Chapter 29 #2
I've started looking forward to those moments. Seeking them out, even. Finding excuses to check on her late at night, to make sure she's resting, to be the one who catches her when she finally crashes after another fourteen-hour day of giving everything she has.
What does that say about me? What does it mean that the highlight of my week has become finding a sleeping woman on the couch and tucking her into bed like she's mine to care for?
And then there are the mornings. Waking up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee filling the house—not just any coffee, but the perfect coffee, calibrated to whatever activity she knows we have planned.
Strong and bold on gym days, the kind that makes your blood sing and your muscles ready for punishment.
Smooth and mellow on lazy weekends, meant to be sipped slowly while doing absolutely nothing.
Something with cardamom and honey when she knows I have a shoot and need to be alert but not jittery, the caffeine balanced by warmth.
She pays attention. She notices things—the small details that most people overlook.
She does small, thoughtful acts of care without expecting anything in return—without even acknowledging that she's doing them, half the time.
Like it's just how she moves through the world. Like kindness is her default setting.
When was the last time anyone in this room did something genuinely thoughtful?
When was the last time any of these champagne-swilling, gossip-spreading, smile-faking socialites gave a damn about someone else's comfort?
About making someone else's morning a little easier, a little warmer, a little more bearable?
I look around the ballroom again, really seeing it this time with eyes that have been opened by three weeks of genuine warmth.
The forced laughter that sounds like breaking glass.
The calculating eyes that never stop measuring and comparing.
The way everyone is watching everyone else, cataloging weaknesses for future use, storing ammunition for the next social skirmish.
These people don't care about me. They never have.
I'm entertainment to them—a source of gossip, a benchmark for comparison, a cautionary tale to be discussed over canapes and caviar.
As long as I'm trending, as long as I'm relevant, they'll smile to my face and whisper poison behind my back.
The moment I stop being interesting, I'll cease to exist entirely.
My name will fade from their lips like smoke.
The realization should hurt. Maybe it does, somewhere deep down where I've learned to bury inconvenient emotions behind walls of cold professionalism.
But mostly it just feels... clarifying. Like finally admitting something I've known for years but refused to acknowledge because the truth was too uncomfortable.
I'm a figment in their lives. A flickering flame that will be forgotten the moment something brighter comes along. And deep down, that's terrifying. To accept that you're truly meaningless to the people you've surrounded yourself with for years.
I hate it here.
I hate everything about this—the fake smiles, the hollow conversations, the constant performance of success and happiness when everyone in this room is probably miserable in their own gilded cages.
I hate that I came here thinking I needed these connections, needed this visibility, needed to remind people that Julian North is still relevant.
I should leave. Cut my losses. Go home to the house that actually feels like home now, to the people who actually give a damn whether I live or die.
I'm about to do exactly that—set down my champagne and make for the exit—when a group materializes in front of me, blocking my path.
Three women, two men. All of them dressed to the nines in designer gowns and custom suits, all of them wearing expressions of barely concealed malice disguised as friendly interest. I recognize them vaguely—children of old money, socialites who've made careers out of being seen at the right parties with the right people.
The kind of people who've never worked a day in their lives but consider themselves experts on success.
"Julian!" One of the women—a blonde with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a smile sharp enough to match—spreads her arms in mock welcome.
"You actually came! And alone, too. Aww.
" She pouts dramatically, her bottom lip pushed out in exaggerated sympathy.
"No Omega willing to suck up to you and your rich tactics? That must be so lonely."
I force my expression into pleasant neutrality—a mask I've perfected over years of dealing with exactly this kind of person. "You know me. Too cocky to possibly keep an average Omega around. They simply can't handle the perfection. It's a burden, really."
They laugh—all of them, in perfect unison, like a practiced choir of insincerity. The sound grates against my already frayed nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
"We heard the most interesting rumor," one of the men says, stepping closer with the predatory eagerness of someone who smells blood in the water.
Dark hair, forgettable face, the kind of suit that's expensive without being memorable—like the man himself.
"Something about you almost losing your shot at the D&G shoot?
The Valentine's campaign you've been working toward for, what, two years now? "
"Two years of effort," another woman chimes in, her voice dripping with false sympathy sweet enough to rot teeth. "Almost thrown away because your pack is... what do they call you?" She taps her chin theatrically. "Late Alphas?" She giggles—a high, brittle sound. "Such a shame. Such a tragedy."
"So what strings did you pull?" The second man leans in, eyes bright with the hunger for gossip. "To not get that rug pulled out from under your feet? Must have cost you quite a bit. A few favors called in? Some creative negotiation?"
"Did you use money to buy your way out of trouble?" The blonde tilts her head, examining me like I'm a specimen under glass. "That would be so very Julian of you. Throwing cash at problems until they go away."
They giggle. The men smirk. All of them watching me with hungry eyes, waiting for blood, waiting for weakness, waiting for anything they can use against me the moment I walk away.
I take a slow sip of champagne, letting the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. Then I smile—not a real smile, never a real smile for people like this, but a perfect replica that's fooled better observers than them.
"Actually," I say, savoring the way their expressions flicker with surprise, "my pack has someone now. An Omega. Quite a lovely one, in fact."
The blonde's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? If that's so, why didn't she attend? Is she claustrophobic? Afraid of crowds?"
"More like invisible," one of the other women snickers. "That would explain why we can't see her."
"I thought you'd just switched to the other side," the dark-haired man drawls, making a crude gesture. "My dear 'friend.'"
And this is why I hate these people. This is why I should have stayed home. This is why coming here alone was the worst decision I've made in weeks.
"As entertaining as this is," I say, setting down my champagne flute with deliberate care, "I wasn't planning to stay long. A quick drink or two, some caviar, and I'm done for the night. You'll have to find someone else to interrogate."
I turn to leave, already calculating the fastest route to the exit—
And then I smell it.
One of the men behind me whistles, low and appreciative. "Holy shit. Did you smell that? Someone's Omega has a scent that's fucking divine."
I freeze. Because I know that scent. I'd recognize it anywhere—in a crowded room, in a storm, in complete darkness.
Cinnamon sugar and roasted coffee and dark vanilla and soft amber.
The scent that's invaded my bedroom and my sheets and my dreams. The scent that makes my pulse quicken and my jaw clench and my entire carefully controlled facade threaten to crack.
I turn my head toward the grand staircase.
And time stops.
She's standing at the top of the stairs, framed by the arched marble entrance like she belongs in a Renaissance painting. The chandeliers cast her in golden light, making her glow like something not quite human, not quite mortal. Something divine.
Rosemarie.
But not the Rosemarie I've grown accustomed to seeing—the one in coffee-stained aprons and comfortable sweaters, the one who falls asleep on couches and steals my shirts to sleep in. This is something else entirely. This is a queen descending into a court of pretenders.
The gown is extravagant in a way that makes every other dress in the room look cheap by comparison.
Deep purple silk cascades from her shoulders, the color so rich it seems to absorb the light around it rather than reflect it.
Black lace overlay creates intricate patterns across the bodice—flowers and thorns and delicate spider webs that catch the candlelight and shimmer with every breath she takes.
The skirt is massive, structured with hidden petticoats that make it billow around her like a dark cloud, the fabric pooling on the stairs behind her in a train that must be at least three feet long.
The neckline is a sweetheart cut that shows just enough collarbone to be tantalizing without being vulgar.
Black silk ribbons are woven through the bodice, crisscrossing in an elaborate pattern that draws the eye upward to her face.
Her shoulders are bare except for delicate off-the-shoulder sleeves made of the same black lace, just enough fabric to frame her arms without covering them.