CASSIDY
It feels good to be alive.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t arrive at Opus already drained and ready to curl up in my nest.
The office is still quiet this early, and I’m determined to use the time to be useful rather than needing half an hour to mentally prepare.
I shrug out of my coat, drape it over the back of my spare chair to air out, and boot up my computer.
The familiar hum settles around me as I unpack my bag.
I fully intended to get some work done this weekend, but instead, I did nothing. It should’ve been strange, and yet, I’m feeling much better for it.
As I log into my computer, the usual apps open, and I’m inundated with notifications.
Emails. Schedule changes. Campaign updates. Meeting notes being forwarded my way.
It’s normal, and predictable, and so refreshing to have a routine. Comforting, even.
I hadn’t realised how much I’d needed a weekend until I’d actually had one.
My parents spent most of it away visiting friends, since they’re leaving today on a work trip. They’ll probably be gone for a month or so, which will be an adjustment.
It meant there had been no family lunches or errands to handle.
For two whole days, nobody needed anything from me, and I selfishly used that time to do what I promised I’d do last weekend—rest, properly, in my own nest.
I slept. Read half a book in my nest, did some laundry, watched terrible television, and even ordered takeaway rather than cooking.
I had more naps than I thought I’d need, but at least my sleep debt is back down to a manageable amount, and my scent no longer feels permanently stressed.
It should have felt strange. Instead, it feels nice. Like maybe it wasn’t selfish if I feel this much better for it.
I know that’s a terrible thing to admit, even just to myself. Good daughters—good omegas, good people—aren’t supposed to enjoy having nobody rely on them.
But somewhere between my second nap and preparing my outfits for the week, I’d realised how tired I’d actually been.
The sort of tiredness that settles into your bones and convinces you it’s normal.
The kind I pretend is normal because admitting otherwise feels like a problem I don’t have time to solve.
I shake my head, grab my new blanket, and wrap it around myself before sitting at my desk.
I open the audio file Harlan asked me to transcribe and settle deeper into my chair, opening a document alongside it.
My hot chocolate is warm in my travel mug, I’m wrapped in the most relaxing scents, and the blanket is heavy enough to make my brain stop buzzing. Almost like someone knew exactly what would settle me when they sent this to me.
Everything feels perfect.
Literally, and that’s not a word I throw around much.
The recording starts playing through my headphones, Harlan’s voice already abrupt as he discusses the budget. I don’t recognise some of the other people there, so I assign voices a number until I can get it clarified.
It’s the sort of meeting that I know makes Harlan want to claw his eyes out, but for me to transcribe, it’s almost relaxing.
The work is repetitive enough that my fingers move automatically across the keyboard, and I can shut my brain off as needed.
A few weeks ago, I’d been terrified of getting something wrong. Terrified I’d miss little details or disappoint Harlan.
Now, I know the process. I know what Harlan expects. I can give him exactly what he wants.
Well, I can with this document anyway.
For all Harlan’s faults, and there are many, he won’t hand responsibility to people he doesn’t trust. If he thought I couldn’t handle something, he simply wouldn’t assign it to me.
He’d take it back, correct it himself, and then find someone else to do it.
Instead, the pile of work landing on my desk seems to get bigger every week. More responsibility. More decisions. More proof that he trusts me.
Last week, he glanced over one of the documents I had prepared and said, “At least I don’t have to redo this one.”
Which, translated from Harlan-speak, was practically a standing ovation.
The memory makes me smile despite myself.
I’m useful.
Another section of transcription falls neatly into place, and I let myself feel something suspiciously close to contentment.
For now, everything is working. And, annoyingly, I can’t pretend Friday night with Evander has nothing to do with that.
A notification flashes briefly across my screen. Someone has added comments to the campaign draft.
I deal with them automatically, barely paying attention while I work through the list.
My fingers continue typing while my thoughts drift to Friday night, to the restaurant, to the dinner I shared with Evander.
It had genuinely been one of the best dinner dates I’ve ever had. He was nice. Sweet. Doting, even.
Which still feels vaguely suspicious. The Evander I first met was none of those things, and I’m still struggling to process that this is the real him.
He’s still overconfident, still a little infuriating. And, of course, he’s ridiculously attractive in a way that feels deeply unfair, even before factoring in his scent.
Evander’s the sort of alpha who strolls through life assuming the universe exists for his convenience, and the truly irritating part is that half the universe seems inclined to agree.
But on Friday, he let me in. Let me see a different side of him. One that made me feel closer to him. One I really, really… love.
I keep thinking about the easy affection between him and his sister-by-mating. The way she pushed against him without worrying he’d push back too hard.
Things between us are developing in a way I like. In a way I… crave.
My scent perfumes my empty office, and I grimace.
“Get your head where it should be, Cassidy,” I mutter, tugging on my hair a little before returning my attention to the document.
At least, for the next thirty seconds or so, anyway.
My gaze drifts to the blanket wrapped around me, and the mystery of who sent it is still bothering me.
It wasn’t Evander. It wasn’t Isaac—Evander would’ve known if it were. And yet, Evander got over his issues with the blanket the moment he scented it, like whatever he found there told him something I still couldn’t understand.
There’s a clue here. I know there is. But I can’t identify three of the four scents, so I’m not exactly making progress.
One of them is Evander. That much I’m certain of.
The others?
Nothing.
Just unfamiliar scents tangled together so thoroughly that I can’t tell where one ends and another begins. Unfamiliar scents tangled together so beautifully that my body doesn’t seem to care who they belong to, only that they make me feel safe.
I don’t know who sent it.
I don’t know why they sent it.
And not knowing is starting to make me want to claw my own skin off.
From under the blanket, of course. I can’t bear to part with it.
So, I shove the entire problem firmly back into the corner of my brain where it belongs and return my attention to the transcription.
The recording continues playing through my headphones, and there’s nobody here to judge me for rewinding it a few minutes because I got distracted.
For the next few minutes, I force myself to focus on something easier than mysterious gifts and increasingly complicated men.
By the time I stop for coffee, the office is fully awake. I stretch my fingers, save the transcription file, and glance at the time.
10:37.
Acceptable coffee break territory.
Probably.
Harlan isn’t in yet, or he’d have called for me, which means there’s no one around to look mildly disappointed by my need for hydration and caffeine.
I stand, collect my mug, and make it halfway to the door before my phone buzzes.
A smile lifts my mouth before I can stop it.
Frankie.
I pick up, grinning as I greet him.
“Please tell me you’re calling to congratulate me on a productive morning.”
“Good morning to you, too,” Frankie says brightly. “And, no. I’m calling because I need to hear the voice of someone sane before I staple myself to a client proposal.”
I wince, locking my door behind me. “That bad?”
“Worse. Someone just asked whether we could make their winter campaign feel more ‘glacial but sexy’.”
I pause, then burst into giggles. He groans down the line, and I have to calm down.
“That’s not a real brief.”
“It is now.”
“Did they explain what that means?” I ask curiously. I nod my head as I pass a group of stylists, but they barely acknowledge me in return.
“They said, and I quote, ‘Like if an ice sculpture had unresolved tension.’”
I press my lips together. I lose the battle almost immediately.
Another wave of laughter slips out of me.
Frankie sighs theatrically. “Exactly. This is why I called you. I needed someone to understand the violence I am currently choosing not to commit.”
“Very professional of you.”
“I know. Some would call it personal growth. I personally think I deserve to be knighted for services to the country.”
I click the kettle on as I move to the sink to rinse out my travel mug.
“You know, if that’s their contribution, I’m not sure the country would agree their lives are worth a knighthood.”
“And this, Cassie, is why I am so glad we ran into each other again. Fuck, I love having friends who get it. I don’t think a single one of my colleagues cares beyond the bottom line.”
I lean back against the counter, still smiling as I wait for the kettle to boil. “Visaro sounds delightful.”
“Visaro is a polished nightmare wearing expensive perfume.” There’s a pause. “How’s Opus? Has Harlan managed to convince you to apologise for breathing yet?”
I grimace and shake my head quickly. “Everything is going well. I’ve not actually seen him yet.”
“If only we could skive off this much,” he teases.
“He’s at a meeting off-site,” I say, wanting to defend Harlan for whatever reason.
“Enough about the managers we don’t like. Tell me about you,” he says, lighter now. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
The word comes out too quickly, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the kettle boils, and I can do something with my restless hands.
Frankie says nothing while I do, which only makes me more nervous.