Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Grant.
I don’t even know the name of the man I knew as Sax, but I know the name of this Beta who had his nose buried on my wrist when I woke up.
Grant.
He’s gorgeous. Ethereal. His hair is long, a blend of silver and lavender that waves around his face, perfectly highlighting his pinkish-ivory skin, and is immaculately styled in a blowout that brushes his collarbones.
Somehow, I know that hair and makeup didn’t style it like this.
I bet he looks like this all the time. His outfit is like nothing I’ve ever seen on a man before, with billowing fabric draped across his frame in a way that enhances his trim figure but doesn’t swallow it.
His honey-colored eyes are smudged with dark liner, and they’re lined with tears.
Tears?
It’s an unconscious decision for me to grab his hand, squeezing it in my own. “Are you okay?”
His face creases in a sad smile. “I should be asking you that. You’re the one who passed out.”
As soon as the words leave his pouty lips, my head throbs with my pulse. “Shit, I did pass out.”
I look around my room for a bottle of water.
Wait. My room?
Looking at the room I’m in with a critical eye, I can see how the production crew has attempted to turn this bedroom into a replica of my own. Marlie must have sent them photos, because they got pretty damn close, even if it is missing my near-permanent clutter.
Is this their way of making sure I felt less unsettled? Because they knew who was going to walk through that door?
They knew.
Bradley and Bridgette knew.
Drew knew.
All those comments about how this was going to be a good thing suddenly make sense.
Fucking reality TV. Everyone knew, and they let me face the three of them without any preparation.
I know I’m not at home, but the familiar texture of the bedspread and the soft grey walls do more than I would’ve anticipated to calm me down. I can almost trick myself into believing that I’m home.
That I’m safe.
When my eyes land on Grant, the breath leaves my lungs.
He looks devastated.
His eyes are watery, but his makeup isn’t running. He must have invested in the good waterproof stuff.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he fights to maintain his composure. “I’m sorry. This isn’t about me and my feelings.”
That gives me pause. “What do you mean?”
“We lied to you. We’re the ones who deceived you. You’re the only one allowed to be upset.” He rubs his sternum over his billowy yellow shirt. “Ignore me.”
I wish I could, but he’s my scent match. I’m hard-wired to want to love and protect him.
The idea of a Beta scent match isn’t as daunting as the two Alphas that wait for me on the other side of the door. I could never see Grant again without having to worry about getting FOS.
Except that the idea of not seeing him again is already making my stomach cramp.
“Maybe if you tell me what’s bothering you, it’ll help me process this whole situation better?”
“I don’t deserve your kindness. You’re the victim, here. My feelings don’t matter right now. You’re too fucking sweet, Onion.”
“Ariana.” My name leaves my mouth in a rush. “I don’t want any of you to call me that anymore.”
He winces, my words a harsh reminder of the situation. “I understand.”
Hearing my nickname from his lips, lips I’ve never seen, in a voice I’ve never heard, felt wrong—wrong wrong wrong. I could almost have convinced myself that he was just a random Beta before then. Could nearly bury what is happening right now in the sand and hope I forget where I put it.
But when he calls me Onion, it reminds me of why he knows that name.
They deceived me.
I can’t believe I fell for the lies, and now all of America is going to see what a fool I am on television.
“I just realized how much it hurts that you don’t know who I am.
” His voice is delicate, like he’s afraid that it may shatter.
“I know you, Ariana. I know you drink your coffee with one too many sugars and heavy cream instead of half-and-half. I know that what really scares you about the dark is that you think spiders are going to crawl into your mouth while you sleep, and how you, for some reason I’ll never understand, sleep with one sock on.
I know your heat lasts around four days, and that you hate pineapple on pizza.
Which Ivan will tell you is the wrong opinion, by the way.
” He tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling, as if it is too hard to look at me right now.
“I know that you’re probably compartmentalizing everything right now, and that if I weren’t a Beta, you’d be hyperventilating.
I know that, so that’s why I am the one who volunteered to bring you in here.
To give you space from them. I knew that you’d be most likely to talk to me, since I’m not Derrick and I’m not an Alpha. ”
“Which one is Derrick?”
“He’s Sax. The… first Sax. The one you video called with.”
“Ah.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. How to respond to anything he said.
Because he does know me. Everything he said is true. Sax knows all of that, which means they all had to be a part of talking to me, if he knows all those things about me.
He knows all of my secrets. Everything I told Sax, I was actually telling three men. All of my secrets, desires, and fears were not for two ears but six.
It finally catches up to me, the realization of what happened, and my heart stutters in my chest. I clutch at the front of my dress, pulling at it.
I can’t breathe.
My chest is tight, and my head is spinning, and I can’t breathe.
This isn’t my room.
It looks like my room, but it’s wrong, wrong, wrong.
I’m not at my house.
I’m not home, and I scent matched two Alphas.
Two Alphas and a Beta who were just supposed to be one Beta. One Beta that I’ve been talking to for a decade. Who has lied to me for a decade.
Grant is Sax, but he isn’t. Not really.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t do this.
I’m in love with Sax. I was going to tell him. I was going to confess my love, and we’d be happy together.
But I can’t.
But who am I in love with?
I don’t know who Sax is. How am I in love with someone who doesn’t exist?
I tear at the neckline of my dress, tears running down my face as I try and fail to get it off, to give myself the chance to breathe because I can’t.
Sax isn’t real, and I’m not at my house, and this dress is too tight, and I can’t fucking breathe.
I can’t do this.
I can’t be here.
I should never have left my house.
“I need to go home. I need to go home.” I stand, turning to one of the cameras Drew pointed out to me this morning. “Please, please, I need to go home. Bridgette. Bridgette, I know you’re listening. Please, let me out. I can’t do this. I can’t be here. I need to be home. I need to be home.”
The TV that sits across from the bed flickers on with a soft chime, and Bridgette’s beautiful face fills it.
“Ariana, dear, we’re going to send the medics in, okay?”
“I don’t need a fucking medic! I need to go home!” I continue to pull at my dress as I stare at the television. I know Grant has backed up against the wall, unsure what to do, but I can’t look at him. I can’t look at him and be reminded of the fact that I’m in love with someone who doesn’t exist.
Sax isn’t real.
This was all a game to them.
“I need to go home. I can’t be here with them. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I need to go home. It’s too much. I never should have come here. It’s not safe. I knew it wasn’t and I came anyway. I need to go home. Please, Bridgette. Please. I just want to go home.”
Drew pushes into the frame beside the host. His eyes are soft, fatherly, as he looks at me.
Is he even looking at me? He’s not, not really. He’s staring at a camera, knowing I’m seeing him.
“Ariana, I’m so sorry. You can’t go home. You signed a contract.”
“Fuck the contract!”
“It has a damages clause. You backing out now will cost the production company a shit ton of money. If you back out, you’ll owe them millions.”
His words hit me square in the chest, and I stumble back and sink onto the bed.
I’m stuck. Trapped here.
I can’t afford to buy out this contract.
“I want to go home.” It’s a whimper, a plea that I know won’t be answered. “Please. Don’t make me do this. I need to go home.”
Unfamiliar hands clutch at my shoulders, and though I shouldn’t, I melt into the touch.
“Ariana.” Grant’s voice is wobbly with emotion that he is borrowing from me.
What does he have to be upset about? He got what he wanted, right? A joke on the silly Omega. The foolish, terrified Omega, who couldn’t leave her house, is now having a panic attack in front of the cameras.
“Don’t. Don’t touch me. I can’t be here. I can’t do this.”
“You can.” His grip is gentle but sturdy, and he moves into my field of vision.
“I know you can. You’ve always been stronger than you think you are.
Remember when your groceries were left on the curb?
You went out, and you got them. You were terrified, but you pushed past your fears and did it. Do you remember what I told you?”
I stare at him, mouth gaping like a fish. I remember that happening, of course, but having the memory attached to Grant, someone I don’t know, is off-putting.
“I told you that sometimes a step can feel like a mile, and it’s okay if it takes you some time to take them.”
“That… that was you?”
The mantra I repeated to myself to get here was his?
Hurt flickers in his eyes before he looks away from me.
“Yeah, that was me.” After a moment, he kneels in front of me, hands slipping off my arms. “You took so many steps to get here, baby. It’s okay to be worn out, it’s okay to be scared.
But you have already come this far. Look how strong you are.
How brave. Don’t turn around, or all those steps were for nothing. ”
My heavy, panicked breaths are the only sound in the room.
I can’t do this.
I can’t.
“Where are your anxiety meds? Are they in your bag?”
“Yeah, front pocket.”
I watch as Grant rustles around in my duffel bag. I know nothing about him, and yet he feels familiar. He called me ‘baby,’ like he’s done a hundred times before, and he knows me well enough to find my meds for me.
Who is he?
He is Sax, but he isn’t.
Those late-night texts where I felt like the center of the universe. The three words we danced around for years but never said.
Were they his?
“Do you love me?”
My question shocks him so much that he drops the pill bottle.
“What?”
“Do you love me, Grant? You say you know me, and you say all these things that I recognize but sound so strange coming from your mouth. You know all of these things about me, but I know nothing about you. Nothing but your name and your scent. So tell me this one thing about you. Do you love me?”
He takes a few steps closer to me, gently grabbing my face with his soft hands. His slim chest is heaving, his eyes are shiny, and he looks at me like I am the answer to all of his problems. “Yes, Ariana. I love you. So fucking much.”
Then he presses his lips to mine.