Chapter 11 Hastings
Hastings
The video conference call had dragged on for forty-three minutes longer than scheduled. I kept my expression neutral as the CFO of our Singapore branch droned on about quarterly projections that could have been summarized in an email.
My finger tapped against the edge of my mahogany desk. The rhythm betrayed nothing to the twelve faces arranged in neat squares on my monitor.
"Mr. Hastings?" The CFO's voice crackled through the speakers. "Do you agree with the proposed timeline?"
My jaw shifted. "Send me the full breakdown by the end of business Singapore time. We'll reconvene Thursday."
I didn't wait for confirmation before ending the call.
The screen went dark, and I dragged a hand down my face. The stubble on my jaw rasped against my palm. I needed to shave. I needed to sleep. I needed this merger to finalize so I could stop justifying every expense to shareholders who wouldn't know innovation if it knocked them over.
The office door burst open.
Fritz didn't knock. He never did.
My head snapped up, irritation flaring hot in my chest. "You missed the meeting."
Fritz had already stopped, his dark blond hair disheveled like he'd been running. His eyes darted to the blank monitor, then back to me.
"Good. So it’s finished?"
"Clearly."
He crossed the room in three strides and dropped onto the leather sofa at the rear of my office. He sprawled there like he owned the place, one arm slung over the back, his phone clutched in his other hand. His knee bounced.
I turned back to my computer, pulling up the Singapore file. Numbers blurred together. My temples throbbed.
"Henry."
"I'm working."
"You need to see this."
"I need to finish this report."
"Henry." His voice dropped, went serious in a way that made my shoulders tense. "Now."
I closed the laptop harder than necessary. The sound echoed through the office like a gunshot.
Fritz was already moving, rounding my desk with his phone extended. The screen glowed as he pressed play.
"Security footage," he said. "From this morning."
I took the phone. The timestamp read 09:26. The camera angle showed the drawing room, the one that overlooked the garden square. The quality was crisp, color, and the kind of footage that caught every detail.
And there she was.
Presley Prince.
She danced across the parquet floor in bare feet, her phone pressed to her ear. Her mouth moved, animated, her free hand gesturing wildly at nothing.
I couldn't hear what she was saying, but I saw her laughing.
My throat tightened.
She wore an oversized shirt that hung off one pale shoulder. The fabric swallowed her frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh, where my gaze stayed for longer than it ought to. She spun, and the shirt billowed, showing the curve of her waist, and the dip where her hip met her leg.
"What’s she wearing?" The words came out rougher than I intended.
Fritz leaned against my desk, arms crossed. "Etienne's shirt. I saw him give it to her this morning before he left for rugby training."
My fingers gripped the phone tighter. The edge bit into my palm.
"He gave her his shirt."
"Scented it too, no doubt." Fritz's tone was casual, but his eyes tracked my reaction. "You know how he is."
I did. Etienne was the romantic of our pack.
The one who believed in fated matches and grand gestures and love at first scent.
We'd learned the hard lesson that none of that should be trusted the hard way five years ago when he'd fallen for an omega who'd turned out to be more interested in our bank account than his knot.
"As long as it's not as hard as last time," I muttered, handing the phone back. "That man is an out and out romantic."
Fritz pocketed his phone but didn't move. His gaze stayed fixed on me.
"He smells a scent on her."
My pulse kicked. "What kind of scent?"
"The kind that makes an alpha pay attention."
I turned away, reaching for the crystal decanter on the bar behind me. The whiskey sloshed as I poured two fingers into a glass.
“Want one?”
“No.”
"It's not unusual to smell a scent." I took a sip, the burn steadied me. "Omegas have scents. So do alphas. It's biology."
"Henry."
"No. One scent isn’t enough. It's having all matching scents that makes a match unique." I met his eyes over the rim of my glass. "And that is doubtful."
Fritz said nothing. He was perceptive enough to know I'd smelled something on Presley. I wasn't ready to admit it.
Fritz watched me with a knowing look, it made my back teeth grind.
I set the glass down harder than necessary. "Show me again."
He pulled out his phone, but I was already moving to my computer. I opened the security system, found the timestamp, pulled up the footage on the larger screen.
The drawing room filled my monitor in full color now.
I watched as she danced and laughed. I watched every moment of Etienne's shirt as it rode up her legs.
But this time I noticed other things.
The vase on the mantelpiece that hadn't been there yesterday, now held wildflowers, the cheap kind you bought from a petrol station, but she'd arranged them carefully.
The cushions on the sofa had been moved, rearranged into a pattern that was more lived-in.
The throw blanket that normally lived folded on the ottoman was now draped over the arm of the chair, like she'd been curled up there reading.
She'd already made the space hers. The thought hit me sideways.
I bought the townhouse six years ago. Filled it with expensive furniture and original art and everything a man of my station was supposed to own. But it had never felt warm. It had never felt like anything other than a place to sleep between business trips.
Now there were flowers. There was warmth. There was an omega in our home.
On screen, Presley spun again. The shirt rode up, exposing the smooth expanse of her thighs, the curve of her backside. She wore nothing underneath.
My cock jolted.
I shifted in my chair, jaw clenching as I forced my gaze away from the screen.
"She looks different," I said, my voice tight. "Here."
"Different how?"
"Lighter." The word felt inadequate. "Happier."
She did.
In the café, she'd been guarded, wary, like a stray dog expecting to be kicked. Here, alone in our home, she looked unburdened.
When was the last time I'd seen an omega look like that?
Not the omegas at functions who smiled but it never reached their eyes. Omegas who calculated every word. Nor the omega who'd tried to trap Etienne with a fake pregnancy scare. Or the ones who saw dollar signs instead of a person.
Presley threw her head back, laughing at something her friend said. Her blonde hair caught the light streaming through the window, turning it gold.
"Sometimes," Fritz said quietly, "the one isn't who you'd ever believe."
My jaw tightened. "She's our surrogate. Not the one."
"Isn’t she?"
"That's the arrangement."
"Arrangements change."
"She's temporary." I closed the window, the footage disappearing into black. My reflection stared back at me from the dark screen. Jaw tight. Eyes hard. The face of a man who didn't believe in fairy tales.
"You keep telling yourself that."
I ignored him, opening my desk drawer. My fingers found the black AmEx card I kept for emergencies. I pulled it out, turned it over.
Presley had arrived with nothing. A ripped cardigan. Leaking boots. Charity shop clothes that hung off her frame. She'd eaten like she was afraid the food would disappear, like she couldn't trust it would still be there tomorrow.
And now she was wearing Etienne's shirt because she had nothing else.
My thumb ran across the raised numbers on the card.
"What are you doing?" Fritz asked.
"She can hardly keep wearing Etienne's shirts."
A slow smile spread across Fritz's face. "No. I suppose she can't."
I slipped the card into my pocket and stood. The chair scraped against the floor.
"I have work to do."
"Of course you do." Fritz headed for the door but paused with his hand on the handle. "For what it's worth, I think she's good for us. For the pack."
“You know this after one day?”
“Yep. From the moment she arrived in this office and told us our future child wouldn’t need a nose job.”
He left before I could respond.
I stood alone in my office, the card burning a hole in my pocket, the image of Presley dancing burned into my mind.
She was temporary.
She had to be.