27. Changes Equal Opportunities
Changes Equal Opportunities
~ E LIZABETH~
Oh god…this feels good…even if it hurts like hell.
The stretch burns in the best way as I fold forward into my splits, reaching for my ballet shoes while trying to work out the persistent ache in my ribs.
Three weeks have passed in a blur of new privileges and experiences, making it hard to believe I'm the same person who used to be confined to such a small portion of Hard Knot Academy's sprawling campus.
Three weeks of actually feeling like I belong somewhere.
The thought brings a smile to my face as I extend further into the stretch, feeling my muscles protest slightly. I've been pushing myself harder lately, taking advantage of every opportunity that's opened up since becoming an "official" Omega.
The full expanse of Hard Knot's southern section wing has become my playground — so many clubs and competitions I never knew existed, hidden away from those deemed unworthy of participation. I've even started kickboxing classes after ballet, channeling my newfound energy into learning how to actually defend myself in various ways.
I’ll never be put in a situation where if I can’t run, I can’t fight. Now I’ll be able to do some damage and not feel so helpless.
That first day as a pack feels like ages ago now.
The new advisor — hand-picked by James to replace Phillips, who's currently on "unpaid leave" writing daily pleading letters begging James not to ruin his life with that infamous tape — had given us a proper tour of the facilities.
It was like discovering a whole new school hidden within the one I thought I knew for the past five years.
Amazing what doors open when you have the right connections.
My class schedule has transformed completely.
James managed to align his schedule perfectly with mine, meaning I have my former academic rival in every single class. It should be annoying, but there's something comforting about having him there, picking up our old competitive habits like no time has passed.
Holmes takes everything except ballet — though he often watches from the observation rows in the auditorium near the back, probably thinking no one notices him behind those sunglasses he's adopted in place of the blindfold.
Felix shares my Advanced Quantum Computing class, which has quickly become one of my favorites. There's something freeing about being able to show off my technical knowledge without worrying about seeming too smart for an Omega.
Carter...my eyes search the auditorium for his familiar form, finding him deep in conversation with someone I don't recognize.
The man doesn't look like our usual judges or administrators — his suit is too expensive, his bearing too confident for the usual Hard Knot staff. Whatever they're discussing has Carter wearing his serious expression — a rare sight that usually means business is being conducted.
Real business, not academy politics.
These past weeks have changed so much. We've grown closer as a pack, finding our rhythms and boundaries in ways I never expected. The guys have their own dynamic that I'm gradually learning to navigate — when to push, when to step back, and when to mediate their more explosive personalities.
My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach as another twinge makes itself known. The heat suppressants are working again, thank god, though I feel a flutter of anxiety remembering the days I accidentally skipped. Three days? Or was it four?
It's fine, I tell myself firmly. The new prescription is stronger anyway. Missing a few days won't matter.
But there's a nagging voice in the back of my mind that won't quite believe it. The same voice that's been noting how sensitive my skin feels lately, how certain scents seem sharper, how the guys' presence affects me more intensely than it should.
Just paranoia.
I insist silently or else my brain is going to go wild with random thoughts.
You're not going into Heat. They’ll be more warning signs.
The alternative is too terrifying to contemplate.
Not here, not now, not when everything is finally starting to feel right.
My eyes drift back to Carter and his mysterious companion. They're still talking, heads bent close together like conspirators. It's strange seeing Carter so focused — usually he's the one cracking jokes or trying to distract Holmes into showing actual emotions.
Something's brewing.
I can feel it in the air, in the way the pack's energy has shifted lately. They're planning something, though they're careful not to discuss it around me. I catch fragments sometimes — whispered conversations that stop when I enter a room, meaningful glances exchanged during classes, late-night meetings I'm not invited to.
Part of me wants to demand answers, to remind them that I'm supposed to be part of this pack now. But a larger part understands their need for secrets, for maintaining certain boundaries even as others fall away.
Trust takes time.
I have to remind myself, switching legs to stretch my other side.
And some secrets are meant to be protected.
I should know — I'm keeping plenty of my own, but they don’t pressure me to reveal them.
"Daydreaming?"
I blink, startled to find James' face inches from mine. I must have been completely lost in thought to miss his approach.
His brow furrows as he presses a hand to my forehead.
"You okay? You seem a bit out of it."
"I'm fine," I reassure him quickly, though the warmth of his hand feels oddly soothing against my skin. "Just thinking."
He drops smoothly into the splits beside me, and I can't help but admire how the dance attire suits his mature form. It's been years since I've seen him like this — the lean muscle developed from martial arts translating beautifully to dance positions.
"You're staring," he murmurs, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"Can you blame me?" I whisper back. "It's been a while since I've seen you in proper dancewear."
His eyes darken slightly.
"Keep looking at me like that and we'll have to find the nearest empty room."
A laugh bubbles up from my chest.
"Careful. Carter will get jealous if he hears you talking like that."
"Too late," Carter calls from the edge of the stage, making me jump slightly. "Already heard everything, and if James doesn't stop that foolishness, I'll have to intervene myself."
James' answering chuckle reverberates through me, but before he can respond, the judges clear their throats pointedly. The sound draws our attention to the mysterious man Carter was talking to earlier, who now holds a microphone as he approaches the stairs leading to the stage.
James rises gracefully, extending his hand to help me up. We move to the side of the stage, his arm sliding possessively around my lower back to keep me close.
"Good morning," the man begins, his voice carrying that particular authority of someone used to being listened to. "I'm Professor Richardson from Juilliard's School of Dance. I'm here today to observe a specific rendition incorporating two distinct dance styles."
My heart skips a beat.
Juilliard.
The dream school any dancer wishes to get into. I'd abandoned the mere possibility along with Harvard after everything that ensued when I became an Omega.
"How long do we have to prepare?" Someone calls from the crowd.
"There is no preparation time," Richardson replies, a slight smile playing on his lips. "This will be an impromptu performance. We expect the dancing partners to collaborate spontaneously, demonstrating their ability to adapt and create in real-time."
Another Omega raises her hand.
"So we need partners? This isn't a solo audition?"
"Correct. This is specifically to evaluate partnership dynamics and stylistic fusion."
Several pairs of eyes turn in my direction, and I fight to keep my expression neutral even as my shoulders drop slightly.
Without a regular partner, without time to practice...
Just another opportunity I'll have to watch pass by.
The familiar weight of disappointment settles in my chest, but I refuse to let it show on my face. Five years of practice helps me maintain the mask of indifference, even as my mind races with what could have been.
There’s no point in getting down about it. Another opportunity will come.
So I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and prepare to watch others take advantage of an opportunity I would have killed for back at Harvard.
It's fine. I'm used to this by now.
Used to being the observer rather than the performer…staying in my assigned lane.
James' arm tightens almost imperceptibly around my waist, and something in the gesture makes me glance up at him. The look in his eyes catches me off guard — that familiar competitive spark I remember from our school days, mixed with something darker, more determined.
He's planning something.
I can see it in the way his jaw sets, in the slight straightening of his shoulders. It's the same look he used to get right before challenging me to some impossible academic feat.
But before I can decipher his expression, Richardson continues speaking, and I force myself to pay attention.
"Would anyone like to take up this challenge?" Richardson asks again, his words met with hesitant silence.
"My Omega and packmate probably have something up their sleeves," Carter calls out suddenly, gesturing toward us.
A gasp escapes me as I turn to glare at him, but James is already moving, tugging me forward into the waiting spotlight. The stage feels different from up here — more intimate somehow, despite the audience's expectant stares.
"Actually," James says, his voice carrying that confident edge I remember from our academic showdowns, "we do have an arrangement in mind. One my Omega previously performed, though it seemed to not meet certain...standards at the time."
My eyes widen as I whip my head around to stare at him.
"How do you know about that?" I whisper urgently.
His lips quirk into a small smile.
"Carter showed me the video after Felix brought it up a few weeks ago. Said he first noticed you dancing 'some cool mix' that caught his eye, but the judges were bitches about it."
He says that last part deliberately loud, earning pointed glares from the regular judges. But I notice Richardson's lips twitching with poorly concealed amusement before he gestures toward center stage.
"By all means," he says, "if you're prepared to perform..."
I search James' face, uncertainty creeping in.
"Can you actually pull this off?"
His laugh is warm and familiar.
"You're underestimating me, Eli." He leans in close, our eyes locking with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "I'll follow your lead."
Something about his absolute confidence, the way he's looking at me like he has complete faith in my abilities, settles the nervousness fluttering in my chest.
A smile spreads across my face as I move to grab my new phone, silently thanking whatever instinct made me download Spotify this morning.
My fingers find the song easily — muscle memory from how many times I've played it, practicing alone in empty studios. As I connect the aux cord to the sound system, I can't help scanning the audience for Carter, but he seems to have disappeared.
My eyes drift to the back of the room where Holmes stands in his usual spot, watching.
The sight surprises me — I know he has either kickboxing or some other physical training scheduled for this time slot. He never misses those sessions, yet here he is, sunglasses in place but his presence unmistakable.
Something's definitely going on.
But I push the thought aside as I take my position beside James. This isn't the time for speculation about the pack's secrets.
"Break a leg," he whispers, that competitive spark dancing in his eyes.
I pinch his arm, hard.
"Don't say that! It's bad luck!"
"Whatever you say," he replies with a playful smirk, but as the first notes fill the air, something shifts between us.
It's like slipping into a familiar dream — the energy crackling between us reminds me of late-night practice sessions throughout our years at school, of the way we used to push each other to be better without ever acknowledging the underlying tension.
The music builds, and I feel that old connection click into place. This isn't just about proving something to Richardson or the other judges.
This is about reclaiming something I thought I'd lost forever.
The chance to dance with someone who truly sees me.
The polished hardwood whispers beneath my pointe shoes as I take my starting position, but this time, something's different.
James stands beside me, his presence both familiar and electrifying. His black dance attire contrasts sharply with my white mesh top, creating a visual harmony that feels almost too perfect to be coincidental.
Like light and shadow preparing to dance.
The whispers from the wings seem more intense than usual, the other Omegas practically vibrating with confusion and anticipation. After all, it's not every day you see an Alpha willing to perform alongside an Omega.
I catch glimpses of our reflection in the mirror-lined walls – my tattoos visible through the white mesh, James's controlled power, like we shouldn't belong together, and yet...
Maybe that's exactly why we do.
The haunting intro of "Do You See Me Now" begins to fill the space, and this time, when I move, I'm not alone. James matches me step for step, his movements perfectly synchronized with mine as if we've been practicing this for years instead of minutes.
The classical portion flows like silk, our bodies moving in perfect harmony. His hands find my waist at exactly the right moments, lifting me into arabesques that seem to defy gravity. Every turn, every gesture becomes a conversation between our bodies – a dance of trust and precision that makes the whispers from the wings fade into insignificance.
"Swallow my tongue. Back of my throat. Like it's finite. Only so long I can chew till I choke."
James's presence transforms what was once a solo of defiance into a duet of shared strength. When he lifts me, it's with such careful control that I feel weightless, able to extend into positions that would be impossible alone.
I’ve missed this.
To be in the arms of a partner, knowing you’re safe and that their lead will match yours, no matter the routine. Improv or not, I feel the utmost confidence that James will follow my lead and execute it marvelously.
"Hide in plain sight. What have you done? My rabbit run. Caught in the headlights."
The music shifts, the haunting strings giving way to that pulsing beat, and the transition happens so smoothly it feels like magic. James spins me out just as Carter slides in, catching my hand and pulling me into the hip-hop sequence with fluid grace.
There's no hesitation, no stumble in the rhythm, even though his entry is completely by surprise. He’s in a completely different wardrobe, baggy black dance pants with white limited edition chrome heart chains that surely cost thousands while his tank is a white mesh that mimics mine but in a more masculine way, showing not only his six-pack and muscles but contouring him perfectly with the mix of the shadows and the spotlight as we move.
Carter's street style meshes perfectly with my fusion, his raw energy complementing the classical foundation James helped establish. We move together like we've been dancing as partners our whole lives, his strength supporting my more technical elements while adding his own flair.
"And I'm bigger now. And I'm bigger now. So say my name like I'm 10 feet tall. Bow your head like I'm royal."
James rejoins us for the grand finale, and suddenly I'm dancing between them, weaving classical ballet with hip-hop into something entirely new. James catches me in a grand jeté that sends me soaring, my legs splitting perfectly in the air before Carter's there to guide me into a freeze that would make any street dancer proud with the smooth transition.
The choreography becomes a conversation between three styles – James's pure classical training, Carter's raw street power, and my fusion of both.
We create something that shouldn't work but somehow does, something that makes the music feel more alive than ever. Our chemistry is palpable now, that even I get lost in its magnetic orbit.
You’d never think this is all being improvised on the spot, with only me really knowing the moves but never trying it with two men and different dance styles.
"And every day that I get older. I guess my blood's running colder..."
The final sequence approaches and my heart thunders against my ribs.
James lifts me one last time, sending me into a series of fouettés en tournant that spin faster and faster. Each rotation is perfect, my spot never wavering as I whip through turn after turn.
As the music reaches its crescendo, I launch into that final, impossible combination – the one only Marina Collins had mastered before. But this time, I'm not alone. James and Carter move in perfect synchronization beneath me, their movements creating a foundation for my flight.
I land in that final pose, body perfectly balanced between classical grace and urban power, while James and Carter bow low on either side of me, their positions framing my defiance like darkness cradling a flame.
The silence that follows feels different this time.
Feels earned, like a reward.
When I finally dare to look up, the first thing I notice is that the judges at the table who had previously critiqued me are looking further back, at where Holmes is sitting. I’m surprised that he’s no longer alone as the entire row is filled.
A new set of judges in his midst.
Among them, most striking of all, is the woman with purple hair from the office – her presence is like a splash of color in a monochrome world.
Then, impossibly, applause breaks out.
Not the polite, measured kind, but real applause – the kind that comes from genuine appreciation rather than obligation. Richardson, looking both stunned and somewhat pleased, bows as the woman with purple hair has not only gotten up from her spot but is walking toward the stage. He offers her the microphone at her approach, and they share a look before she’s up on the stage and drawing everyone's attention.
"For those who don't know me," she says, her voice carrying easily across the now-silent hall, "I'm Violet Martinez, former student of Hard Knot Academy and current chair of the International Alliance of Contemporary Dance Excellence – or IACDE."
The gasps from the wings are almost comical.
Everyone knows Violet Martinez – the Omega who dared to break every rule in the book and emerged triumphant. Her purple hair and signature red lips have graced magazine covers and inspired countless others to challenge the status quo, but the tabloids always made it their mission to cover up her stories.
It’s been years since I heard about her, but then again, I was staying in the part of Knot Academy where access to gossip is even harder.
"Seven years ago, I stood on this very stage," she continues, her eyes finding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "They told me then what they're probably still telling you now – that an Omega must know their place, must perform within acceptable boundaries."
A smile curves her crimson lips.
"Clearly, some of us never learned to stay within those lines."
The other judges – members of IACDE, I realize with a jolt – are nodding in approval, their expressions holding none of the disdain I've grown accustomed to seeing from academy officials.
They're looking at me like I'm something worth seeing.
Violet Martinez steps forward, her heels clicking against the polished floor with purpose. Every eye in the hall follows her movement, drawn to her presence like moths to flames.
"What we just witnessed," she declares, her voice carrying that perfect blend of authority and warmth, "was nothing short of extraordinary. The technical precision, the seamless fusion of styles, the raw emotional authenticity – this is what dance should be."
She gestures to our trio, still breathless from the performance.
"Look at how they moved together. Alphas and an Omega, classical contemporary matched with a freestyle of hip-hop. Tradition and innovation. Their bodies told a story that transcends the artificial boundaries our society loves to enforce." Her red lips curve into a knowing smile. "They didn't just dance. They created art. They showed us what's possible when we stop letting labels dictate who can move with whom, who can create with whom, who can soar with whom."
Her words seem to fill the space, making the academy's walls feel suddenly too small to contain their truth.
"Dance isn't about designation," she continues, passion coloring her tone. "It's about the way music flows through our bodies, the way movement becomes a language all its own. It's about the stories we tell when we dare to let our souls speak through motion."
She reaches into her blazer, pulling out something that catches the stage lights like captured sunshine.
My breath catches as I recognize the distinctive Juilliard logo embossed in gold.
"Elizabeth Abercrombie," she says, and hearing my name from her lips makes this moment feel surreal. "In the past five years, the IACDE has not found a single performer worthy of this honor. But today..." She holds up the golden card, letting it sparkle. "Today, we witnessed something extraordinary."
She approaches me, and I find myself fighting the urge to pinch myself, certain this must be a dream.
"This represents more than just a scholarship," she explains, her voice softening as she gets closer. "This is a full ride to Juilliard. A one million dollar scholarship to pursue your passion for up to four years, with access to state-of-the-art facilities and world-class instruction in every dance technique imaginable."
My hands shake as she continues.
"But that's not all. Through our partnership with Harvard University, this opportunity extends to your pack as well. They can either join you in dance studies or pursue other areas of interest. Because we believe that true art flourishes best when supported by those we trust."
I can feel the shock in the room as everyone realizes what this means.
That I not only have a golden ticket outside of Hard Knot Academy walls, but that literally means I can leave. That I finally have a way out officially.
The golden card hovers between us, waiting.
"I..." My voice catches, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what she's offering.
"Take it," she says softly. "Take it because you deserve it. Because you've already proven you're willing to fight for your dreams."
My fingers close around the metal, its weight somehow both substantial and delicate at once.
"Thank you," I whisper, tears threatening to spill.
She shakes her head, a conspiratorial glint in her eye.
"No, thank you for not signing that ridiculous contract from hell." She winks, then raises her voice to address the hall again. "We've seen enough talent for today. Though we may return unexpectedly, seeking others who might deserve their own golden opportunity."
Her gaze sweeps the audience.
"Until then, remember. True artistry means rebelling against the shackles they try to place on your spirits. Dance free, dance fierce, dance true."
As she and the other judges file out, the reality of what just happened hits me like a tidal wave. I look at James and Carter, holding up the golden card with trembling hands. A squeal of pure joy escapes me as I jump up and down, any pretense of professional composure completely forgotten.
James reaches me first, lifting me clear off the ground in a spinning hug that makes me laugh through my tears. Carter's right there when James sets me down, scooping me up in his own enthusiastic embrace.
Through my joy-blurred vision, I spot Holmes rising to leave.
Without thinking, I leap off the stage, my feet carrying me across the space between us. I crash into him with enough force to make him grunt, but I'm already holding up the card.
"Look!" I exclaim, practically vibrating with excitement. I probably sound like a child showing some grand prize she’s won, but I don’t care. I’m too exhilarated to care about what other people think. All I care about is what my pack thinks. "Look what they gave me!"
He removes his sunglasses, and the way he studies the card – then me – makes my heart skip.
"It's pretty," he says slowly, "though you were prettier on that stage."
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I study his face.
"Did you do this?" I ask quietly, hardly daring to breathe.
His smirk is answer enough, but his words make my heart soar:
"I think everyone's talent should be seen with clear vision."
He slides his glasses back on, but not before I catch something soft in his expression.
"I have to go," he says, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to my lips. "Congratulations, Elizabeth."
As he turns to leave, Carter's voice rings out:
"You're still a douche!"
I elbow him sharply, making him yelp, but I can't stop smiling even as I scold him. James wraps his arms around me from behind, pressing another congratulatory kiss to my temple.
Standing there, surrounded by these impossible Alphas who've somehow become my pack, I stare at the golden card in my hands. Tears roll freely down my cheeks now, but they're different from any I've shed before.
These are tears of victory, of vindication, of pure, unrestrained joy.
For the first time since presenting as an Omega, I feel truly, completely free. The boundaries that once seemed so insurmountable have crumbled, leaving nothing but an open sky ahead.
This is what it feels like, isn’t it?
I have to wonder as it finally sinks in.
To finally spread your wings and soar.
The golden plaque of sorts grows warm in my grasp, its weight a promise of everything to come. No more hiding in shadows, no more dimming my light to make others comfortable.
Just pure, unrestricted flight toward a future I never dared to dream might be possible.
And the best part?
I'm not flying alone anymore.