Chapter 18 Collision Course
Collision Course
~AURORA~
The press conference is a cacophony of noise that's rapidly approaching unbearable.
Questions fly from every direction—overlapping, contradicting, building on each other in ways that create a wall of sound my exhausted brain can't parse into individual meanings.
The bright lights positioned for optimal camera angles burn against my retinas.
The crowd of reporters pressed against the barricades creates a wall of competing scents—artificial perfumes and nervous sweat and that particular chemical smell of dry cleaning and desperation.
My suppressants are failing.
I can feel it in the way my Omega instincts are suddenly hyperaware of every Alpha in the room, cataloging threats and potential pack members with alarming specificity.
In the way sounds seem too loud, lights too bright, everything overwhelming in ways that suggest the chemical dampening is no longer adequate to handle the stress I'm under.
Someone asks about my racing credentials. Another demands to know how long I've been "deceiving" the team. A third wants details about my relationship with Cale that are invasive enough to make my skin crawl.
I'm zoning out.
Not intentionally. Not as a choice. My brain is simply... disconnecting. Going into some kind of protective shutdown mode where I'm physically present but mentally floating somewhere above the chaos, observing without processing.
My eyes drift across the room, seeking something to anchor on that isn't another aggressive reporter or flashing camera.
They land on Elias.
He's standing on the sidelines, just outside the main press area, wearing what I'm learning is his standard uniform of slightly rumpled business casual.
Black slacks, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, those round spectacles that make him look like a graduate student who wandered into a racing facility by accident.
But it's not his appearance that catches my attention.
It's his scent.
Even from across the room, even through the chemical barrier of my failing suppressants and the competing odors of a hundred other people, I can smell him. Sandalwood and steel, gasoline and vanilla, that perfect combination that makes my Omega instincts purr with recognition and longing.
Standing next to him is the man who was chasing after Luca earlier—the one trying to prevent a public relations disaster before it could fully materialize.
He's shorter than Elias, lean and compact with features that suggest Asian heritage.
His black hair is styled with deliberate casualness, and he's gesticulating as he speaks to Elias with the kind of animated frustration that suggests he's venting about Luca's behavior.
His scent reaches me a moment later—rosemary and mint with undertones of honey and old books. That intellectual edge I noticed before, now more pronounced without the adrenaline and race-day chaos interfering.
Both scents wrap around me like a security blanket, cutting through the overstimulation with familiar comfort.
Pack scent.
Potential pack mates.
Biology calling to biology in ways my suppressants are powerless to prevent.
I wonder if he's part of the racing team or more of a manager. Wonder what his role is in Elias's life, in the pack structure I'm apparently being drawn into whether I'm ready for it or not.
The questions continue hammering at me, but they're just noise now. White noise static that I can't parse into meaning because my brain has decided that focusing on my potential pack mates is more important than answering invasive questions about my gender and designation.
Something touches my arm.
Cale's hand, warm and familiar, sliding down to my wrist where he squeezes gently.
Then he leans in close enough that his lips are against my ear, voice pitched below the range of the microphones.
"Stai bene? Hai bisogno di una pausa?"
Are you okay? Do you need a break?
The Italian cuts through my dissociation like a knife, pulling me back to my body with jarring suddenness. I blink rapidly, the room coming back into focus with uncomfortable clarity.
I look at Cale, meeting his grey eyes that are full of concern and barely concealed worry.
We share a look—one of those silent conversations where entire paragraphs pass in seconds through expressions and minute body language shifts.
I'm okay, my expression says, even though we both know it's a lie.
You're not, his responds, but we'll deal with it later.
I realize belatedly that everyone is waiting for me to answer something.
A question that was asked while I was mentally absent, now hanging in the air with expectant silence.
"I'm sorry," I say, voice rough from not speaking for several minutes. "Could you repeat the question?"
The reporter who asked—a middle-aged Beta man with a receding hairline and an expression that suggests he thinks very highly of his own intelligence—looks annoyed at having to repeat himself.
"I asked what makes you think you're qualified to race at this level when you've spent your entire career hiding in the shadows as a pit tech?"
Before I can formulate a response that's professional instead of telling him exactly where he can shove his condescending question, another voice cuts in.
"She must be some ditzy Omega who's just playing the part for attention now.
" This from a different reporter—younger, female, with the kind of sharp smile that suggests she specializes in character assassination.
"Probably got lucky with that win today and won't be able to replicate it once real competition starts. "
Ditzy Omega.
As if my designation determines my intelligence. As if being female and Omega means I can't possibly possess the skill or talent to compete at this level. As if today's first-place finish was somehow an accident or luck instead of years of training and innate ability.
My hands clench into fists under the table, nails digging into my palms hard enough to sting.
Cale's scent spikes with aggressive fury, burnt cedar mixing with something sharper that speaks to barely controlled violence. His body language shifts into something predatory, protective instincts overriding media training.
But before either of us can respond, a third voice cuts through the tension.
"If you're going to stand here and insult my new driving partner," Luca Thorne says, his voice carrying across the room with cold authority, "then you might as well leave this conference. I don't answer questions from unprofessional douchebags."
The entire room goes silent.
What?
I turn to stare at Luca with confusion that must be written across my face in neon letters.
He's looked annoyed with my existence since the moment we met—furious about being beaten by a "tech," frustrated with being partnered with someone he clearly considers beneath him, radiating the kind of Alpha aggression that usually precedes either fights or spectacular tantrums.
But now he's... defending me?
Publicly shutting down the reporter's insulting question with the kind of cutting dismissiveness that will definitely make headlines?
Luca stands, the movement drawing every eye in the room.
His scent—cedar and leather with gunpowder and rain—intensifies with his anger, filling the space with Alpha dominance that makes several of the reporters actually lean back.
"This whole conference," he continues, voice sharp enough to draw blood, "all you fuckers have done is assault her with questions about her gender and designation.
Not a single person has asked anything substantive about her racing technique, her mechanical knowledge, or how she's going to positively contribute to our team. "
He pauses, letting that sink in while his blue eyes scan the crowd with open contempt.
"So why the fuck am I sitting here wasting my valuable time listening to this circus?"
No one answers.
The silence is so complete I can hear the air conditioning humming through the vents.
Luca's lip curls into something that might be a smile if smiles could carry that much disdain.
"You want to waste your own time? Go right ahead. But you're not wasting fucking mine."
Then he turns and walks out.
Just... walks out of his own press conference, leaving behind shocked reporters and scrambling publicists and the kind of media chaos that's going to dominate headlines for days.
The man who was standing with Elias—the one with rosemary and mint scent—immediately groans with the put-upon suffering of someone whose job just became exponentially harder.
"Luca—wait—damn it!" He takes off after the departing Alpha, moving with practiced efficiency that suggests this isn't the first time he's had to chase Luca down after a public relations disaster.
But Elias doesn't follow.
Instead, he walks toward the stage with calm purposefulness, weaving through reporters who instinctively move out of his path even though he's not doing anything overtly aggressive.
It's his aura. His presence. Something about the way he carries himself that broadcasts threat on a frequency most people aren't consciously aware they're receiving.
He reaches the microphone before anyone can recover enough to ask more questions, and his voice carries across the room with quiet authority.
"Press conference dismissed."
Three words.
That's all it takes.
Richard—who's been standing off to the side looking like he's aged ten years in the past hour—immediately nods in agreement, recognizing the lifeline for what it is.
"That's all for today," he announces, already moving to start coordinating the exit logistics. "Official statements will be released through proper channels. Thank you for your time."
The reporters immediately erupt into chaos, shouting questions and demanding clarification, but Elias is already moving toward me with focused intention.