Chapter 29 Jessica #2
"Yeah." The word comes out certain. "I'm okay. Let them talk. I know what I have."
"Good." He presses a kiss to my temple. "Because we're not letting you go."
"Even if I wanted to leave?"
"Especially then."
Across the bar, Stacey sinks the eight ball with a flourish. Carlos throws his hands up in defeat. Pedro, who's been watching from a barstool, actually laughs.
"Your friend can stay," Nacho decides. "She's good for pack morale."
"She can't stay. She has a job to get back to."
"Pity."
My phone buzzes. I pull it out and find a text from Harmony.
Harmony: Made it back to the city. Thank you for the refuge. Sorry about the chaos. Your pack is lovely. Hold onto them.
Me: Already planning to. Drive safe. Love you.
Harmony: Love you too.
I slip my phone back in my pocket and take another sip of beer.
"Everything good?" Sergio asks.
“Yeah!"
Stacey appears beside our booth, triumphant. "I won fifty bucks off Carlos. Who's next?"
"Not a chance." Nacho shakes his head. "I know a hustler when I see one."
"Smart man." She slides into the booth beside me. "So. When are you going to deal with your mom's house?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"The house. The one that flooded weeks ago. You can't just leave it sitting there with water damage."
"I know." Guilt twists in my stomach. "I've been meaning to deal with it. I just haven't had time."
"You've had time. You've been avoiding it."
She's not wrong.
"I'll figure it out," I say quietly. "Soon."
Stacey studies me for a moment, then nods. "Good. Because I didn't drive three hours to watch you spiral about real estate."
"Why did you drive three hours?"
"To make sure you were happy." Her voice goes serious. "And you are. I can see it. You're glowing, Jess. You've got that look."
"What?"
"The I'm living with four hot alphas and my life is chaos but I've never been happier look."
My face goes scarlet. "Stacey!"
"What? It's true!"
Sergio laughs. The sound rumbles through his chest where I'm pressed against his side.
"I like her," he announces. "She can visit anytime."
"Please don't encourage her."
But I'm smiling when I say it. Because Stacey's right. I am happy. Deliriously, impossibly happy in a way I didn't think was possible four weeks ago when I ran from my wedding.
We stay at the bar until the sun sets and Stacey has hustled half the bar out of their beer money. Carlos drives us home, his truck rumbling through the darkening streets, country music playing low on the radio.
"Best day ever," Stacey declares from the backseat. "Small-town bars are my new favorite thing."
"You're not even drunk," I point out.
"Don't have to be drunk to have fun. Just have to be excellent at pool and willing to take money from overconfident alphas."
Carlos catches my eye in the rearview mirror and grins.
When we get back to the house, Stacey helps me make dinner while the pack does pack things in other rooms. We cook pasta and drink more wine and talk about everything and nothing.
We're halfway through dinner when Stacey brings it up again.
"So seriously. The house. What's your plan?"
Before I can answer, Carlos sets down his fork. "Already handled."
I blink at him. "What?"
"Your mom's house." He leans back in his chair, casual but watching my reaction carefully. "We fixed it. Pedro coordinated with contractors. Nacho handled the insurance claim. I supervised the work. Sergio paid for everything."
My mouth falls open. "You did what? When?"
"Been working on it for two weeks." Carlos shrugs. "Started the day after the flood. Couldn't have you worrying about it on top of everything else."
"But I never asked you to do that."
"That's what pack does." Sergio's voice is gentle from across the table. "We see a problem, we fix it. You don't have to ask."
Tears burn my eyes. Stacey makes a satisfied sound beside me.
"See?" She squeezes my hand. "You have people who care about you."
I look around the table. At all four of them watching me with varying degrees of concern and affection. These men who fixed my house without being asked. Who protect me in coffee shops. Who make me breakfast and let my friends hustle them at pool and never once make me feel like I'm too much.
"Thank you," I whisper. "I don't know what else to say."
"You don't have to say anything." Pedro reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. "Just eat your pasta before it gets cold."
When we finish eating the doorbell rings.
The sound echoes through the house, sharp and unexpected. It's almost nine at night. Nobody visits after dark unless something is wrong.
My hands still on the plate I'm holding. My omega prickles with unease.
Footsteps thunder from the living room. Multiple sets. My pack moving in formation, responding to a potential threat the way they always do. Together.
"I'll get it." Nacho's voice is pure sheriff.
I set down the plate and move toward the kitchen doorway. Stacey follows, wine glass still in hand.
Voices drift from the foyer. Sergio's low rumble. A woman's voice I don't recognize, clear and assertive with the faint trace of an accent I can't place.
"I need to speak with Jessica Delacroix. It's urgent."
My stomach drops.
I walk into the hallway. A woman stands in the doorway, backlit by the porch light.
She's maybe mid-forties, clearly a beta with no scent and wearing a red blazer over dark jeans, her black hair streaked with silver and pulled into a neat bun.
She's holding a leather messenger bag and a tablet, and she's staring down all four of my alphas like she deals with intimidating men every day of her life.
Which, judging by her complete lack of fear, she probably does.
"Who are you?" Nacho's voice is flat, demanding.
"Rosa Castellano. Investigative journalist with the Portland Tribune." She pulls out a business card and hands it to him. "I've been researching the Morrison family for three years. And I believe I can help Jessica."
My breath catches.
Sergio spots me in the hallway. His eyes lock with mine, a silent question.
I nod and move closer.
Rosa tracks my movement. Her dark eyes are sharp, assessing, taking in everything from my rumpled clothes to the way I instinctively move closer to Sergio.
"Ms. Delacroix." She doesn't offer her hand. Just studies me with the focused intensity of someone who's very good at reading people. "I'm sorry to intrude, but I need you to see something."
She pulls out her tablet before I can respond. Swipes it open. Turns the screen toward me.
The headline hits me like a fist to the gut.
RUNAWAY brIDE JESSICA DELACROIX: FRIENDS WORRY FOR MENTALLY UNSTABLE OMEGA
Below it, a photo of me from the engagement party. Smiling. Perfect hair. Perfect dress. Looking nothing like the disaster currently standing in the foyer with sauce-stained hands.
The article is worse. So much worse.
Sources close to the family report that Jessica Delacroix has been displaying increasingly erratic behavior since her late presentation as an omega at age 28...
Morrison family spokesperson confirms they are seeking professional psychiatric evaluation for the troubled omega...
Friends describe a pattern of emotional instability and attention-seeking behavior...
My vision blurs. The tablet shakes in Rosa's steady hands.
"When..." My voice doesn't work. I swallow and try again. "When did this..."
"This afternoon. Three hours ago." Rosa's voice is clinical. Professional. "It's already trending on multiple news aggregators. The Morrison PR team moved fast."
"Everyone's reading this." It's not a question. My legs feel unstable.
"Yes." She doesn't soften it. "And it's bullshit. Complete, calculated bullshit designed to discredit you before you can speak out."
The word lands in the quiet foyer like a grenade.
"I've been investigating the Morrison family's legal practices for three years," Rosa continues. "Specifically, their habit of using money and intimidation to silence women who dare to speak out against Callum's behavior."
My heart starts pounding.
"You should come inside." Sergio steps back from the door, making space. "Whatever you have to say, Jessica shouldn't hear it standing in a doorway."
Rosa doesn't hesitate. She walks into the house like she owns it, boots clicking against the hardwood, and follows us into the living room.
Stacey appears beside me, wine glass forgotten. "Jess, what's going on?"
"I don't know yet."
The fire is still burning from earlier. The room smells like cedar and smoke and the faint lingering scent of dinner. I sink onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. Sergio sits beside me. The other three position themselves strategically around the room. Protective. Alert.
Rosa sets her messenger bag on the coffee table and pulls out a folder. It's thick, stuffed with papers, and when she opens it, I see photocopies of legal documents, photographs, printouts of emails.
"Three women." She spreads the documents across the table. "All former girlfriends of Callum. All filed complaints. Harassment. Intimidation. In one case, assault."
My stomach turns over.
"The Morrison family law firm made all three cases disappear.
" Rosa taps one of the documents. "Settlement agreements.
Non-disclosure clauses. Threats of defamation lawsuits if the women ever spoke publicly about what happened.
Two of them were pressured into signing.
The third was a college student who couldn't afford a lawyer and dropped the complaint out of fear. "
"Jesus Christ." Pedro leans forward, scanning the papers. "How did you get these?"
"I'm very good at my job." Rosa's mouth curves slightly. "And I've been waiting three years for someone to go on the record. Someone willing to stand up publicly and tell the truth about what Callum really is."
She looks at me.
"No." The word comes out strangled. "I can't. I just saw that article. Everyone already thinks I'm crazy."