Chapter 32 – BELLA
CHAPTER 32
BELLA
B raxley's eyes tell the whole story. They linger on Cole's shirt and sweatpants hanging loose on my frame, then flare as he picks up our mixed scents. A muscle in his eyebrow twitches, the one that twitches when he's trying not to lose his perfect composure.
No dramatic confrontation. No theatrical storm through the penthouse while filming for his followers. Just this heavy silence as he takes in the sight of me surrounded by five alphas, wearing one of their shirts, smelling like sex.
"Should we talk privately?" I keep my voice steady even though my gut knots with nerves.
He snorts. "Private? Without your guard dogs hovering?"
Cole shifts beside me, his massive body going rigid. The protective energy pouring off him makes my skin tingle. But unlike most other alphas, Cole's protection feels like shelter, not a cage.
"Address her with respect," Roman says, his tone deceptively soft but backed with steel. The unmistakable command of a pack leader.
Braxley pales slightly. For all his posturing, he knows what these men can do. More importantly, he knows what he's done, despite the confrontation being cut off by my sudden heat.
The apps.
The lies.
The cheating.
"Fine." He tugs at his designer pajama collar, aiming for indifference. "The solarium, then? It has the best view of the city. Might make this..." he waves his hand vaguely, "… situation... slightly more bearable."
"I'll come with you," Cole says—not asking.
I shake my head, standing. "I need to do this alone."
His mismatched eyes search mine, worry etched into his scarred face. "Bella..."
"I'll be right next door," I assure him, resting my hand on his tense forearm.
Roman clears his throat. "We'll stay close," he says, obviously talking to Braxley more than me. A warning disguised as courtesy.
Braxley turns with an exaggerated sigh and heads toward the solarium without looking back, expecting me to follow like a scolded child. The old me would have hurried after him, trying to smooth his ruffled feathers. Instead, I take my time, finishing my tea while five pairs of eyes track my every move.
"Thanks for breakfast," I tell Troy, whose pancakes really were amazing.
His boyish grin breaks through the pressure. "Anytime, sweetheart."
Stifling my reluctance so the alphas—and Braxley—can't tell I'm literally dragging my feet, I follow Braxley to the solarium. This glass-enclosed corner of the penthouse is usually his favorite spot for golden hour selfies, but today, it sits quiet. Braxley stands with his back to me, staring out at the Los Angeles skyline.
I close the door behind me, though I know it won't block alpha hearing. The latch clicks loudly.
"So," Braxley says without turning. "You've been busy."
The bite in his tone slides off me, ineffective where yesterday it might have bothered me. "That's what you want to lead with?"
He turns, his handsome face arranged into wounded dignity. It's a look he practices in mirrors. Head tilted just so, brow creased at the precise angle to seem earnest without risking wrinkles.
"What would you prefer, Bella? Congratulations on breaking our engagement by fucking the help?"
Despite his crude words, his anger seems off. It lacks the narcissistic rage I expect when his ego takes a hit. Under it all runs an odd current of... relief?
"You don't get to play the betrayed fiancé," I say, crossing my arms.
Braxley drops onto the white leather sofa, unusually heavy in his movements. For the first time since I've known him, he looks truly tired, his carefully built mask cracking at the edges.
"Sit down, Bella. Please."
The "please" catches me off guard. I hesitate, then perch on the opposite end of the sofa, very aware of Cole's scent still on my skin. And his clothes.
Braxley leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled together. It's his thinking pose—the one he uses in Instagram photos captioned with deep quotes he finds online. But there's no camera here. No audience except me.
"So," he says after a weighted silence. "You and the scarred one."
The dismissive way he refers to Cole makes my blood simmer. "His name is Cole."
Braxley waves a hand. "Cole, then. That was... fast."
"Is that what you wanted to talk about?" I keep my voice even, refusing to feel guilty or apologize. "Because if you're looking for some kind of explanation?—"
"I'm not," he interrupts, surprising me again. He sighs, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. It springs right back into place. "I genuinely don't care who you sleep with, Bella. That was never part of our arrangement."
The bluntness of his statement should probably sting, but it only confirms what I've known all along. Our relationship was never about love or attraction. It was a business deal dressed up in romantic trappings.
That's fine. That's what it was on my end, too.
"Then what is this about?" I ask.
He straightens up, his expression shifting into something more calculated. More familiar. "I'd like to request a... small favor."
I raise an eyebrow, immediately suspicious. "A favor."
"Nothing unreasonable," he assures me quickly. "I just need you to keep our... separation quiet. For a little while."
"Why?" The question comes out sharper than I intended.
Braxley stands, moving to the glass wall that overlooks the city. His posture is rigid, hands clasped behind his back in a pose that seems practiced for maximum dramatic effect.
"My parents don't know about my... preferences," he says, his voice quieter now. "They're expecting a big society wedding in the spring. The perfect alpha-omega match to cement the Worthington legacy."
"And you want me to keep pretending we're engaged?" I can't hide the incredulity in my voice. "Because we're not. I didn't even say yes."
He turns, his expression surprisingly vulnerable. "No. Just... don't announce anything publicly yet. Give me time to manage my family's expectations." His mouth twists into something that might be genuine regret. "And some of our business connections."
I cross my arms, studying him. "Business connections?"
Braxley at least has the grace to look uncomfortable. "The stock in my father's company took a ten-point jump when our engagement was announced. Their new luxury omega line had record pre-orders because of your involvement."
Of course. It always comes back to money with the Worthingtons.
"So this is about protecting your family's business interests," I say flatly.
"And yours," he adds quickly. "Your parents' financial situation isn't exactly stable, remember? The monthly stipend they've been receiving from my family trust?—"
"Will stop the moment we announce our breakup," I finish for him, the realization settling like a cold stone in my stomach.
My mother's new car. My father's sudden ability to take research sabbaticals. The mysterious "investment opportunity" that pulled them out of debt just as my engagement to Braxley became official. None of it was coincidence.
They sold me. And now the bill is coming due.
"How long?" I ask, my voice tight.
Braxley shrugs. "A month. Maybe two. Just long enough for me to manage the fallout and set up alternative arrangements. The big charity gala is coming up, too."
I'm tempted to refuse him outright. Tempted to march out of this ridiculous sham of a glass box and announce to his millions of followers that the engagement is off. That it was never real to begin with. That Braxley Worthington III, alpha influencer extraordinaire, is an asshole.
But that wouldn't just hurt Braxley. It would devastate my family. No matter how angry I am about their manipulation, I can't bring myself to destroy them.
And knowing his fans, finding out he's an asshole would probably win him extra attention, anyway.
"Two weeks," I counter. "That's all you get."
He breathes out a huge sigh of relief. "Thank you, Bella. I?—"
"I'm not doing this for you," I cut him off. "I'm doing it for my family. And to be clear, I won't be staying here. I'm going to stay with the Vanguard Pack for the full two weeks."
His eyebrows shoot up. "You're moving in with them? After knowing them for—what—a few days?"
"They're my security team," I say smoothly. "And considering recent events, I think we can both agree my safety is a legitimate concern."
A flicker of understanding crosses his face. "Ah. So that's the story we're telling."
"It's not a story. Heather is still out there," I remind him. "This way, you can tell your parents and your followers I'm staying at a secure location under protection, which is true. I'll come back for the charity gala and any absolutely essential appearances, but that's it. I won't be appearing in your social media posts. I won't be playing the adoring fiancée anymore."
He nods quickly. "That's fair. More than fair. The charity gala is the main thing—my parents will be there."
"One event," I say clearly and firmly, so it really sinks in. "Not two. One."
"Got it." He pauses, swallowing hard. "And it's... safe there? With them?"
The question surprises me with what sounds like genuine concern. I could lie, but what's the point? Braxley knows about the Vanguard pack. He's seen the way they look at me, the way I look at them.
"I'm safer with them than I've ever been," I answer simply.
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Because they're your matches."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway.
Braxley studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, surprisingly, he laughs—a short, harsh sound without humor. "You know, it's almost poetic. You spent months pretending to be in love with me while secretly longing for freedom. And I spent those same months pretending to be attracted to omegas while secretly longing for..." He trails off, shaking his head.
"Something real?" I suggest.
His eyes meet mine, and for once, I see genuine emotion there. "Yeah. Something real."
In that moment, I catch a glimpse of the person Braxley might have been if he hadn't been crushed under the weight of his family's expectations. If he hadn't built his entire identity around the carefully curated fiction of his perfect alpha life.
"I hope you find it someday," I tell him, and I'm surprised to realize I mean it.
He looks away, his momentary vulnerability disappearing behind his usual mask of polished indifference. "Well. This has been sufficiently awkward," he says, slapping his hands down on his thighs before getting up. "I'll, uh... I'll let you go, then."
And just like that, the glimpse of real connection vanishes. The Braxley I know—superficial, self-absorbed, perpetually performing—clicks back into place like he never left.
"I'll be packed and gone within the hour," I tell him, rising from the sofa.
He nods, already reaching for his phone. "I'll make myself scarce so your new boyfriends don't eat me for breakfast."
"They already ate," I say flatly.
I leave him there in his glass cage, perfectly framed against the Los Angeles skyline, and head back to the kitchen where five tense alphas are trying to pretend they haven't been listening to every word.
Cole's expression is thunderous, but he doesn't speak as I approach. Savva, ever the diplomat, breaks the strained silence.
"Everything alright?" he asks.
I nod, suddenly exhausted by the whole situation. "I need to pack. We're leaving for your place as soon as I'm ready."
"I'll help," Cole says immediately, pushing away from the counter where he's been leaning.
"We all will," Troy adds, his usual playful demeanor subdued.
As I lead them toward the guest room where most of my things are still in boxes, their collective concern soothes my nerves. I can feel it thrumming through the bond my spirit is already weaving with these alphas that are so focused on my wellbeing.
My scent matches.
And if I choose them… my pack.