Chapter 4 Carter #2
On Thursday night, the red carpet is a gauntlet of flashing cameras and shouted questions. I step out of the car and the noise hits me immediately—my name, called from a dozen directions at once, mixed with questions I pretend not to hear.
"Carter! Carter, over here!"
"Mr. Crane, any comment on the Glass interview?"
"Is it true you're a prime match with Jamie Dean?"
"Where's Georgia tonight?"
I smile. I wave. I pause for photos in front of the branded backdrop, angling my body the way I've been taught, keeping my expression pleasant and relaxed. The photographers shout instructions—"To the left!" "Big smile!" "Over here, Carter!"—and I comply automatically.
This is supposed to be easy. I've done hundreds of red carpets, thousands of press lines. I know how to work a crowd, how to project confidence, how to make small talk with strangers. This is what I was raised for. This is what Cranes do.
But tonight, everything feels wrong. My smile feels like a mask. Every time someone mentions the interview, I have to force myself not to flinch.
"Quite a week you've had," one studio executive says, his tone carefully neutral. His wife stands beside him, not even pretending she isn’t curious.
"Interesting times," I agree, and steer the conversation toward the film. I make it through the premiere. I sit in the darkened theater and stare at the screen without seeing it.
The film is something about a heist, I think. I couldn't say. My mind keeps wandering to deep brown eyes and the way Jamie's voice cracked when he called me a liar, to the scent of him that I can still almost taste if I breathe deeply enough.
At the after party, a tech billionaire corners me near the bar.
"Smart money backs winners," he says, clinking his glass against mine. "Don’t worry about the blip. One bad news cycle doesn't change that."
I thank him for his confidence. I don't mention that his smart money might be better placed elsewhere because we might be spinning the idea that Jamie Dean is obsessed with me, but I’ve spent every spare moment that I have googling him in case he says something further about me.
By the time I get back to my apartment, I'm exhausted and my face aches from holding a smile for four hours straight.
I pour myself a whiskey and pull out my phone, searching out Jamie yet again.
I find a clip from an evening news network.
He looks tired. There are shadows under his eyes but his voice is steady as he walks the hosts through the investigation, explaining the documents, defending his methods.
“There's been a lot of speculation about the Glass interview," one of the hosts says carefully. "About your... reaction to Carter Crane. Do you want to address that?"
Jamie's jaw tightens. "I'm not here to talk about internet gossip."
"But surely you can understand why people are curious—"
"What I think is curious," Jamie says, and there's an edge to his voice now, "is that the moment that I expose the Crane family, suddenly there are claims all over social media that I am stalking Carter Crane, but let me lay this out for the record.
It is not remotely true that I have any feelings for Crane.
I’ll admit that there was an unexpected scent match which took both of us by surprise, but the idea that it is a prime match is pure speculation and completely baseless. I have zero romantic or sexual interest in Carter Crane."
I watch the clip three more times before I make myself stop.
The following night, the National Business Excellence Awards is more of the same. I work the room. I congratulate the winner, shake hands, pose for photos.
By the time I finally escape to my car, all I can think about is one thing: I want to see if there is anything new on Jamie.
There is. He’s posted on LinkedIn: just one photograph and two lines. It's a photo of his laptop screen, the text indistinguishable. The caption is simple:
Still working. New documents dropping next week.
I admire his tenacity, even as I know that all this is going to do is make Warren redouble his efforts.
I need to see him again.
The thought is dangerous. Stupid.
But as the car carries me through the dark streets toward my empty apartment, I can't make myself stop wanting it.
Whoever controls the narrative controls the outcome. That’s the way that we’re playing it. It’s sensible but it’s also clear that it’s not going to stop Dean. He’s ignoring every smear we throw at him. We need to attack from another angle.
Maybe Warren’s suggestion was right, I persuade myself. I might be able to charm him into dropping it. As long as the media doesn’t find out, it’s a good tactic. I’m under no illusion that it’ll be difficult, but I have far more self control than some omega.
At least that’s what I tell myself. It doesn’t take long to find out his personal number. I have the resources. Before I can second guess myself, I text him.
This is Carter Crane III. We should talk privately and off the record.
It’ll intrigue him. Maybe he’ll think I’m turning against my father to save my own skin.
All I need is to get close enough to him to influence him to drop it. I saw how he looked at me. Maybe he’s a journalist but he’s still an omega. I can handle him. All I need is a little self control.