Chapter 32
Public Scrutiny, Private Understanding
~AURORA~
Ifucking hate press conferences.
The studio lights are too bright, making my eyes water despite the professional makeup someone applied earlier to keep me from looking washed out on camera. The chair is uncomfortable in that particular way that expensive furniture manages to be—designed for aesthetics rather than actual human use.
And the questions are exactly as invasive and discriminatory as I expected.
"Rory," the moderator—some Beta woman with perfectly styled hair and a smile sharp enough to cut—leans forward with predatory interest. "You've made history as the first Omega pit technician to transition into professional Formula One racing. Yet you continue to present very... masculine."
The pause before "masculine" is deliberate, loaded with judgment.
I keep my expression neutral, one ankle crossed over my knee in the deliberately casual posture I've perfected over years of being Rory Lane. My oversized hoodie hangs loose on my frame, paired with baggy jeans and sneakers that have seen better days.
Comfortable. Authentic. Me.
"Is there a question in there?" I ask, voice pitched into the lower register I maintain in public, "or are you just making observations about my fashion choices?"
A few people in the press gallery chuckle—genuine amusement breaking through the tense atmosphere.
The moderator's smile tightens. "The question is, why aren't you trying to look more feminine? Surely with your Omega status now public, there's an opportunity to embrace a more traditional presentation?"
The implication is clear: I should be wearing dresses and makeup, should be softening my appearance to match societal expectations of what Omegas are supposed to look like.
Should be performing femininity for their comfort instead of existing authentically.
I lean back in my chair, making deliberate eye contact with the moderator.
"This is how I've always dressed and acted. Why would I change that now? My designation doesn't suddenly make me a different person."
"But don't you think—"
"No." I cut her off cleanly. "I don't think Omegas owe anyone a particular aesthetic presentation. My value as a racer has nothing to do with how feminine I look in photos."
Beside me, Luca shifts slightly.
I can feel his presence without looking—dark chocolate and gunpowder scent mixing with the overwhelming artificial fragrances of the studio. He's been mostly quiet during this press conference, letting me handle the questions directed at me.
But I can sense his growing irritation through the pack bond, a low simmer of protective fury that he's barely containing.
"We're going to take a brief break," the moderator announces, clearly not expecting me to push back so directly. "Fifteen minutes, everyone."
The moment the cameras cut, I'm out of my chair and heading for the green room. Need space to breathe without cameras tracking my every expression, analyzing my every word for content.
The green room is blessedly quiet—just me and a few production assistants who thankfully leave me alone. I grab a bottle of water from the refreshment table, chugging half of it in desperate gulps.
"Rory?"
I turn to find an Omega reporter approaching—someone I vaguely recognize from previous racing coverage. She's dressed impeccably in a form-fitting dress that emphasizes her curves, makeup perfect, every inch the picture of traditional Omega femininity.
"Can I offer some advice?" She doesn't wait for permission, leaning in with false intimacy. "You'd get much better media coverage if you presented more... seductively. More feminine. It's what sells, and it would be better for your brand."
I stare at her, processing the audacity.
Another Omega, someone who should understand the pressure and discrimination we face, is telling me to perform femininity for male consumption. To make myself into a sexual object because that's "what sells."
"No." I keep my voice level despite the rage building in my chest. "I'm not changing how I present myself to cater to media expectations or make people more comfortable with my existence."
"But you're representing all Omegas in racing," she presses, apparently not understanding that "no" is a complete sentence. "Don't you think you owe it to—"
"She doesn't owe anyone shit."
Luca's voice cuts through the conversation like a blade, sharp with barely contained fury.
He appears beside me with a cup of coffee—black, no sugar, exactly how I drink it—and the gesture is so casually intimate that several people in the green room notice.
He leans in close, ostensibly to hand me the coffee, but the movement puts our faces mere inches apart. Close enough that I can see the individual flecks of color in his dark eyes, can smell the intensity of his scent as it wraps around me with possessive certainty.
The tension between us is immediate and electric.
Not aggressive—not exactly. But charged with something that makes the air feel thick, makes my pulse kick up in ways that have nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with the Alpha standing in my space.
The green room goes quiet.
I can feel everyone watching, see the Omega reporter's eyes go wide as she recognizes the dynamic playing out in front of her.
"Five seconds!" someone calls from the doorway. "Back on air in five seconds!"
The moment breaks.
Luca straightens, stepping back to give me space but not before his fingers brush against mine as I take the coffee cup. The touch is brief, deliberate, loaded with meaning I don't have time to unpack.
We return to our seats just as the cameras come back on, settling into position with practiced efficiency.
The second half of the press conference continues much like the first—invasive questions, thinly veiled discrimination, the particular brand of hostility that comes from people who resent having their comfortable worldview challenged.
Then one of the rival drivers chimes in from the video feed. Dante Moretti, because of course it's him, looking smug from whatever remote location he's calling from.
"It's fascinating," Dante drawls, his voice dripping with false civility, "how Thorne's rookie has risen so quickly through the ranks. One has to wonder if there are... special favors being provided. Pack dynamics can create conflicts of interest, after all."
The implication is crystal clear: I'm only here because I'm sleeping with my pack, not because of actual talent or skill.
The moderator latches onto the controversy immediately. "That's an interesting point. Rory, how do you respond to suggestions that your pack affiliation has given you unfair advantages?"
Before I can formulate a response that won't get me sued for defamation, Luca speaks.
"It's funny." His voice is deceptively calm, the tone he uses right before unleashing calculated verbal devastation.
"This entire press conference, all you've tried to do is tear down my partner.
Not acknowledge any of the accomplishments she's achieved as a driver entering the field for the first time—and as an Omega, which makes those accomplishments even more remarkable. "
He leans forward, and even through the cameras I can see people in the studio reacting to the intensity rolling off him.
"If you're going to keep holding these press conferences just to insult me to my face by insulting my Omega, don't waste our time."
The room erupts.
My Omega.
The possessive claim, stated so publicly and definitively, sends shockwaves through the press corps. Cameras flash, reporters start shouting questions over each other, the moderator attempts to regain control of the chaos.
"Mr. Thorne, are you confirming a romantic relationship—"
"When did this pack bond form—"
"Does the FIA know about this conflict of interest—"
Luca rises from his chair with the fluid grace of a predator, extending his hand toward me.
I take it without hesitation, let him pull me up and guide me toward the exit while questions continue to bombard us from all directions.
The moment we're through the doors and in the relative privacy of the backstage corridor, I round on him.
"What the fuck was that?" I demand, yanking my hand from his grasp. "You just announced to the entire racing world that I'm your Omega? Do you have any idea what kind of shitstorm that's going to cause?"
"Good." Luca's expression is fierce, unapologetic. "Let them talk. Let them speculate. At least now they'll think twice before implying you're only here because you're fucking your way to success."
"I can defend myself!" The words come out sharper than intended, frustration bleeding through. "I don't need you making proprietary claims about me to prove a point!"
"Then stop hiding!" Luca's voice rises to match mine, his Alpha pheromones spiking with frustrated aggression. "Stop hiding behind this male identity, behind these oversized clothes and lowered voice. Be who you actually are instead of what you think people can handle!"
The accusation hits like a physical blow.
"This is who I am!" I gesture at myself—the hoodie, the baggy jeans, the deliberately masculine presentation.
"This isn't some disguise I put on, Thorne.
This is me. I'm not going to suddenly start dressing like—like some hypersexualized fantasy of what people think Omegas should be just to please people who don't give a damn about me beyond entertainment value! "
Luca opens his mouth to argue, and I see the moment he thinks better of it.
We stand there in the corridor, both breathing hard, the air thick with clashing Alpha and Omega pheromones that create a scent profile anyone passing by would recognize as Pack Dispute.
"There's too many reporters outside," Luca says finally, voice carefully neutral. "Vultures waiting to tear apart whatever scraps they can get. I'll drive you home."
I want to argue.
Want to insist I can handle myself, that I don't need his protection or his car or anything else from him right now.
But he's right about the reporters.
And my emotional capacity for dealing with invasive questions and camera flashes is completely tapped out.
"Fine," I concede. "But we're not discussing this anymore tonight."
"Agreed."
Luca's car is exactly what I expected—sleek, expensive, designed for speed rather than comfort. Some Italian sports car that probably costs more than most people's houses, all black paint and aggressive lines.
We don't speak as he navigates out of the studio parking structure, expertly avoiding the cluster of paparazzi and reporters who try to flag us down for comments.
The city lights blur past the windows as we drive, the late evening darkness broken by streetlights and neon signs. The silence between us isn't comfortable, but it's not hostile either. Just... heavy with things unsaid.
"Press conferences are tedious," Luca says finally, voice quiet in the enclosed space. "I've been doing them for years, and they never get easier. The questions become more invasive, the scrutiny more intense, the expectation that you'll perform your entire personality for public consumption."
I don't respond, just watch the city pass by and try to process the emotional chaos of the last few hours.
"I'm not expecting you to change yourself for them," he continues, and there's something almost vulnerable in his tone. "That's not what I meant earlier when I said stop hiding."
"Then what did you mean?" The question comes out softer than my earlier accusations.
Luca is quiet for a long moment, carefully navigating a turn before responding.
"I want you to be more confident in who you are.
To stop second-guessing your presentation or your choices because you're worried about how people will react.
" He pauses, jaw tightening. "You've never been given the opportunity to just..
. exist authentically, have you? Without calculating the cost or the risk. "
The observation lands with uncomfortable accuracy.
Because he's right…
Every choice I make about presentation—from how I dress to how I speak to which bathrooms I use—is calculated based on safety and passing and maintaining the performance that keeps me employed.
I've never had the luxury of just being Aurora without considering the consequences.
"Maybe not," I admit quietly, still watching the city lights.
"But that doesn't mean I'm going to suddenly start performing femininity because it's expected.
This—" I gesture at my clothes, my presentation, "—isn't hiding.
It's authentic. Just because it doesn't match what people think an Omega should look like doesn't make it any less real. "
"I know." Luca's voice is soft, understanding in ways I didn't expect from him.
"And I'm not asking you to change that. I'm just..
. I want you to have the freedom to explore all aspects of yourself.
Without fear. Without calculation. With your pack protecting you enough that you can take those risks. "
Something in my chest loosens at the words.
Because underneath the argument, the tension, and the public spectacle, this is what it comes down to: Luca wanting me to feel safe enough to be fully myself.
Even if he doesn't quite understand what that self looks like yet.
We pull up outside my penthouse building—the Celestine Towers rising into the night sky with intimidating grandeur. Luca puts the car in park, but doesn't move to get out.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For defending me in there. Even if the method was... dramatic."
His lips quirk into something that's almost a smile. "Dramatic is kind of my specialty."
I reach for the door handle, ready to escape into the safety of my apartment and process everything that happened today.
But Luca's hand catches mine, gentle but insistent.
He lifts my hand to his lips, the gesture so unexpectedly tender that I freeze.
His lips brush across my knuckles—soft, reverent, nothing like the aggressive Alpha I've come to expect from him. The kiss is chaste but somehow more intimate than anything we shared during the heat.
"Sleep well," he murmurs against my skin. "We have a long day of training tomorrow, and you'll need your energy."
The consideration in his voice makes my chest tight with emotions I'm not ready to name.
"Goodnight, Luca," I manage, voice rougher than intended.
"Goodnight, Aurora."
He releases my hand slowly, and I can feel his eyes on me as I exit the car and walk toward the building entrance.
I turn back once, catching a glimpse of him still sitting in the driver's seat, watching to make sure I get inside safely.
The gesture is so classically protective Alpha that it should annoy me.
Instead, it just makes me smile as I watch him drive away, the sleek car disappearing into the night traffic.
And as I ride the elevator up to my suite, I find myself thinking that maybe Luca Thorne understands me better than I've been giving him credit for.