Heat Harbor (DestinationVerse #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

PHOENIX

“Phoenix! Phoenix! Over here!”

The wall of cameras flashes bright enough to blind me.

I resist the urge to shield my eyes and blink slowly until the spots in my vision fade, only for another round of flashes to go off when I shift my expression.

I’ve been dealing with this circus since I was six years old, so you’d think I’d be used to it by now.

But nope. Every red carpet gauntlet still feels like I’m being paraded past a group of starving lions while draped in raw meat.

“Who are you wearing tonight?”

“Is it true you were spotted leaving Chateau Marmont at four AM last week?”

I keep my smile frozen in place, the one I spent hours perfecting in the bathroom mirror while Mom stood over me giving detailed instructions.

Chin down slightly, eyes up, lips parted just enough to look approachable but not desperate.

Something halfway between startled ingenue and practiced whore about to give a blow job.

The burgundy Versace gown clings to every curve—chosen specifically to remind everyone I’m not that sweet little girl from my kids’ channel sitcom days anymore. The plunging neckline and thigh-high slit scream adult, sophisticated, and please God take me seriously.

Too bad the press only sees a party girl playing dress-up.

A reporter shoves a microphone in my face, breath reeking of stale coffee. “Phoenix, are you dating anyone?”

“I’m focusing on my career right now,” I recite, the words as automatic as breathing. My publicist would be proud. Well, she would if she hadn’t quit last month after what she called my ‘inability to maintain a coherent public image.’

Translation: stop getting photographed stumbling out of clubs at dawn.

The reporter’s eyes gleam with predatory interest. “But surely a beautiful omega like yourself must have every alpha in town lining up—”

My smile tightens. There it is. Can’t go five minutes without someone reminding me of my designation, like it’s the only interesting thing about me.

Female omegas have always been overrepresented in younger Hollywood roles.

We’re usually the interchangeable love interest in blockbuster action franchises or the girl who gets chased down by a masked killer while half-naked, but it’s basically impossible to be taken seriously as an actress once you’re past the legal drinking age.

I might as well have an expiration date stamped on my forehead.

“I think what matters is the work,” I say, deflecting with practiced ease. “This film represents a real evolution in my career.”

“Speaking of evolution,” another reporter cuts in, practically salivating, “the early reviews have been… mixed. One critic called it ‘a spectacular misfire.’ How do you respond to that?”

Heat floods my cheeks, and not the good kind. The kind that makes me want to grab that microphone and shove it somewhere anatomically improbable. But before I can commit a felony assault with photographic evidence, a warm hand settles on the small of my back.

“There’s our leading lady.”

Atticus Sloan slides into frame like he was born for it—which, considering his father is a world famous music executive and his mother graced every magazine cover in the nineties, he basically was.

His hand burns through the thin fabric of my dress, and I catch his scent—always sweeter than I expect like jasmine and plum with an undertone of musky amber.

That smell always makes my nose twitch in a way that I can’t decide whether I love or hate.

If I didn’t avoid alphas like the plague, Atticus would probably near the top of the list of ones I’d be considering.

Though let’s be honest, everyone is half in love with Atticus Sloan. Famous rock musician, now dabbling in acting because the world just can’t get enough of that stupidly gorgeous face of his. He hasn’t been named Sexiest Man Alive yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

We spent about a week on location at the same time because he played a bit part in my most recent movie. But even after sharing maybe two scenes total with him, I already know he has an ego big enough that I’m surprised it even fit in his trailer on set.

The cameras go insane.

“Atticus! Are you two together?”

“How long have you been dating?”

“Is this why you took the role?”

He pulls me closer, and I have to fight not to stiffen.

His thumb traces a small circle on my back, invisible to the cameras but impossible for me to ignore.

“Phoenix is an incredible talent,” he says, voice smooth as aged bourbon.

“Working with her has been…” He pauses, looks down at me with those stupidly perfect green eyes that look like jewels against the deep brown of his skin, and smiles. “Life-changing.”

Oh, you absolute bastard.

The reporters eat it up like starving wolves.

Questions fly at us from every direction, but Atticus just keeps that enigmatic smile in place, occasionally murmuring something that could mean anything or nothing.

His hand never leaves my back, possessive in a way that makes my skin crawl and sing at the same time.

“We should head inside,” he finally says, guiding me toward the theatre entrance. “Don’t want to miss our own movie.”

The crowd parts for him—because of course it does, alphas generally get their way and I’ve never heard of anyone saying no to Atticus for any reason at all—and I let him steer me through the chaos, past the velvet ropes and security guards, into the relative quiet of the theatre lobby.

The second we’re out of sight of the cameras, I wrench away from him so hard I nearly trip over my own dress.

“What the hell was that?”

Atticus straightens his cufflinks, completely unbothered by my fury.

He looks good in his tux, and I hate that I notice.

The jacket fits him perfectly, emphasizing broad shoulders that don’t need emphasizing, and his closely cropped hair is just long enough to still be neat while giving a hint to the tight curls it has when longer.

“That,” he says calmly, “was me doing you a favor, doll.”

“A favor?” My voice rises an octave. “You just implied we’re together!”

“I implied nothing. I let them draw their own conclusions.”

“Oh, please. Life-changing? Could you be any more obvious?”

He shrugs, the movement elegant even in its casualness.

“Look, Phoenix. This is the first stop on a twelve-city press tour. We’re going to be stuck together for the next three weeks whether we like it or not.

” His green eyes hold mine, unblinking. “And nothing sells tickets like the rumor that two famous people might be fucking.”

My jaw drops. The crude word sounds wrong coming from his pretty mouth, like hearing a choirboy swear.

“Besides,” he continues, adjusting his platinum cufflinks again, one of his few nervous habits. “We’re going to need all the good press we can get once the reviews start rolling in.”

Red floods my vision. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, Phoenix.” His voice softens, almost pitying, which makes it worse. “You spend seventy percent of the movie’s runtime in a bikini. The entire second act is you running around a yacht in slow motion while the camera lovingly caresses every inch of exposed skin.”

My hands curl into fists. The Versace gown suddenly feels too tight, too revealing, like it’s proving his point.

“It’s alpha-gaze schlock,” he continues, each word precise as a scalpel. “The kind of film that’ll make most of its money back in overseas markets where they don’t care about plot as long as the omega lead is pretty enough. It’ll be on streaming within a month of release, forgotten in two.”

“You’re in it too,” I snap back, desperate to wound him the way his words are flaying me alive.

“Which is how I know what I’m talking about,” Atticus says, stepping closer.

His scent wraps around me, that maddening jasmine-plum sweetness that makes my omega instincts purr even as I want to claw his eyes out.

“I’m doing you a favor. A few weeks of will-they-won’t-they speculation, some carefully staged photos of us looking cozy, and suddenly the narrative shifts.

You’re not the party girl who can’t transition to adult roles—you’re the woman who caught Atticus Sloan. ”

“I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity. It’s business.” He reaches out like he’s going to touch my face, then thinks better of it. Smart man. “And it was your camp’s idea. Your mother’s been calling my manager every day for a week trying to set this up.”

The blood drains from my face. “She what?”

“Oh.” Something flickers across his expression—surprise? Regret? “You didn’t know.”

Of course Mom’s been scheming behind my back. Of course she’d sell me to the highest bidder, package me up with whatever alpha might boost my market value. Just like when I was fifteen and she practically gift-wrapped me for the studio exec that gave me first big break.

My stomach churns. The lobby suddenly feels too small, too bright, too full of Atticus’s overwhelming presence.

“I need air.”

I turn toward the exit, but his hand catches my wrist. Gentle, but firm enough to stop me.

“Phoenix—”

“Don’t.” I jerk free, the motion violent enough that heads turn our way. “Just… don’t.”

“Wait.” His fingers wrap around my wrist again, and this time his grip holds steady when I try to pull away. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

“Did it?” I glare up at him, hating how he towers over me even in my four-inch heels. “Because it sounded exactly how you meant it.”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned your mother like that.” His thumb brushes against my pulse point, probably feeling how my heart races like a trapped bird. “That was cruel.”

The apology sounds almost genuine, but the way he delivers it—with that same unshakeable confidence, like he’s doing me another favor by acknowledging his mistake—makes me want to scream.

Everything about Atticus Sloan is calculated perfection, from his carefully tousled hair to the way he angles his body to shield me from prying eyes.

Even his remorse comes wrapped in arrogance.

“Phoenix.” His voice drops lower, meant only for me. “You really don’t want to have a breakdown here.”

“I’m not having a—“

He tilts his head toward the entrance, where photographers are already filtering inside, their cameras ready to capture any hint of drama. One of them spots us, his lens swinging our way like a weapon.

“Smile,” Atticus murmurs, his own mouth curving into that practiced expression that graces album covers and billboard ads. “Unless you want tomorrow’s headlines to be speculating about why you were seen crying at your own premiere.”

God, I hate that he’s right. I force my lips into something resembling pleasant while my insides twist into knots. The photographer snaps a few shots before moving deeper into the lobby, hunting for other prey.

“Come on.” Atticus releases my wrist, but hovers close enough that his body heat radiates against my bare back. “Let’s get inside before they circle back.”

He gestures toward the theatre doors, where ushers wait to guide guests to their seats. The thought of sitting through two hours of my own terrible performance while surrounded by critics makes my skin crawl, but it beats standing here letting Atticus manage me like I’m a child having a tantrum.

I start walking, spine rigid. His hand finds my lower back again, fingers spreading possessively against the exposed skin where my dress dips low.

“Don’t touch me.” I step sideways, putting space between us.

His hand drops immediately, but that insufferable hint of amusement plays at the corner of his mouth. Like my resistance is cute. Like I’m a kitten hissing at a wolf.