Chapter 22
MORGAN
I usually take calls in my room, but it stinks of omega right now, so I claim one of the hotel’s many meeting rooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city, but they might as well be blank drywall for all I care.
I pace along the length of the table, phone in-hand and on speaker, only half hearing the voice of the head of operations for the company we acquired last year.
There’s a knock at the meeting room door, and a turn and glare through the glass.
A group of business professionals in suits shrink back slightly, despite the fact that I’m still wearing my bikini and coverup.
The bravest says something about having a reservation, voice muffled by the glass between us.
I flip them off. They get the message.
I interrupt the operations head, telling him in no uncertain terms that I’m fucking done with his excuses.
My phone vibrates in my hand with a new text from the senior project manager, who’s also on the call.
I thought we were playing the long game?
Not anymore, I type back, not missing a beat as I continue reaming the ops guy.
When I bore of it, I hang up.
With that call taken care of, I’m theoretically free to return to my day. Instead, I make another. Might as well get shit done when I’m in the mood for it.
The call rings through to the product manager of one of our lower-performing drug lines, and I inform him that he has two quarters to get the numbers going in the right direction or I’m offloading the entire product line to the highest bidder.
I hang up and am about to make another call when one comes in from Giovanna Heath. I sigh and answer it.
“Did Eileen call you?”
“Morgan, darling, how are you doing?”
I sigh again and sink into one of the leather office chairs ringing the conference table. I kick out and pivot to face the city view.
“I’m fine.”
“Morgan…”
“I don’t exactly appreciate my psychiatrist butting into my professional affairs.”
“Morgan. I’m a psychiatrist, and I’m your friend. Not your psychiatrist.”
“Same difference. And you’re doing the thing where you say my name repeatedly to humanize yourself. Stop it.”
Gia’s sigh rattles through the phone, the professionalism in her tone falling away. “C’mon. What’s up?”
“It’s this omega. I’m getting… more reactive than I’d like to be.” My thumbnail picks at the edge of the leather armrest.
“Reactive how?”
I don’t like any of the words that come to mind. The silence speaks volumes.
“Ooooh,” Gio croons. “You like him.”
“It’s just a reaction. Nothing personal.”
“Mkay, so what has you screaming at people?”
I’m quiet for another long moment. “A close call.”
“Oh hoh, I see. He must be cute.”
I scoff, lip pulling away from my fangs in a wry smile. “Knew you wouldn’t watch the upload.”
“Wait, that omega? Naughty!”
“Nothing happened,” I bite. “I made sure of it.”
“Has he noticed?”
“No. Not in a way that matters. Irritatingly self-effacing.”
“Catnip for you.”
“Shut up.”
“Here’s what I think—”
“No, here’s what I think. I’m going to hang up because I’m fine and this isn’t a problem.”
“I’m always here to talk,” Gia says.
I end the call.
#
I hit the gym again. Jamie will be back in the room right now, so I skip changing and work out in my bikini. I’d like to see anyone try to say something about it. Those will be their last words.
The gym is the only place I let the beast out. Put it through its paces. It rages today. No matter how much I lift, it wants more, more.
I shift to the treadmill to run it ragged, and clock two five-minute miles. Another hard mile and I finally outrun the damn thing.
I shift to my cool-down routine, and the distance returns. Not as much as I usually like to have, but enough to keep the rage at bay.
I’ve been doing this for thirty-seven years, and I have more tools at my disposal than just the suppressants. Things happen. The formula hasn’t always been as effective as it is now. I never let my guard down.
As I slow to a brisk walk on the treadmill, I pull my pack of suppressants out of my bag and snap a picture of the lot number. I send it to Arthur with the message, get me the QA results for this batch.
Five minutes later, the reply arrives in my inbox as I towel off.
Anything I should know about? Art asked.
Side effects and breakthrough symptoms are both things he’s legally obligated to report, so he knows better than to ask too many questions.
I scroll through the data—all within spec.
I reply to Arthur, No. Test it again.
#
I interact with Jamie as little as possible until the evening’s fireside chat.
The vanilla notes are strongest in his scent today, and though my mouth waters, it’s nothing I can’t handle. The distance has settled back into place. I’m in control.
Another city, another conference center stage. After all these years, they blend into one another. Every speech, every celebration, every product release feels the same. Boring.
But not these fireside chats with Jamie.
Each one offers new hints about this omega who seems to have a habit of closely guarding his true self—until he’s on stage.
When he speaks, it’s like a flower unfurling.
Every eye is captivated, centered on his soft words, his quiet mannerisms. He has no idea how well he’s doing, how much he was born for this.
We’ve been refining the questions as the PR tour continues, and tonight, there’s a new one.
The host, one of my regional HR leaders, asks him, “If there was one thing you could tell omegas out there who are struggling… what would it be?”
“I would tell them—” He starts with the measured confidence that comes from having thought about the question before. But then the words catch, his eyes going misty. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to get this emotional, um… I would tell them: you’re not alone.”
The host’s expression softens with compassion, and she leans over to place a comforting hand on Jamie’s wrist.
Every muscle tenses. The beast roars. It wants to crush this woman’s throat. Wants to see her blood spray across the stage.
I force my breathing to stay even as I slip my hand around to the backstage side of my chair and tap my fingers against it. Nobody in the audience can see. Jamie and the host are unlikely to notice.
I tap out a series of letters and numbers in Morse code, switching fingers with every tap.
Sometimes it’s the latest stock ticker, the headline of a press release, the quarterly performance results by product.
Today, it’s the molecular name of our first formula’s active ingredient.
I keep the sequence going even as I field my next question.
As long as I can execute that sequence flawlessly, I remain confident in my skills.
Gia says it’s OCD. I say I don’t care what it’s called if it works.
The whole fucking point of this PR tour is to prove that this exact thing isn’t a problem.
So, it won’t be a problem.
I picked this omega because he was going to be a challenge, and I have never failed to meet a challenge.
I won’t let this be the first time.
#
It’s back on the jet to the next city. I busy myself with calls and emails, waiting until Jamie picks his seat to take the one farthest from him. I’ll have more filters installed to reduce the scent buildup in the cabin.
Weather keeps us from landing on time, so we arrive at the hotel late.
I give my ID to the woman at the front desk, and her face pales as she punches it in.
Fuck. “Let’s hear it,” I mutter.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “There was a plumbing emergency in the suite, and it’s currently closed for repairs. But I’ve given you the best possible room.”
“Is it another suite?”
“We’re fully sold out,” she says apologetically. “No other suites were available.”
“One of them can be downgraded,” I say. The whole fucking point of a billion in the bank is getting what I fucking want when I fucking want it.
The beast howls at the irony, clawing for Jamie. I tell it to shut up.
“The other rooms are all already occupied,” the woman says, her throat bobbing. “There’s only so much I can do for late arrivals.”
“Are you saying this is my fault?” I snarl.
“No! Of course not, I’m so sorry. Our deepest apologies. The plumbing issue is inexcusable, of course.”
“I’ll be speaking to your manager.”
“Of course, anytime.”
I heave a sigh, irritation prickling along my skin. “So what is this… next-best room?”
“We had one last-minute cancellation. Gorgeous views, a king bed—”
“A king bed?” I snap.
The woman glances between us, a deer caught in the headlights.
“Do you have anything with two beds, even if it’s not as nice?” Jamie cuts in.
The woman shakes her head. “We are fully sold out. There’s a major conference.”
“And the other hotels?”
“Also no vacancy. I’ve been calling around since this issue came to my attention. Unless you’re willing to accept a… um… lower-quality establishment.”
“Of course not,” I snap. I open my mouth to say something else, and Jamie interrupts me again.
“We’re just lucky you had anything open at all! Thank you so much for doing all that. Maybe… do you have any roll-away beds?” Jamie offers.
I stare at Jamie. The beast is pacing, snarling. How dare he. But also… god. My blood rushes. Part of me stirs at the quiet courage. Part of me drools at the hen in the fox house.
“Oh, yes,” the woman replies, breathless. “We may have one or two. I’ll check.”
“That’ll be great,” he says. He leans towards her, hides his mouth from me with a hand, and whispers, “Don’t mind her. She’s a bit hangry.”
“I am not,” I snap, the muscles that would pin my ears against my head tensing.
Jamie gives me a look. Okay, he has a point. I reluctantly settle back. I’m… ruffled. I don’t like being ruffled.
“It’ll be alright,” Jamie says, as much to me as to the woman. “We’ll figure it out.”
The beast whines and calms. Practical. But I hate that it works. Soothing an alpha is not an omega’s fucking job—it is not Jamie’s fucking job.
I need to get a hold of myself.
“Please let me comp your room service,” the woman says.
“That would be amazing,” Jamie breathes, like she just offered him the moon.
“Fine,” I grind out, and I lead Jamie to the elevator.