I hesitate, then nod. “I promise.”
She studies my face for a long moment, then sighs. “Okay. Go save the production. But we’re talking tonight. My trailer, after wrap.”
I don't argue. She's right. Something is happening, and pretending otherwise isn't working anymore.
But I can’t deal with it now. Not when there’s still half a day of filming to get through, a hundred details to track, a thousand problems to solve. So I push it down, lock it away, and get back to work.
For the next few hours, I’m careful. I keep my distance from the crowds. I breathe through my mouth when the scents get too strong. I focus on the lists, the schedules, the endless stream of tasks that need my attention, rather than on the strange symptoms.
By the time we call wrap, I’m exhausted—not just the normal end-of-day tired, but a bone-deep weariness that makes every movement an effort. My head feels stuffed with cotton, my thoughts moving sluggishly. But I’ve made it through without another incident. Without anyone else noticing that something’s wrong.
As I’m packing up my tablet, I catch a glimpse of Elias across the set. He’s watching me again, and the intensity of his attention makes it hard to look away. And for a second, I’m sure he can see it—whatever’s happening to me.
I look away first, hurrying to finish my closing tasks. I need to get out of here, to somewhere I can think clearly. To figure out what’s happening to me before it gets any worse.
Because one thing is certain now: this isn't just exhaustion.
I don't know what it is, but it's not going away.
Chapter 3
Maya
I arrive at the studio at 5:15 AM, thirty minutes before call time. The space is quiet, just the hum of the climate control and the soft beep of my key card as it unlocks the side entrance. My skin feels too tight, like I’m wearing clothes a size too small. The tightness in my throat hasn’t gone away—it’s been there since I woke up, a constant pressure that makes it hard to swallow my coffee. I keep thinking about last night, about Nadia’s face in the warm glow of her trailer lights, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Maya, your scent is changing. That’s not nothing.”
The memory follows me as I make my way through the empty corridors. I pass the craft services area, where the early morning crew is just starting to set up. The smell of coffee hits me hard enough that I stumble, bracing a hand against the wall. Rich, bitter, and suddenly overwhelming. I used to love the smell of coffee. Now it makes my head spin.
“You okay there?” The craft services coordinator looks up from arranging bagels on a platter.
“Fine,” I say automatically. “Just didn’t sleep much.”
She nods sympathetically. “Last two weeks. We’re all running on empty.”
I push on, heading for the main set. The warehouse space feels different in the pre-dawn silence, all shadows and half-light. I check my watch—5:28. I’ve got two minutes to get the lightingsetup confirmed before the crew arrives. I pull my tablet from my bag, tapping open the day’s schedule.
My fingertips tingle as they brush the screen. Another new sensation—like my nerve endings are too close to the surface, too sensitive. I grit my teeth and focus on the list in front of me. First scene: 7:00. Main corridor. Tracking shot.
“It’s happening faster than I thought.” Nadia’s voice again, from last night. She leaned forward, her eyes intense. “I‘ve seen it before, Maya. Not often, but...”
“Seen what before?” I asked, though something in my stomach already knew.
“Late presentations. Betas who later present as omegas.”
I laughed, the sound too sharp in the small space. “That’s not—that’s not a thing. I’m twenty-eight. Nobody presents that late.”
“Nobody presents that late who’s already presented,” she corrected. “But if you never actually...”
I’d shaken my head, cutting her off. “That’s crazy. I’d know. I’d feel different. I’d—“ But I did feel different. That was the problem.
“Just...” Nadia had sighed, reaching for my hand. “Just be careful, okay? If you’re really... if this is what’s happening...”
“Omegas don’t work on film sets,” I said, the words coming out harsher than I meant. “They don’t coordinate productions and run schedules and haul cable. That’s not how it works.”
I didn‘t add the rest—that omegas live different lives. They don't put in fourteen-hour days in warehouses. They don't sleep in tiny apartments and take the subway to work. Their lives look different. Safer. Easier. They have alphas who adore them.
People like me don’t become omegas. It doesn’t happen.
And yet.
