“I’ll think about it,” I say finally. “That‘s the best I can do.”
He studies my face for a long moment. “That’s not a no,” he says.
“It‘s not a yes either,” I point out.
Something shifts in his expression—not quite a smile, but close. “I’ll take it,” he says. “For now.”
He moves toward the door, pausing when he reaches it. “The offer stands,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”
And then he’s gone, the door closing softly behind him. I sink into the chair, my heart still racing. But underneath it all is the unsettling realization that part of me is relieved.
It makes no sense. He’s trying to control me, make decisions about my life without my input, and treat me like I’m fragile or incapable—like everything I’ve proven on this production stopped mattering the moment my designation did.
And yet.
I push to my feet, forcing myself back to the present. Back to the set. Back to the job that needs to get done regardless of what’s happening in my personal life.
But as I step back into the noise and movement of the production, I know things are no longer as simple as they were a week ago. I’m navigating the growing presence of all three alphas in my space, whether I want to or not.
Adrian, with his steady reassurance.
Bash, with his easy smiles and relentless curiosity.
And Elias, with his grounding presence and impossible offers.
My body may be changing, but I’m not ready to let anyone else decide what that means for the life I’ve built.
Chapter 7
Elias
The set empties around me as the day winds down. Equipment gets packed away, lights dimmed, the chaos of filming settling into the orderly process of wrap. I finish my last security check of the perimeter, watching from the edge of the room as Maya speaks with one of the production assistants. Her shoulders curve slightly inward, a subtle change from the efficient confidence she usually carries across set. The herbal blockers she's been taking are wearing off. I can see it in the flush creeping up her neck and the way her eyes keep darting toward the gathering crowd.
The production assistant nods, makes a note on his tablet, and hurries away. Maya watches him go, her hand rising briefly to her throat. I've counted that gesture three times in the last hour. The tightness is coming back. Her time’s running out.
She's still trying to finish the day before she'll let herself acknowledge what's happening to her. Part of me admires that. The alpha in me knows she's already asking more of herself than her body is willing to give.
I move toward her without hesitation, cutting a straight line through the thinning crowd. People shift before I reach them, creating space without being asked.
“Ready to go?” I ask when I reach her. My voice is neutral, the same tone I’d use to ask about the weather or confirm theschedule for tomorrow. As if this has been arranged, as if she’s been expecting me.
She stiffens, eyes flashing up to meet mine. A muscle jumps in her jaw—once, twice—before she manages to smooth her expression. “I’m still working,” she says, her voice tight. “I’ve got at least another hour of—“
“Collins?” The second AD appears at her elbow, looking between us with obvious curiosity. “I need to confirm the prop placement for the water sequence tomorrow. Production wants it in scene fourteen instead of twelve.”
I step back slightly, giving them space without moving out of range. Maya never turns toward me, but she hasn’t forgotten I’m here. Her shoulders tighten as the conversation continues, her attention divided between the second AD and my presence nearby.
“It’s already with the props for scene fourteen. I moved it yesterday.” she tells the second AD, her voice even despite the flush creeping up her neck.
The second AD nods, making a note on her clipboard. “Perfect. You’re on top of everything as usual.” She glances at me, then back to Maya. “I’ll let you two finish... whatever this is.”
She hurries away, leaving us in a small bubble of relative privacy as the set empties around us. The moment she’s gone, Maya turns on me, her eyes hard.
“I didn’t agree to this arrangement,” she says, the words clipped. Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “You don’t get to decide for me.”
I don’t argue or interrupt. I just meet her eyes steadily and let her say what she needs to say. It's a fragile line to walk. Push too hard and she'll stop listening. Give too much ground and she'll keep pretending this isn't happening.
“You didn’t refuse,” I say when she pauses for breath. “We reached an understanding. You’re in pre-heat, Maya. You don't have to like it, but it's happening.”
