Chapter 29
Masks And Revelations
~JULIAN~
This was a mistake.
I've known it from the moment I stepped through the gilded doors of the Thornewood Estate, but the certainty crystallizes as I stand in the center of the grand ballroom, surrounded by people I despise wearing smiles I don't trust. The Versailles Valentine's Day Ball—the most exclusive event of the season, held in the wealthiest neighborhood in Oakridge Hollow, attended by everyone who matters and plenty of people who only think they do.
And I'm here alone. Like an idiot. Like someone who still believes connections matter more than dignity.
The ballroom is obscene in its opulence—a deliberate recreation of Versailles' Hall of Mirrors, complete with seventeen arched mirrors reflecting seventeen matching windows that look out onto the estate's snow-covered gardens.
Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hang from the painted ceiling, their thousands of candles casting everything in a warm, flickering glow that makes even the most plastic smiles seem genuine.
The walls are covered in gold leaf and elaborate moldings, cherubs and flowers and scenes of mythological excess frozen in plaster.
Red roses overflow from towering arrangements on every surface, their cloying sweetness mixing with the perfumes and colognes of two hundred guests until the air itself feels expensive.
My suit fits perfectly—it always does, that's what tailors are for—a deep aubergine velvet that catches the candlelight and shifts between purple and black depending on the angle.
The fabric is Italian, the cut French, the black silk tie a deliberate contrast to the richness of the jacket.
I'd had my hair dyed silver for the occasion, the pale metallic shade pulled back and secured at the nape of my neck in a low tail that the stylist assured me gave "vintage aristocratic vibes. " Whatever that means.
I look the part. I always look the part. That's never been the problem.
The problem is the whispers that follow me through the room like a persistent plague.
The sidelong glances. The way conversations pause when I approach and resume with renewed vigor when I pass.
News travels fast in these circles—faster than light, faster than reason—and the news of my near-disaster with the D&G campaign has apparently reached every ear in attendance.
I catch fragments as I move through the crowd, each one a small knife sliding between my ribs:
"—almost lost the contract, can you imagine—"
"—Late Alphas, they call them, such a tragedy—"
"—thirty-five and still no Omega, there must be something wrong—"
"—heard he had to pull strings just to keep his spot—"
Vultures. Every single one of them. Circling, waiting, hoping to see me fall so they can pick apart the carcass of my reputation.
I grab a flute of champagne from a passing server—Moet, at least they haven't skimped on the alcohol—and find a spot near one of the massive mirrors where I can survey the room without being trapped in conversation.
The reflection that stares back at me looks tired.
Elegant, yes. Expensive, certainly. But tired in a way that no amount of designer fabric can disguise.
I should have brought Rosemarie.
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I don't push it away.
I'd had the invitation ready for a week.
Two tickets to the Versailles Ball, embossed in gold on cream cardstock, tucked into an envelope with her name written in my careful script.
I'd even practiced how I'd ask—casual, like it wasn't a big deal, like I hadn't spent three days finding the right words.
"There's an event. Boring, probably. But the food is decent and you'd get to see how the other half lives. If you're interested."
Smooth. Nonchalant. Nothing that could be mistaken for actually caring.
But then I'd walked into the living room and found her squealing.
Actually squealing—a sound I didn't know she was capable of making, high-pitched and giddy and so full of undiluted joy that it stopped me dead in my tracks.
She was on the phone with someone, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a child on Christmas morning, talking a mile a minute about an interview.
Something about a woman with connections in the specialty coffee world.
Something about a shop—her own shop—specializing in unique hot and cold coffee drinks.
A collaboration funded by a program specifically instituted to aid Omegas new to business ownership.
And Hazel—the owner of the bakery where Rosemarie works, the woman who took a chance on her when she had nothing—was apparently willing to expand the infrastructure so Rosemarie could open her own shop right next door. They'd share resources, share customers, build something together.
Her dream. The coffee shop she's been talking about since the day she arrived in our lives—mentioned casually over breakfast, wistfully while making drinks, with fierce determination when she thinks no one is paying attention. Someone was offering her a real, tangible chance at making it happen.
I'd stood in the hallway listening to her excitement, hidden in the shadows like some kind of lovesick stalker, the invitation burning a hole in my pocket.
And I'd known. I'd known with absolute certainty that I couldn't ask her to give that up—couldn't even risk distracting her from it—for one night of champagne and gossip.
I'd known that her opportunity, her dream, her chance at independence was infinitely more important than my pathetic need to not arrive alone at a party full of people who don't actually care about me.
So I'd stepped away. Quietly. Without her ever knowing I was there. And I'd left the invitation on the kitchen counter, face-down, half-hidden under a stack of mail where she'd probably never find it. A coward's exit. A coward's sacrifice.
Noble of me, really. Selfless. The kind of thing Tank or Elias would do without a second thought, without needing recognition or gratitude. The kind of thing I've never been particularly good at.
And now I'm here, alone, surrounded by people who smell like desperation masked by expensive perfume and champagne breath, wondering why I ever thought connections and visibility were worth more than staying home with people who actually want me there.
I take a long sip of champagne and let my gaze drift across the ballroom.
Couples waltz in the center of the floor, their movements choreographed to perfection, their smiles fixed in place like porcelain masks that might crack if they showed genuine emotion.
Groups cluster near the refreshment tables, their laughter sharp and performative, designed to be heard rather than felt.
Everyone is dressed to impress, dripping in jewels and designer labels and the kind of confidence that comes from never having to worry about where the next meal is coming from.
How did I survive this for so long? How did I spend years convincing myself that this was living? That this was what success looked like?
It's only been about three weeks since Rosemarie came into our lives. Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Barely a blip in the grand timeline of existence. And yet somehow, in that impossibly short span, everything has changed.
She's brought warmth into the atmosphere—a genuine, tangible warmth that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with presence.
The house feels different when she's there.
The air feels different. Even Tank and Elias feel different—softer somehow, lighter, more prone to laughter and less prone to brooding silence.
I've watched them go on dates, plan surprises, be romantic in ways I've never seen from either of them.
Tank—the man who built a cabin in the woods specifically to avoid human connection—bought heart-shaped chocolates and rented a cabin for a stargazing date.
Elias—who usually expresses affection through terrible jokes and aggressive optimism—decorated an entire ice rink with fairy lights and hired an internationally renowned barista just because Rosemarie mentioned liking one of her drinks.
These are the manly assholes I call my best friends.
My packmates. The men I thought I knew inside and out after years of living and working and surviving together.
And she's turned them into hopeless romantics in less than a month.
She's cracked them open like she had a key to doors they didn't even know existed.
But it's not just them. It's me, too. And that's the part I can barely admit, even to myself.
I think about the quiet moments—the ones that happen when no one else is watching, when the house is still and the world outside doesn't exist. The way I always seem to be the one who finds Rosemarie sleeping in random places around the house.
Curled up on the couch with a book fallen open on her chest, the pages soft with use.
Slumped over the kitchen table after an early shift at the bakery, flour still dusting her cheek.
Nestled into the corner of the armchair with Sasha draped across her feet, both of them breathing in synchronized rhythm.
And every time—every single time, without fail, without hesitation—I scoop her up.
Carefully, gently, like she might break if I jostle her too much.
I carry her to whichever bedroom is closest, adjusting my grip when she murmurs in her sleep and burrows closer to my chest. I tuck her in like she's something precious, something fragile, something worth protecting with everything I have.
I watch the peaceful expression settle over her features—the way her face relaxes when she's truly at rest, the way her lips part slightly with each breath, the way her scent softens into something warm and trusting and impossibly sweet.