a photographer who seems disproportionately interested in the exact shade of his tie. Elias remains at my back, a steady presence I can feel even when I'm not looking at him.
Across the carpet, I spot the director. He's standing near the theater entrance with a glass in hand, surrounded by executives and publicists, looking exactly as he always does—slightly rumpled, like a man who routinely forgets to eat when he's working.
Our eyes meet across the crowd.
Recognition flashes across his face, followed by a smile. A moment later, he excuses himself from the group and starts making his way toward me.
Elias’s hand tightens slightly against my back. Alerting me to the director’s approach.
I squeeze Adrian's hand once to let him know I'm stepping away before heading toward the director. Elias moves with me, staying a half-step behind and giving me enough space that the conversation will still feel private.
“Maya.” The director stops in front of me. His eyes drop briefly to the bond marks at my throat before returning to my face. “You look well.”
“Thank you.” I mean it.
He hesitates.
The noise of the carpet swirls around us. Cameras click. Someone laughs too loudly nearby. Music pulses faintly from the exterior speakers.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “I meant what I said on the phone. I should have handled things differently. What you brought to this production—”
He stops.
Starts again. “We didn’t appreciate it enough while you were there. I want you to know that I see that now.”
The words land differently than they would have two months ago. I smile.
"Thank you," I say. "For saying that."
“Will you work with me again? Someday?” He asks.
I smile. “Maybe. If the project is right.”
He nods, and his shoulders relax. Then he’s moving away, back toward his circle, and Elias’s hand returns to the small of my back.
The rest of the carpet passes in a blur of light and sound. We pose. We smile. We move through the gauntlet of questions and cameras together. Bash makes someone laugh with a story I’ve heard three times at home. Adrian answers a technical question about a scene that makes interviewers lean forward. Elias says seven words total, all of them polite and none of them revealing anything about himself he doesn’t want known.
By the time we reach the theater doors, my face hurts from smiling. My feet ache in heels I should have broken in better. The bond marks at my throat feel warm from the lights, a faint hum of awareness that has become as much a part of my body as my heartbeat.
Inside, the theater is dark and cool. We find our seats in the reserved section—middle row, center block, the kind of placement that says someone important decided we belong here—and I sink into the plush velvet with a relief that travels from my ankles to my shoulders.
Adrian sits to my right. Bash to my left. Elias takes the aisle seat beside Bash, his long legs stretched into the narrow space in front of him. The theater fills around us. Nadia appears three rows ahead and waves before taking her seat. The lights dim. The studio logo fills the screen, and I settle back in my seat between my alphas to watch a film I helped bring to life.
