Chapter 32 Beth
Beth
This is definitely not how I expected my Monday to go.
I’m sitting in a rented Toyota in Chicago, running on three hours of sleep, an iced coffee that is mostly melted water, and enough suppressants to make a rutting alpha politely ask for a handshake.
I stare up at the towering glass-and-steel monolith of the investment firm's headquarters, trying to remember how to breathe.
If you told me twenty-four hours ago that I’d be three hours away from Lakeview on the day of my best friend’s wedding rehearsal, I would have laughed in your face.
But twenty-four hours ago, I hadn’t been slapped with a sudden seventy-two-hour deadline to sell my shop.
.. and my biology wasn't actively trying to sabotage me.
That's right, in a sick twist of irony, my body decided last night was a great time to jump-start my heat, which triggered barely an hour after I started unconsciously nesting, and demand a week-long fuck fest.
So, Arthur, Knox, and Mason stepped up. They spent the rest of the night ruthlessly, methodically fucking the absolute edge off my heat.
And the second the Lakeview pharmacy opened its doors at dawn, Arthur was standing on the pavement, waiting to buy the heaviest-duty suppressants legally available.
Then, running on just enough intellectual clarity (but mostly pure desperation), I rented this Toyota and drove straight to Chicago to tackle this deadline problem head-on.
The plan, I remind myself, gripping the steering wheel.
Focus on the plan. I am going to walk into that boardroom, play the part of the stressed but reasonable small business owner, and beg them to reinstate my original deadline.
If I can just buy myself a little more time, I can figure everything out.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder, shattering my pep talk.
The screen lights up with a text from Maren: Hey!
You free for a quick pre-rehearsal drink?
Me, Harper, and Luna need it. I sigh, picking it up.
My thumbs fly across the keyboard. Not sure.
I'm in Chicago right now. Don't know what time I'll be back.
I pause, and quickly add, P.S. I'll be back on time for the wedding rehearsal, though, promise!
I hit send and drop the phone back into the cup holder. I slap my cheeks lightly, taking a deep breath and forcing my head back into the game. Focus, Beth. Three minutes later, it rings. The screen flashes with an incoming group FaceTime call: Maren, Harper, and Luna.
I swipe to answer, leaning the phone against the dashboard.
"What the hell are you doing in Chicago?" Harper's voice pipes up, her brow furrowed in concern.
I let out a long, exhausted breath and give them the frantic, condensed version of my late night and morning.
I explain the sudden move by the investment firm—who assumed I was shopping their offer around to start a bidding war with Beaumont Patisserie—and how it led to my desperate drive to the city.
"So now, I'm here to fix it." I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white as I glare up at the imposing building through the windshield. "I'm going in there to plead for an extension so I have time to think."
"Think about what?" Harper asks, sitting at her kitchen counter in a casual sweatshirt.
My throat tightens. "About what to do! About my next steps. Everything is happening way too fast, and I just need to hit pause. If I can just get them to push the date back, I'll have more time to think about my options and figure out my exit."
Luna sighs. "Beth, do you really need more time to think about this? Look, of course it's your life and your decision, and I'd say we've been supportive and listened to you, but... We have also felt you change the past few weeks. Ever since you moved in with the alphas, you've been different."
"Lighter," Maren chimes in, nodding. "Happier."
"Exactly," Harper says gently. "And this weekend, you seemed really good. Yesterday in particular, I could feel the alchemy between you and Knox, Arthur, and Mason. It’s palpable, Beth. Do you honestly think you'd be happier leaving?"
I stare at the three of them on the tiny screen, my chest aching.
"Beth, this firm is literally trying to strong-arm you with an aggressive deadline out of pure paranoia," Maren points out, refusing to let me off the hook. "Is that really a corporation you want to surrender your business to?"
"Don't forget what you have here," Luna adds, her voice softening. "Whatever happens, you'll always have us."
"And what if the partnership with Beaumont Patisserie pans out?" Harper adds. "Couldn't that be the universe finally handing you a victory?"
I stare at the phone screen, but my vision starts to blur, the faces of my best friends washing out into a bright haze.
It’s just too much. Between the sudden seventy-two-hour corporate guillotine, my body randomly throwing me into heat, spending the entire night completely wrecked by three alphas, and then driving all the way to Chicago on a fistful of suppressants and zero sleep—my brain is totally short-circuiting.
I honestly have no idea what the right choice is anymore.
"Beth?" Harper asks gently. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I say after a heavy beat, dragging a shaky hand down my face. "I'm—I'm okay. I just... I can't process all of this right now. I have to go in there and deal with the fire right in front of me first. I'll see you guys at the rehearsal, I promise."
I hang up, grab my bag, and get out of the car.
***
The receptionist doesn't want to let me up.
"Ma'am, do you have an appointment?" She says it the way someone says ma'am when they mean please leave before I call security. Her name tag reads JESSICA. Huh, figures.
"I don't," I admit. "But please, I just need fifteen minutes with someone here who can help me deal with a deadline tied to an investment offer."
Jessica blinks at me like I've just asked to borrow her kidney. "Our advisors don’t take walk-ins."
"I'm not a walk-in. I'm a pop-up. There's a difference."
There is not, in fact, a difference. But hey, it's worth a shot.
She stares at me. I stare back, praying my blazer is doing enough heavy lifting to make the purple bags under my eyes read as corporate dedication instead of feral woman who drove three hours high on suppressants and a single gas station granola bar.
It probably doesn't. But hey, I'm here and I'm not leaving.
Something in my expression must communicate this, because Jessica picks up her phone, murmurs something, and then waves me toward the elevator bank with a look that says this is your funeral.
Fair enough.
On the forty-second floor, I'm led to a conference room that's roughly the size of my entire shop and told to wait.
So I wait, sitting in one of those ergonomic chairs and staring out the windows at a skyline.
For forty minutes.
It's a power play, obviously. I've watched enough courtroom dramas to know this. But eventually, the door opens.
An alpha strides in like the conference room was built specifically to frame his entrance. He's all slicked-back hair and tailored charcoal wool, radiating a cold, minty cologne that give my sinuses PTSD.
Posturing scent. Dominance display.
I ignore it.
"Ms. Carter." He checks his Rolex that catches the overhead light and throws a little star of reflection across the ceiling. "I'm Mr. Trent."
"Thank you for receiving me"," I say. "I know I'm not—"
"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" he interrupts smoothly, barely glancing at me as he takes the head of the table.
"I'm assuming you're here about your... what was it, flower shop?
We communicated our revised terms quite clearly in the email, so I fail to see how I can be of any further assistance today. "
A spike of shame flares in my chest, crawling up from my stomach. I push it down.
Come on, Beth. You built that business from the ground up. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, no matter how small this guy is trying to make you feel.
"I know you did. And I'm here because I want the seventy-two-hour deadline pushed back." I hate how tight my voice sounds. I clear my throat. "Thirty days. That's all I'm asking."
Trent sighs.
It's a very expensive, very tired sigh.
"Ms. Carter." He says my name the way you'd read a footnote. "We know what you're doing."
"I know, I just told you that—"
"You want thirty days so you can keep shopping our offer around," he cuts in, talking right over me. "You're hoping to leverage our number against a competing bid. Bump your valuation. We heard you were talking to Beaumont Patisserie."
"I sell ferns, Trent. I'm not orchestrating anything. I just—"
"You run a very…" He pauses. "…quaint operation."
Quaint.
"The firm is offering you a highly generous sum," he continues, straightening his cufflink like this conversation is already over. "We don't entertain stall tactics from the likes of you."
What the fuck does he mean by that? Small business owners? Omegas..?
Here's the thing.
I was going to be calm. I was going to be reasonable. I was going to be the stressed-but-sensible small business owner who knows when she's outmatched, because that's what I've always done.
But standing here, watching Trent treat the fruits of my hard work like a rounding error he wants to wipe off his spreadsheet?
Something inside my rib cage simply snaps.
The intimidation drains out of me. All of it. Leaving behind something cold and quiet and incredibly sharp.
My shoulders drop. My lungs fill all the way up for the first time since I walked into this building.
"You're right," I say.
Trent smiles. It's a smug, predatory thing. A flash of canines that's more alpha reflex than genuine expression. "I'm glad you're seeing reason. Now, let's—"
"Pull the offer."
The smile freezes.
"Excuse me?"
"The firm is going to pull the offer in less than forty-eight hours." My voice comes out perfectly level. Steady. "Do it now. Save us both the wait."
Trent blinks. He physically recoils half a step, his carefully maintained alpha composure slipping just enough for me to see the confusion underneath it.
I watch his nostrils flare. he's probably trying to scent-read me for fear or doubt, but all he's going to find is a wall of pharmaceutical-grade suppressant.
Good luck with that, buddy.
"You're bluffing," he says.
"I'm really not."
I turn on my heel, walk to the door and wrap my hand around the heavy glass handle.
"You are making a massive mistake!" Trent's voice echoes off the mahogany table, pitching a full octave higher than it was thirty seconds ago. "We are not coming back with a better number!"
"You're the ones who actually came to me in the first place. I never asked for anything," I say.
I pull the door open. Step through it. Let it swing shut behind me with a soft, satisfying click.
I give Jessica a small nod on my way out. "Thanks for squeezing me in."