Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Callie
When I came out of my first pack heat the last thing I expected was to have an interview request from the most popular morning show in the country. Now, less than a week later I sat in the green room of the same show I grew up watching waiting for our turn to be called out to talk to the hosts.
I couldn't keep my gaze off Nova as he paced with the controlled energy of someone calculating seventeen different variables simultaneously.
His fingers drummed against his thigh in a pattern I'd learned meant he was running through contingency plans, probably labeled A through Z with sub-categories for each potential disaster.
"Stop catastrophizing," I said, adjusting the silk blouse Michelle had insisted on. It was conservative enough to scream 'respectable Omega' while the subtle cutouts whispered 'but make it fashion.' The five bite marks on my neck were deliberately visible, a statement louder than any words.
"I'm not catastrophizing," Nova said, his accent sharpening the way it did when stressed. "I'm preparing for realistic scenarios. The host has a history of asking invasive questions disguised as concern. Her interview with that bonded triad last year included asking about their sexual positions."
"She asked what?" Blitz stopped mid-pushup, because of course he was exercising minutes before national television.
"If they maintained 'traditional Alpha hierarchy' in intimate settings." Nova's jaw clenched. "Phrased delicately, but the implication was clear."
Ghost typed rapidly on his phone, probably pulling up the interview in question. His eyes narrowed as he read, a sure sign he was cataloguing every micro-aggression for future reference.
"We knew this would happen," I said, standing to smooth my skirt. Another Michelle selection, long enough to be modest, short enough to show I had nothing to hide. "Going mainstream means dealing with mainstream ignorance."
"Your mother will be watching," Milo said quietly from his corner, where he'd been stress-eating the green room's fruit plate. "She texted asking if we're sure about this."
My mother. The woman whose public heat disaster had become a cautionary tale, who'd abandoned me to save me from this exact scenario, discussing pack dynamics on morning television where millions could judge and dissect every word.
"Let her watch," I said, meaning it without malice. "Maybe she'll finally understand the difference between her story and mine. I know she's getting there, but maybe this will help move her along."
A production assistant appeared, headset making her look official and frazzled simultaneously. "Five minutes to air. We'll bring you out after the cooking segment."
Crash bounced on his toes, energy crackling. "After cooking? So we follow food? That's either insulting or genius."
"It's strategic," Nova said, finally stopping his pacing. "Food segments create positive associations. The audience will be relaxed, dopamine elevated. We're more likely to receive favorable reception."
"You really do research everything," I said with fondness.
The waiting was agony. Through the monitor, we watched the host, Rebecca Sterling, America's sweetheart with a surgeon's precision for finding weak spots, chat with a celebrity chef about holiday appetizers.
Her smile never wavered, but her eyes held the calculating sharpness of someone who'd climbed to the top over countless bodies and stabbed anyone who got in the way with her perfectly pointed stilettos.
"Remember," Nova said, pulling us into a quick huddle. "We stick to talking points. Modern pack dynamics. Conscious choice. Mutual respect. Don't let her bait you into discussing heat specifics or bonding details."
"And if she does?" Crash asked.
"I handle it," I said firmly. "This was my mother's nightmare. It's my stage."
The assistant returned, ushering us toward the set. The studio lights hit like a physical force, bright enough to eliminate shadows and any hope of hiding. The audience, fifty carefully selected people representing America's demographics, watched with hungry eyes.
Rebecca Sterling stood to greet us, her handshake firm and her smile practiced. She smelled like expensive perfume layered over beta blockers, the chemical tang making my nose itch.
"The famous Bond Pack," she said, voice carrying that false warmth perfected by years of practice. "And Callie Cross, the Omega who changed streaming forever."
I wanted to correct her, tell her that was Kara Quinn, but we didn't have time or an opening as we carefully arranged ourselves on the couch. I was positioned in the center with the others flanking protectively but not possessively. Every position had been discussed, analyzed, optimized for optics.
"So," Rebecca began once the cameras rolled, settling into her chair with predatory grace. "Let's address what everyone's thinking. Five Alphas, one Omega. The math alone raises questions."
There it was. Fifteen seconds in and she'd already implied I was either greedy or victimized.
"The math is simple," I said, matching her false warmth. “Six people who chose each other. No different from any other relationship except we're honest about our dynamic."
"But surely the biological aspects complicate things? We all saw the footage from StreamCon. That seemed less like choice and more like..." She paused delicately. "Biological imperative."
The footage. Of course she'd bring up my public heat response, my complete loss of control in front of cameras. The exact thing that had destroyed my mother.
"Have you ever been in love, Rebecca?" I asked, tilting my head with practiced innocence.
She blinked, thrown by the redirect. "I'm married, yes."
"Was your first kiss with your husband calculated? Planned? Or did biology play a role in that attraction?"
"Well, naturally there's physical chemistry—"
"Exactly." I smiled, showing teeth. "Biology and choice aren't opposites.
They're dance partners. We experienced intense physical compatibility, yes.
But we chose what to do about it. These five Alphas spent three days refusing to permanently mark me during heat because they wanted me to choose with a clear head. "
The audience murmured, some looking surprised. Rebecca's smile tightened.
"That's quite a claim. Most Alphas would struggle with that level of restraint."
"Most Alphas aren't like our pack," Blitz said, his usual sunshine energy carrying steel underneath. "We're not 'most' anything. We're us."
"And yet you eventually marked her. All of you." Rebecca's eyes tracked to my visible bite marks. "Some would say that's excessive. Greedy, even."
The word hung in the air like a slap. In my peripheral vision, I saw Ghost's hands clench, Crash go still, Nova's jaw tighten.
"Some would say monogamy is limiting," I countered. "Some would say traditional marriage is outdated. Some would say a lot of things about relationships they're not in."
"You came from a background of independence," Rebecca pressed. "Your brand was built on not needing Alphas. Don't you think your young Omega viewers might see this as betrayal?"
There it was. The heart of it. The accusation I'd been fighting since day one.
"My brand was built on choice," I said, leaning forward slightly. "On Omegas having agency. I chose independence when I needed it. Now I choose connection. The power to choose is what matters, not what we choose."
"But can you really choose when biology is involved? Your mother—"
"Is not me." The words came out sharp enough to cut.
"My mother's story is about abandonment and shame.
Mine is about support and pride. She went into heat on television and was left to suffer alone.
I went into heat at a convention and was protected, respected, and given the space to choose my own path. "
Nova's hand found mine, a silent support that the cameras definitely caught.
"We're not saying our way is the only way," Milo added, his warmth evident even through television polish. "We're saying it's a valid way. One that deserves respect like any other consensual relationship."
"And the public nature of it all?" Rebecca asked, clearly frustrated by our unified front. "Everything documented, streamed, shared. Doesn't that feel invasive?"
"You mean like this interview?" Crash asked innocently, earning a laugh from the audience.
Rebecca's composure cracked slightly. "That's different. This is professional—"
"So is our streaming," Ghost said quietly, surprising everyone by speaking. His voice carried the kind of gravity that made people lean in. "We're professional content creators. We choose what to share. The difference is we're honest about it."
"But surely there are intimate details that should remain private? The public doesn't need to know about your... heat arrangements."
And there it was. The invasive question we'd been waiting for.
"You're right," I said smoothly. "They don't. Which is why we don't share those details. We share the emotional journey, the relationship dynamics, the reality of modern pack life. The rest is ours."
"Yet you profit from the curiosity—"
"Like this show profits from having us here?" Nova asked, his business voice cutting through her accusation. "We're all in the content business, Rebecca. The difference is we're transparent about it."
The audience was fully on our side now, I could feel the shift in energy. Rebecca sensed it too, her smile becoming more strained.
"Let's talk about the future then. Children? Traditional pack structure? What does happily ever after look like for the Bond Pack?"
"Messy," I said honestly. "Complicated. Real.
We'll fight about whose turn it is to do dishes.
Ghost will build Lego cities at 3 AM. Crash will set something on fire.
Milo will stress-bake enough to feed an army.
Nova will make spreadsheets for grocery shopping.
Blitz will flex in every reflective surface. "
The audience laughed, genuine this time.
"And I'll document what I want to share, keep private what I don't, and continue proving that Omegas can have everything, independence and connection, career and pack, choice and biology."
"That sounds idealistic," Rebecca said, making one last attempt. "Reality is rarely so perfect."
"Who said anything about perfect?" I looked directly at the camera, knowing my mother was watching, knowing thousands of Omegas were seeing this.
"Perfect is a lie we tell ourselves to avoid trying.
We're not perfect. We're real. We're choosing each other every day, publicly and privately, through good and bad. "
The segment ended with Rebecca looking slightly defeated and the audience applauding. As we were ushered off stage, the assistant whispered that we'd broken their social media engagement records.
In the green room, Michelle waited with her tablet and a rare smile.
"#PackGoals is trending worldwide," she reported. "The clip of you asking Rebecca about her first kiss has two million views already."
"How'd we do?" Crash asked, bouncing with post-performance adrenaline.
I thought about my mother, about the young Omegas seeing us refuse to be ashamed, about Rebecca Sterling's frustrated face when she couldn't break our unity, and I smiled to myself.
"We told the truth," I said, surrounded by my pack, my chosen family, my perfectly imperfect everything. "On national television, in front of millions, we told our truth."
"And?" Nova asked.
"And nothing. That's enough. Being ourselves, openly and honestly, is enough."
The drive home was full of Michelle reading positive reactions, sponsors wanting to work with us, interview requests from actually respectful outlets. But the text that mattered came from my mother.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, you're braver than I ever was. You faced the nightmare and turned it into a dream. I'm proud of you.
I showed it to the pack, watching their faces soften.
Outside, #PackGoals continued trending. Inside our car, six people who'd chosen each other despite everything just existed, together, real and messy and completely ourselves.
My mother's nightmare had become my victory.
And we'd done it live on national television.