Chapter 49 – BELLA
CHAPTER 49
BELLA
B ELLA
The mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize.
Two weeks ago, I was coming down from my first true heat, wrapped in the arms of five alphas who looked at me like I hung the moon. Now I'm standing in Braxley's penthouse bathroom again, staring at myself in an emerald silk gown that skims my curves like water.
"You look exquisite, little dove," Savva says from behind me, his elegant fingers making a minute adjustment to the diamond comb holding my hair in a sophisticated updo. "The color suits your complexion perfectly."
I meet his eyes in the mirror. "You have excellent taste."
"I know." His lips quirk in that subtle smile I've come to adore. "Though the canvas makes it rather easy."
My cheeks warm under his praise. After two weeks at the pack house—two weeks of being cherished, protected, desired—I've started to see myself differently. The woman in the mirror stands straighter, her eyes clearer, her smile more genuine. She looks like someone who knows her own mind.
Tonight is the last time I'll stand beside Braxley as his fiancée. The Worthington Annual Charity Gala is a thinly disguised opportunity for the elite to network while pretending to care about whatever cause is trendy this season. The irony that my public freedom will come at such an event isn't lost on me.
"Nervous?" Savva asks, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders.
"A little," I admit. "Not about ending things with Braxley—that part I'm looking forward to. It's more... everything else. My family will be there, and they don't know yet."
Savva's reflection smiles. "We'll be with you every moment. Don't forget, we're still your bodyguards. The shooter is still on the loose."
The thought settles something in me, even though his words make other fears resurface. "Thank you."
A gentle knock at the bathroom door interrupts us. "Two-minute warning," Troy calls through the wood. "Braxley's about to have an aneurysm over being fashionably late versus being actually late."
I roll my eyes, taking a final look at my reflection. The diamond drop earrings catch the light as I turn my head, casting tiny shimmering rainbows across the walls. Another of Savva's choices. Elegant without being ostentatious.
"Let's go face the music," I say, squaring my shoulders.
Savva opens the door with a flourish like a gentleman from a fairy tale, revealing Troy leaning against the opposite wall. His eyes widen appreciatively as I step out.
"Damn, princess," he whistles low. "You're gonna give Cole a heart attack."
"Where is Cole?" I ask, glancing down the hallway.
"Already at the venue with Roman and Liam. Setting up the perimeter." Troy offers his arm with exaggerated gallantry. "May I escort you to your..." he grimaces theatrically, " fiancé ?"
I take his arm, laughing despite my nerves. "Just for a few more hours."
"Counting the minutes," Troy assures me.
We walk together through Braxley's sprawling penthouse toward the foyer where I can already hear him complaining loudly into his phone about his stylist being late with his cufflinks.
"Absolutely unacceptable! I specifically requested the diamond and platinum set to match my watch. No, I will not wear the silver ones. They'll clash with everything!"
Troy makes a gagging motion that has me stifling another laugh behind my hand.
When we round the corner, Braxley's back is to us, his pale blue suit tailored to perfection as he paces in agitation. His hair is styled in that carefully messy way that probably took an hour to achieve.
"Fine, just bring them to the gala. And you're on probation, Jason. One more mistake like this and you're—" Braxley turns, finally noticing our presence, and freezes mid-sentence. "I'll call you back."
Hanging up, Braxley slips his phone into his pocket and gives me an appraising once-over that makes me feel like I'm being scanned for flaws. "You look passable," he says, though his expression suggests higher approval than his words indicate.
Behind me, I hear Savva's minute sound of disgust.
"Thank you," I say, the words automatic but hollow. "You look nice as well."
Braxley preens, adjusting his already perfect tie. "The Aston Martin is waiting downstairs. The teaser is already going viral.."
Of course it is.
"Will we have a security detail in addition to the pack?" I ask.
Braxley waves a dismissive hand. "Daddy's arranged for venue security. No point in extra muscle cluttering up my shots. Speaking of which—" he pulls out his phone and holds it up, "—quick pre-gala selfie for the grid!"
Before I can protest, he's beside me, arm around my waist, pulling me against him and holding the phone at what I now recognize as his signature angle. I paste on what I hope looks like an authentic smile, though the expression feels foreign on my face after two weeks with the pack.
"Perfect!" Braxley declares, immediately hunched over his phone. "Let me just add a filter... adjust the saturation... crop out the giant bodyguard..."
Troy's affronted, "Hey!" goes unacknowledged.
"...and post! On our way to change lives… hashtag Worthington Gala, hashtag Power Couple, hashtag Giving Back, hashtag Blessed…" Braxley narrates as his thumbs fly across the screen. "There! Now we can go."
As he strides toward the elevator, I exchange a look with Troy and Savva. Troy raises his eyebrows in disbelief while Savva simply offers a subtle nod and an already exhausted smirk of encouragement.
I take a deep breath, centering myself. Just a few more hours, I repeat in my head. Just a few more hours and I never have to pretend again.
The elevator ride down to the lobby is silent apart from the endless notifications chiming on Braxley's phone. He smiles at each one, occasionally tilting the screen toward me.
"Look at the engagement already! Thirty thousand likes in two minutes!" His excitement is genuine, if shallow. "We should take another in the car, maybe one of you kissing my cheek?"
"Let's see how we're doing for time," I deflect gently.
Troy and Savva follow us through the lobby, maintaining a professional distance while sticking close enough to intervene if needed. The doorman holds open the front door, and a cool evening breeze washes over me as we step outside.
The limo waits at the curb, sleek and silver in the low evening light. Braxley pauses for a moment, making sure passing pedestrians notice him with his expensive car and his omega fiancée on his arm. The calculation in every movement is no longer disillusioning. Just tiresome.
"After you," Braxley says, opening the passenger door with a dramatic flailing flourish of his hand clearly intended for any watching eyes. I can't help but compare the silliness of the gesture to the way Savva pulls it off, even though Savva isn't trying to be serious when he does it.
I slide onto the butter-soft leather seat, careful not to wrinkle my gown and set off another Braxley bitch fit. Savva and Troy slip in after Braxley.
As we all settle in, I take a moment to ground myself in the reality of what's coming. Tonight, I choose freedom. Tonight, I claim my true path.
Tonight, I begin the rest of my life with Pack Vanguard.
The thought brings a smile to my face that remains even as Braxley immediately starts recording.
"Hey, loves!" he exclaims to his invisible audience, voice shifting to that artificial enthusiasm he reserves for content. "Braxley here, on our way to the annual Worthington Charity Gala with my gorgeous fiancée, Bella!"
He angles the camera toward me, careful to avoid Savva and Troy, and I offer a small wave. All the conditioning has made my media smile automatic.
"Bella, darling, are you excited for tonight?" Braxley prompts, still filming.
I nod, keeping my smile firmly in place. "Very excited."
"Bella's been hands-on with the planning committee," Braxley lies smoothly. "She has such a heart for giving back, don't you, sweetheart?"
Before I can formulate a response, Braxley continues, "Make sure to follow me all night for exclusive behind-the-scenes glimpses of the gala! Now, let's get this evening started right with some music!"
He taps his phone, and the car fills with the latest chart-topping pop song as we pull away from the curb.
The drive to the downtown hotel hosting the gala is mercifully brief. Braxley alternates between filming short clips and practicing aloud what he'll say to various influencers and industry connections expected to attend. I mostly tune him out, focusing instead on mentally preparing for what's ahead.
My family will be there, I'm sure. The Worthingtons always invite my parents to maintain the illusion that they approve of my beta background. My sister, Ashlyn, will come too, undoubtedly dressed to outshine every other beta in attendance. Maybe the omegas, too.
And then there's Heather.
According to the intelligence Savva gathered, she's not only attending but planning to livestream her entire evening. The thought of facing the woman who possibly hired a hitman to shoot at us makes me feel slightly nauseous.
"We're here!" Braxley announces as we pull up to the red carpet extending from the street to the hotel's grand entrance. "Remember, 'blessed, humble, chic' for the photographers. No weird expressions."
I nod automatically.
The valet opens my door, and I step out carefully, the cool evening air a welcome relief after the car's artificially floral scent—another of Braxley's signature fragrances pumped through the ventilation system. I smooth my gown and wait for Braxley to join me, mentally reviewing the positions my alphas will be taking inside.
Roman near the main entrance, sweeping for threats. Liam by the bar, where he can monitor the entire room. Cole beside the eastern pillar, with clear sightlines to most of the ballroom. Troy and Savva flanking me.
Braxley appears beside me, immediately taking my arm and positioning us for the photographers lining the carpet. "Smile!" he commands through his teeth, his own expression transforming into that practiced combination of confidence and humility he's perfected for the camera.
The flashes are blinding, voices calling our names from all directions.
"Braxley! Look here!"
"Bella! This way!"
"When's the wedding date?"
"Is that a Valentino gown?"
Braxley moves us slowly down the carpet with Troy and Savva following us. My smile remains fixed, my posture perfect, as I've been trained to present for these events.
I'm sure I'm not recognizable to the Vanguard Pack. The idea bothers me a little, if I'm being honest with myself. But it's just for one night. Just one more night, and then I'm finally fucking free.
When we reach the entrance, I release a small sigh of relief. The carpet gauntlet is always the worst part. Bright lights, shouted questions, the pressure to appear flawless from every angle.
The hotel lobby opens into a grand ballroom already filled with elegantly dressed guests mingling under crystal chandeliers. A string quartet plays in one corner, their music barely audible over the buzz of conversation. Waitstaff weave through the crowd carrying trays of champagne flutes and delicate hors d'oeuvres.
My eyes immediately search the room, instinctively seeking the rest of the pack.
Roman stands near the entrance as expected, looking devastating in a perfectly tailored black suit. His golden-hazel eyes meet mine briefly. He gives me a subtle nod, his lips curving just for me.
Liam is positioned by the bar, his impressive frame filling out his suit and drawing appreciative glances from several omega attendees. The tattoos on his bare hands, neck, and the Memento Mori script on the side of his head give him an edge among the old-money crowd, but they seem fond of his charm anyway.
And there, by the eastern pillar, is Cole. My breath catches at the sight of him. His white hair is styled away from his face, revealing rather than hiding his scars. The midnight blue suit Savva selected for him accentuates his broad shoulders and powerful frame perfectly. Even from across the room, I feel the intensity of his gaze as it finds mine.
"Isabella!" A shrill voice breaks through my reverie. "Darling, you look positively ordinary."
I turn to find my mother approaching, her smile tight and her eyes critical as they sweep over my appearance. My father trails behind her, already clutching what appears to be his second scotch of the evening.
"Hello, Mother," I say, leaning in to accept her air kisses beside each cheek. "Father."
My father nods, his expression indicating he'd rather be anywhere else. "Isabella."
"Marie! Richard!" Braxley exclaims with practiced enthusiasm, immediately slipping into his charming public persona. "You both look absolutely fabulous tonight."
My mother preens under his attention, smoothing the front of her too-young cocktail dress. "Braxley, dear. This event is simply breathtaking."
"The Worthington touch," Braxley says with false modesty. "Speaking of which, I should find my parents. They'll want to coordinate for the family photos. Bella, darling, why don't you catch up with your parents?"
Before I can respond, he's pressing a quick kiss to my cheek—carefully positioned toward any watching photographers—and disappearing into the crowd, phone already raised for another update for his followers.
"Well," my mother says, her critical gaze returning to me once Braxley is gone. "I must say, the emerald is a bold choice. I would have gone with something more neutral." She squints at it. "Isn't that your sister's dress?"
"No, it's new," I reply, resisting the urge to sigh. "Where is Ashlyn, anyway?"
My mother brightens immediately, as she always does when the topic shifts to my sister. "Oh, she's making an entrance. She's wearing the most incredible Dior piece. It cost a fortune, but her influencer partnerships have really taken off lately."
"How nice," I murmur, scanning the room again. Troy and Savva have entered, circulating smoothly through the crowd while appearing to be nothing more than well-dressed attendees.
"We're so proud of her," my mother continues. "She's almost at three hundred thousand followers now. Brands are practically begging to work with her."
"That's wonderful," I say, the response automatic after years of practice. "I'm happy for her."
I actually am happy for her. It isn't a lie. However much I don't understand any of this at all, it's important to Ashlyn. My sister may hate my guts, but the feeling isn't mutual. I'm still holding out hope we can find a way to get along one day, however unlikely that is.
"The Worthingtons have been so helpful with her connections," my father adds, taking a sip of his scotch. "Though of course that's largely thanks to you."
I don't miss the subtle reminder of what my engagement has done for my family's social standing. The guilt trip is as familiar as it is manipulative.
"I'm going to get a drink," I say, needing space to breathe. "Would either of you like anything?"
"No, thank you," my mother replies. "We should find Ashlyn anyway. Maybe we'll even end up in a few pictures." She giggles behind her manicured hand.
"Right," I say slowly. "Well, I'll catch up with you later."
As my parents move away, I exhale slowly, centering myself. A waitress passes with champagne flutes, and I gratefully take one, sipping the bubbly liquid while making my way toward the bar where Liam stands watch.
"You're doing great, lass," he says under his breath as I approach.
"That obvious?" I ask, keeping my expression pleasant for any observing eyes.
"Only to those who know what to look for." His gray eyes sparkle with warmth that soothes my frayed nerves. "Your sister just arrived, by the way. East entrance." He leans in close with a grin. "Quite the spectacle."
I turn casually toward the indicated entrance, where a small commotion is indeed taking place. Ashlyn stands in a blindingly sequined silver dress, striking glamorous poses for a small cluster of photographers while a young beta man I don't recognize films the entire scene with a professional-grade camera.
"Is that her personal paparazzi?" I ask incredulously.
Liam's lips twitch. "Appears so. Hired for the evening, I'd wager."
The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh, but something in Ashlyn's performance captures my attention. There's a brittleness to her smile, a desperate edge to her poses. She looks like someone trying too hard to prove their worth.
I know she'll be chewing me out the moment we meet, but right now, all I feel for her is sympathy. How exhausting it must be, needing to constantly seek validation like this.
"Do you see your parents?" Liam asks, his voice professional but his eyes never leaving mine. "Seven o'clock, moving to intercept."
I glance casually in the indicated direction, spotting my parents cutting through the crowd toward Ashlyn. My mother's face is alight with pride, my father trailing behind with a resigned expression.
"At least they're distracted," I murmur. "I should probably mingle a bit. Braxley will expect me to be seen."
Liam nods. "Troy will shadow you. Roman wants eyes on you at all times with Heather expected to arrive soon."
"Has there been any sign of her yet?"
"Not yet, but we've heard she's on her way. Savva has a contact at the entrance texting updates."
"Good to know." I finish my champagne and set the empty flute on a passing waiter's tray. "Wish me luck."
"You don't need luck," Liam says with quiet confidence. "You're stronger than anyone here."
"Thanks," I say softly, smiling at him.
He smiles back to me as I turn away from the bar.
I notice Braxley across the room right away. He's engrossed in conversation with some tech investor whose name constantly escapes me. His hands move animatedly, his smile too wide and showing all his teeth. He looks like a robot in human skin, its movements cranked up to eleven.
Pretty on the surface, but solidly in uncanny valley.
I move through the crowd, acknowledging familiar faces with polite nods. The ballroom is stunning, I'll give the Worthingtons that much. Crystal chandeliers scatter light over strangely phallic ice sculptures. White roses and peonies blanket every surface that isn't covered in glittering trays of food and wine.
I miss the pack house in the mountains already.
A woman whose name escapes me air-kisses near my cheek. "That gown is divine. Valentino?" she asks, scrutinizing me.
"Thank you," I say, deciding not to tell her the designer is the gorgeous alpha with the mane of auburn hair watching over me from just a few feet away. "Lovely to see you."
She moves on quickly, already scanning the room for someone more important. That's how these events work. Everyone constantly evaluating their next strategic conversation, their next social ladder rung.
Troy appears at my elbow with surprising quietness for someone his size, offering me a fresh flute of champagne. "You look like you could use this, princess."
"My hero," I murmur, accepting the drink gratefully. "How's everything going?"
"Secure," he replies, his easy smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Though Roman's got that furrow between his eyebrows. You know the one."
I do know it. That expression that indicates he's noticed something concerning but doesn't want to alarm anyone yet.
"What is it?" I ask quietly while sipping my champagne.
Troy subtly angles his body to block us from view, his broad shoulders forming a private pocket of space. "Heather's car just pulled up outside. Savva's contact at the door says she's brought a small entourage—personal photographer, two friends for the inevitable social media posts, and what looks like a bodyguard."
My insides knot with unease. "A bodyguard? That seems excessive for a charity gala."
"Unless you're planning to start some bullshit," Troy points out.
I take a larger sip of my champagne than I probably should. "Hopefully not murderous bullshit," I mutter.
"You're safe," Savva promises me.
I nod, smiling at him even though I'm not as concerned as I probably should be. The shooter wasn't aiming for me, and he'd had plenty of opportunity to take me out if he wanted to.
Instead, he'd looked at me in confusion and insulted Braxley. I replay that surreal moment in my head once in a while, and I doubt I'll ever stop.
"Some alpha you've got there, miss."
Some alpha indeed.
Troy's eyes track something behind me, and his expression shifts subtly. "Speak of the devil."
I turn casually, as if just surveying the room, and spot her immediately. Heather Donovan makes her entrance like she's walking a red carpet at the Met Gala rather than attending a charity function. Her platinum blonde hair is styled in elaborate waves that must have taken hours, and her form-fitting silver gown catches the light with every catlike movement.
Behind her, a man with a professional camera follows her every step, and a fourth figure—broad-shouldered and wearing an earpiece that screams "security"—hovers just behind their little procession.
I watch as Heather sashays through the crowd, smiling at everyone like she's gracing them with her presence. Her personal photographer circles her like a satellite, capturing her every practiced pose. The whole display reeks of desperation, but the gathered elites eat it up.
"We've got eyes on her," Troy murmurs beside me. "Don't worry."
"I'm not worried about me," I mumble.
Movement across the room catches my attention. Roman and Liam are making their way toward us, weaving through the crowd with purpose. And behind them, like a shadow breaking away from darkness, comes Cole. My breath catches at the sight of him approaching. Even with his scars fully visible, he moves with a predatory grace that turns heads. Not all the reactions are positive, but Cole doesn't seem to care as much as usual.
Maybe its just because he's distracted by keeping me safe tonight, but I hope it's a sign that all the extra affection and love I've been pouring on him at the pack house every chance I get has finally started to soothe his self-loathing.
"Heather's not alone," Roman says as he joins us, his voice low and barely audible above the string quartet. "The man with the earpiece has hired muscle written all over him. And there's another by the east exit dressed as wait staff. Hasn't served a single drink."
My stomach tightens. "You think they're planning something?"
"Better safe than sorry," Liam says, his gray eyes scanning the crowd. "Especially with what happened in Spain."
Cole says nothing, but he shifts slightly closer to me, his presence solid and reassuring at my back. A subtle gesture, but it gives me a sense of security that no words could provide.
I'm about to ask more when a flash of blinding silver appears in my peripheral vision. My sister's sequined dress catches every light in the ballroom as she approaches, flanked by her hired photographer and my beaming parents.
"Isabella," Ashlyn greets me, her smile tight as they slide over my emerald gown. "Green. Wow."
"Hello, Ashlyn," I reply, forcing warmth into my voice. "You look stunning as always."
She does, in that over-the-top way she cultivates for her social media. Her silver dress doesn't just sparkle. It practically weaponizes light. Her makeup is flawless, her hair styled in elaborate upswept curls that must have required several cans of hairspray to maintain.
"These must be your bodyguards," she says, her gaze flicking dismissively over Pack Vanguard. She flinches visibly when she sees Cole and quickly averts her gaze, turning a few shades paler beneath the caked foundation.
My nails bite into my palms instinctively.
"Yes, this is the Vanguard Pack," I say, trying not to sound as irritated as I am. "They've been incredible."
Ashlyn gives me a doubtful grimace, turning instead to our mother, who's muttering something about "riff-raff" to our father. "Didn't the Harrises want to talk to you about their summer home in the Hamptons?" she asks our parents. "They're by the champagne fountain."
"Oh!" My mother perks up immediately. "Richard, we should go say hello." She pats my arm distractedly. "We'll catch up later, Isabella."
As my parents drift away, I brace myself. Ashlyn never wants to be alone with me unless she has something cutting to say.
"So," she begins once they're out of earshot, "how does it feel knowing that in a month, you'll be Mrs. Worthington the Third? The omega who landed the most eligible alpha bachelor in California?" Her voice drips with saccharine sweetness that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Actually," I start, but she's already charging ahead.
"Do you know how hard I've had to work to get brands to even notice me? Years of content creation, networking events, cold-emailing companies." She shakes her head, her curls staying perfectly in place. "Meanwhile, you just happen to present as an omega, and suddenly, you're marrying into one of the richest families in the country."
I feel Troy shift beside me, clearly uncomfortable with Ashlyn's tone but not sure if he should intervene. Savva and Roman remain impassive, but Liam's jaw tightens visibly. Cole's presence behind me is more tense than it has been all night.
"Ashlyn—" I try again.
"You always get everything handed to you," she says, gesturing broadly. "The attention, the opportunities, the special treatment. Even Mom and Dad—they never pushed you the way they pushed me. Because why bother? Everyone knows omegas just need to find a rich alpha and their lives are set."
The unfairness of her accusation stings. My entire life has been shaped by being an omega since I presented, and not in the privileged way she imagines. I've been told to make myself smaller, quieter, more appealing. I've been put on suppressants to make me more "manageable." I've been bartered by my own parents like a commodity to secure their financial future.
Something inside me snaps. Maybe it's all the time I just spent with the Vanguard Pack, being valued as a person rather than an accessory. Maybe it's the freedom I've tasted in the mountains, away from everyone's expectations.
Whatever it is, I'm done staying silent.
Done behaving myself.
"I'm not marrying Braxley," I say, my voice clear and steady.
Ashlyn stops mid-tirade, her mouth hanging open comically. "What?"
"I'm not marrying Braxley," I repeat, feeling strangely calm despite the enormity of what I'm saying. "I'm breaking the engagement tonight."
The Vanguard alphas are all staring at me now. So is Ashlyn, only she's staring at me like I've grown a second head and I'm talking out of it. "What are you talking about? You can't just?—"
"I can, and I am." I stand taller, feeling the solid presence of my alphas around me. "I found my scent matches."
Ashlyn's eyes narrow. "Scent matches?" she repeats incredulously.
"The Vanguard Pack." I gesture to the alphas surrounding me, unable to keep myself from smiling as the words flow freely. "All of them. Roman, Cole, Liam, Savva, and Troy."
Her eyes widen as she looks at each of the alphas in turn, the implication slowly dawning on her. "You cannot be serious. They’re–"
"Perfect," I finish for her. "They're perfect for me."
"They're mercenaries!" she hisses, lowering her voice but not her intensity. "Hired muscle! And that one—" she glances at Cole with poorly disguised revulsion, "—looks like he went through a freaking meat grinder!"
"That's enough." My voice comes out low and dangerous, a tone I've never used with my sister before. "You don't get to talk about him like that. You don't get to talk about any of them like that."
Ashlyn's expression freezes, not used to me pushing back. But I'm not stopping.
"You think I had it easy? Being paraded around like Mom and Dad's prized show pony? Being told my only value was in which alpha I could catch? Having my art, my dreams, everything I loved stripped away? While you were building your following, I was being fed suppressants to make me more 'manageable.' I was being sold off to the highest bidder who happened to be a narcissistic, cheating, empty shell of a person who doesn't even like omegas."
Ashlyn's eyes widen. "What are you?—"
"Did you know Braxley was only marrying me for appearances? That he's actually attracted to alphas and betas? That omegas are too 'soft' for him? That he was using dating apps looking for hookups the entire time I was trapped in a fake relationship with him?" My voice doesn't waver. "So don't you dare stand there and tell me I had it easy."
Her face flushes an angry red. "You ungrateful little bitch," she hisses, drawing herself up. "Do you have any idea what Mom and Dad have sacrificed for you? The connections they've made? The favors they've called in?"
"For me? Or for themselves?" I counter, standing my ground. "They sold me to the Worthingtons to solve their financial problems and climb the social ladder. Don't pretend it was some noble sacrifice."
Ashlyn's voice rises, drawing attention from nearby guests. "You think you're so special just because you're an omega, don't you? You think these—these hired beasts are better than Braxley Worthington ?"
Liam steps forward, looming over her. "If you have any shit to spew, you can spew it at me, lass. Not our omega."
With a shriek of frustration, Ashlyn flings her champagne directly in Liam's face, splashing him with it.
The room goes silent around us. Liam doesn't move, doesn't even blink as champagne drips down his face. Behind me, I hear Troy whistle low under his breath.
Before I can get over my shock and tell her just where she and the rest of my family can shove all the money they've made from selling me off like a prized cow, I see the crowd parting and I freeze. Braxley pushes through, his eyes wide with indignant concern as he rushes up to us.
"What is going on here?" he demands, his eyes darting between me and my champagne-soaked alpha. "Bella, can you control these animals for five?—"
The words die in his throat as his gaze lands on Ashlyn. Something shifts in the air between them. A current, a connection, a chemical reaction that's almost visible. Braxley's pupils dilate instantly, nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. Ashlyn's reaction mirrors his, her anger momentarily forgotten as she stands transfixed.
Holy shit.
"They're scent matches," Savva murmurs beside me, horrified amusement lilting his voice, confirming what's unfolding before my eyes.
Braxley takes a stumbling step toward Ashlyn like he's being physically pulled. "You," he breathes, the word reverent. "It's you …"
"What?" Ashlyn blinks rapidly, obviously confused by what's going on.
"Your scent," he says, moving closer still. "You're my scent match."
She stares at him in shock as he reaches up, cupping her cheek. "The way you commanded that moment, the way you stood up to them," he breathes. "You're not afraid to speak your mind, to take what you want. You're so… dominant ."
Liam silently accepts the pocket square Troy passes him, dabbing at his face as we watch this bizarre scene unfold. Roman moves closer to me, his hand finding the small of my back in a subtle show of support.
"This is… unexpected," I say flatly.
Can I laugh at this?
Should I laugh at this?
Because of all the curveballs the universe has thrown me, this is possibly the one I least expected.
But before I can process this further, another commotion erupts behind us. Heather Donovan pushes through the crowd, her platinum hair bouncing wildly as she storms toward us, as her personal photographer scrambles to keep up.
Pack Vanguard forms a protective wall around me.
"What the hell is this?" she shrieks, her perfect makeup contorted in rage as she takes in Braxley fawning over Ashlyn. "Are you kidding me right now, Brax? First that pathetic omega, and now her attention whore sister?"
Braxley barely glances at her. "Not now, Heather."
"Not now?" She laughs, the sound high and brittle. "I've been waiting for years! I've done everything for you!"
The crowd around us grows, people pretending not to stare while absolutely drinking in every moment of this public meltdown. My parents hover at the edge, their faces a mix of confusion and horror.
"Including hiring a hitman?" Savva asks calmly, his voice cutting through Heather's hysterics.
The room goes still. Heather's face drains of color.
"What are you talking about?" she says, her voice suddenly too light, too casual.
"In Spain," Savva continues, his elegant posture belying the venom in his words. "The attempted assassination that Bella and Braxley so narrowly escaped."
"That—that's ridiculous," Heather stammers. "Why would I?—"
"You've been obsessed with Braxley for a long time," Roman adds, practically growling. "You couldn't stand that he chose someone over you, could you?"
Braxley finally seems to register what's happening, but his reaction is to laugh nervously. "That isn't true, is it, Heather?" he asks, his voice rising a few octaves.
" No !" she protests, too quickly. "Of course not. I would never—" She stops, recalculates, then sighs angrily. "I told him to miss on purpose. It was just supposed to scare this vapid omega off. Not my fault he was a bad shot."
The crowd gasps. My mouth falls open at her casual admission.
Braxley's reaction, however, is what truly stuns me. His eyes light up, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You did that... for me ?"
"Of course I did," Heather says, gaining confidence. "I would do anything for you, Brax. I always have."
"That's..." He shakes his head, looking genuinely moved. "That's the most flattering thing anyone's ever done for me. I mean, you're clearly insane and you need to be behind bars, but you do have style. I'll give you that."
I can't help the strangled sound that escapes me. "You can't be serious."
"She wasn't trying to kill us," Braxley says dismissively. "I knew she wasn't. Just wanted to scare you off. There's a difference." He glances warily at the alphas surrounding me. "Guess you were tougher than she thought."
Savva steps forward smoothly, phone in hand. "As fascinating—and bewildering—as this confession is, I've recorded it." He gestures around the ballroom. "As have, I'm sure, numerous other guests with their phones."
Heather's face crumples as she finally comprehends her situation. "No, wait, I wasn't serious! I was just—it was for content! For the views!"
As if on cue, two uniformed officers appear, flanked by hotel security. Roman gestures them over with a subtle nod. "This woman, Heather Donovan, just confessed to orchestrating the assassination attempt on Mr. Worthington in Spain last month," he informs them.
“The Third,” Braxley adds.
The police move swiftly, taking a now-hysterical Heather by the arms. "You don't understand," she shrieks as they lead her away. "You don't know who I am! How many followers I have! I’m a Great Life Brand Ambassador!”
Her angry cries echo through the ballroom as she's escorted out, her photographer chasing after them to make sure he milks every last picture he can out of this.
In the stunned silence that follows, I realize the choice before me more clearly than ever. The path I've been pushed down my entire life—the pretense, the performance, the sacrifice of self for others' gain—versus the freedom to be genuinely myself with alphas who value me for who I truly am.
It's no choice at all.
I step forward, into the center of the gawking crowd. My heart hammers against my ribcage, but my voice remains steady as I speak. This is my chance to put an end to everything, once and for all, without Braxley and his family getting the opportunity to twist a damn thing.
"I am ending my engagement to Braxley Worthington the Third," I announce, loud enough for everyone to hear. The declaration feels like stepping into sunshine after years in shadow. "I’ve found my true match with not just one, but five incredible alphas."
The gasps that ripple through the crowd only strengthen my resolve. Behind me, I feel their presence. Solid, steady, unwavering. My pack.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mother clutching my father's arm for support, her face pale with shock. Braxley hardly seems to care, still lost in admiration of Ashlyn, as if she's a goddess who came to earth just for him.
None of it matters anymore. All I can do is stare at the crowd of shocked faces surrounding us, my heart pounding but my resolve firm. The words are out there now, impossible to take back. I'm free.
A hushed silence has fallen over the entire ballroom. Even the string quartet has stopped playing, the final note hanging in the air like a question mark.
Then Cole steps forward.
The crowd collectively gasps as he moves to stand beside me, his scarred face fully visible under the crystal chandeliers. He's intimidating, formidable—everything these polished socialites fear. But when he looks at me, there's nothing but devotion in his softened gaze.
"Bella is my omega," he says, his gravelly voice carrying across the silent ballroom. "My match. My heart." His voice cracks slightly on the last word. For a man who barely speaks, these declarations in public must cost him dearly. I reach for his hand, squeezing it in mine.
Troy steps up next, his usual playfulness gone as he moves to my other side. "The Vanguard Pack protects what's ours," he announces, his shoulders squared and chin raised proudly. "And Bella Emerson is ours—not as a possession, but as the missing piece we didn't know we needed." His blue eyes find mine, the intensity in them making my breath catch. "I love you, princess. All of you. Every bit."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. I catch snippets of "scandalous" and "inappropriate" from nearby clusters of pearl-clutching betas. But I don't care. Not anymore.
Roman steps forward, his commanding presence instantly drawing all eyes. "I've led men through warzones," he says, his deep voice carrying authority that silences even the whispers. "I've made decisions that determined who lived and who died. But nothing has ever been clearer to me than this. Bella belongs with us, and we with her. This isn't just scent compatibility. It's finding the person who makes you whole."
Savva joins us next. "I've never encountered anyone like you, little dove," he says, his accent slipping through as his composure wavers. "You've carved a space in our lives that nothing and no one else could ever fill."
Liam completes our circle, champagne still dampening the collar of his suit. "Where I come from, we don't mince words," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "So I'll say it plain. I love you, lass. We all do. And I'd rather spend one day knowing you chose us freely than a lifetime watching you trapped in a gilded cage."
My heart feels like it's never going to stop soaring. I can't hold back the tears pricking in my eyes any longer.
How did I get so lucky?
I look across the ballroom, taking in the mixture of shock, disapproval, curiosity, and—from a few of the older omegas—something that looks suspiciously like envy. My mother has a hand pressed to her chest, her perfectly styled hair suddenly seeming too rigid, too artificial against her stricken expression. My father stands beside her, his face unreadable except for the muscle twitching in his jaw.
Braxley is still gazing at Ashlyn like she's the answer to every question he's ever had, their chemistry so obvious that I wonder how I ever thought his lukewarm attention was all I deserved.
A sudden lightness fills me, starting in my chest and radiating outward until I feel like I might float away if not for the five alphas surrounding me, anchoring me to this moment where I have officially declared my freedom from the life that was laid out for me.
It's over. Really, truly over. No more pretending, no more shrinking myself to fit into someone else's idea of what I should be.
I turn to face my alphas. Five different men. Five different ways of loving me. All of them complete. As my chest fills with warmth, a smile breaks across my face that feels more genuine than any I've worn in years.
"Take me home," I say.
Just loud enough for my alphas to hear.