Chapter 4 Carter
I don't remember the drive home.
One moment I'm in the back of the car leaving the studio, the next I'm standing in the foyer of the family estate, and I have no idea how I got here. My driver must have brought me. I don't know. I can't think.
All I can smell is him.
It's on my clothes. On my skin. In my lungs with every breath I take. Jamie Dean's scent clings to me like a brand, marking me as thoroughly as if he'd bitten my neck on live television.
Which, in a way, he did. Just with his eyes instead of his teeth.
"Carter."
My father's voice cuts through the fog. He's standing in the doorway to his study, Warren at his shoulder, both of them looking at me with expressions that make my stomach drop.
"Inside," my father says. "Now."
I follow them into the study. Generations of Cranes have faced crises in this room. I just never expected to be the one who caused one.
My father doesn't sit. He stands behind his desk, hands braced on the surface, and stares at me.
"What," he says slowly, "the hell happened?"
I don't have an answer. I open my mouth, close it again. What can I say? None of it makes sense.
"It was a scent match," I say finally. "Unexpected. I have it under control."
"No, you do not. My father's laugh is sharp and humorless. "The clip is on every goddamn social media platform. People are calling it the prime match of the century, and you're telling me you have it under control?"
"It won't happen again."
"It shouldn't have happened at all." He pushes off the desk and starts pacing. "So? Was it?"
““I know exactly what he is asking me. Was it a prime match?
“No,” I lie. Obviously, it was. I’ve had scent matches before. I know what they’re like. They’re not that. I’ve never experienced anything like it. Jamie Dean is my perfect chemical match.
We both know I am lying. I can see it in my father’s eyes. I also see the way his eyes light up with approval.
Who gives a fuck if some journalist is attracted to me? The only thing that’s important is that I have it under control, and my father and I know that there is no way I’d ever betray my family for some two bit player like Dean.
The answer is no because it is the only possible answer that there can be.
“Good,” he says. “Make sure it stays that way. You fucked up tonight. Do it again and your career is over.”
The words land hard. He's right. I know he's right. This is the first major misstep of my career—the first time I've let something personal interfere with the family's interests. I've screwed up badly.
That damned omega appeared in front of me and I lost my fucking mind on live television.
“We need to focus on damage control," Warren says. His voice is calm. He’s cleaned up worse messes than this. "The scent match angle is already out there. We can't put that back in the box. We’ll just need to shape how people interpret it. In fact, this might be a major win for us."
My father stops pacing.
Warren moves to the desk, pulling out his tablet.
"The narrative right now is romantic. Social media is eating it up. We can flip that and use it. Easily. Dean is an unknown, unregistered omega. He’s never had a major story before this one.
We’ll paint him as just one more unstable weirdo obsessed with a famous alpha.
After how he reacted to Carter, it won’t be hard to make him look like a stalker. "
I keep my face neutral, but something unexpectedly protective twists in my gut. I shove the feeling away.
I barely know Dean. That damn omega scent is making me insane. He doesn’t need to be protected. He needs to be destroyed.
I see my father visibly relax. "This is actually the first major opportunity we’ve had to get rid of him. We can play this," he says slowly.
Warren nods. "We could go further." He glances at me. "We could play up the seduction. Carter gets close to Dean, makes him look like a lovesick fool. We all saw how that little bitch reacted. Carter can have him eating out of his hand."
My whole body goes tight. "No."
Both of them turn to look at me.
"No," I repeat, and I'm surprised by how steady my voice sounds. "I'm not doing that."
My father's eyes narrow. "This isn't the time for squeamishness, Carter."
"It's not squeamishness." The lie comes easily. "If I’m anywhere near him after this, it’ll legitimize the prime match speculation. If this is to work, then it needs to be one-sided. Jamie is stalking me. I can’t risk it looking reciprocal. I think it’s too big a risk."
My father considers this, his head tilting slightly. "He has a point, Warren. If Carter is seen anywhere near Dean, the press will have a field day."
Warren is quiet for a long moment, his jaw working. I can see him calculating, weighing my argument against his instinct to attack, then he nods. "Agreed.”
“Carter—" My father fixes me with a hard stare. "You stay away from Jamie Dean.”
“I already said I would,” I say but the lie I told is sitting between us. I can claim it’s not a prime match as much as I like. We both know it’s not true. Just as we both know that it makes Dean a much bigger risk than we ever knew.
My father looks at me for a very long time and I see the risk sinking in, then he says. “No contact. No communication. If I find out you've been anywhere near him, there will be consequences. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good." He turns back to Warren. "What else do we have?"
They start talking strategy and which demographics are most concerned about the allegations.
I stand there and nod in the right places, but I'm not really listening. My mind keeps drifting back to the studio and the moment Jamie looked at me and the whole world narrowed down to just the two of us.
I screwed up. I know I screwed up. Going on David Glass was supposed to be a power move. Instead, I handed our enemies the best ammunition they could have asked for.
But for those few minutes on that stage, breathing the same sweet air as Jamie Dean, I felt more alive than I have in years.
They keep me at the estate for the rest of the night, preparing for the inevitable press onslaught. By the time Warren finally leaves, the sky outside is starting to lighten.
I should try to get some sleep, instead I lie on my bed, pull out my phone and start searching. Jamie Dean is supposed to be the stalker but I’m about to put in my best effort.
The name Jamie Dean brings up a flood of results and almost all of them are from the past few days. The clip from Point of Contention is burning its way across the internet.
Before the Times headline that turned my life upside down, there's almost nothing on Dean.
I find a handful of bylines from The Daily Scoop consisting of celebrity gossip, society coverage but nothing serious.
He has a LinkedIn profile which I stalk on private mode, but despite going back to the day it was set up, I find little of interest. His social presence is sparse.
I find myself watching the Glass clip again. I don't want to—I know I should close the app, put down the phone, try to get some rest—but I can't stop myself.
The camera caught everything. My entrance. The moment I stopped dead, nostrils flaring. The way my whole body oriented toward Jamie like he was my north.
And Jamie—
He looks wrecked. His pupils blown, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths. When our eyes meet, a current passes between us that even the camera picks up.
The comments have shifted since I last looked. Warren's people are working already, because now a different narrative is taking shape.
Anyone else think that journalist seemed a little... obsessed?
Imagine writing a hit piece on someone you're clearly in love with lmao. Someone’s desperate for attention..
Typical omega. All about the feeeeeeeeeels
So Jamie Dean spent months ‘investigating’ the alpha he’s obviously got a thing for? Hahaha.
Jamie Dean’s a creepy little fucker. Fight me.
Warren’s people are riding the wave.
My phone buzzes and for one completely irrational moment I am sure it’s him.
Instead, it’s a message from Kate. Hey big bro. I just heard about you and Georgia. So sorry. I really liked her. Big love to you.
I put down the phone and stare at the ceiling until I finally pass out from exhaustion.
For the first three days after Point of Contention, they keep me at the estate.
"You need to lie low," Warren says. "Let the initial frenzy die down. No public appearances, no statements, nothing that gives them fresh footage to dissect."
By day four, Warren changes tack.
"You're starting to look like you're hiding," he tells me over breakfast. "The press is camped outside the estate.
If you don't show your face soon, they'll assume that you have something to be ashamed of.
" He slides a folder across the table. "I've arranged two events this week.
Film premiere tonight. And the National Business Excellence Awards on Friday.
You're presenting the Innovation category. "
I flip through the folder and see itineraries, talking points, lists of people I should be seen talking to. Everything is planned down to the minute.
"I might call Georgia,” I say. If I can get her to stand next to me, it might go a long way.
Warren's expression tightens. "Miss Mitchell's representatives have indicated she's not available for joint appearances at this time."
I’m unexpectedly disappointed, but not surprised. I’d do the same in her position, but still, it’d have been nice to have had her there.
"Fine," I say. "I'll go alone."
"Not alone and you can’t take a woman you might be seen as cheating with.
The story is that Miss Mitchell is recovering from the flu and so won’t be attending.
You’ll take your mother. I'll seed the guest lists with friendly faces. We’ll have people who'll be seen talking to you, laughing with you.
The image we want is relaxed, confident and completely unbothered. "
Unbothered. Right. "I can do that.”