Chapter 2
TWO
PHOENIX
The tequila burns a familiar path down my throat.
Number four? Five? Lost count somewhere between the second round of congratulations from people who clearly hadn’t watched the movie and the third time someone asked if Atticus and I were “official.”
The VIP section of Lux throbs with bass heavy enough to rattle my bones.
Purple lights sweep across the crowd of beautiful people pretending to have meaningful conversations over music that makes actual conversation impossible.
The booth’s leather sticks to my bare thighs where my dress has ridden up, and I tug at the hem halfheartedly.
Mason sits beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something clean and understated that he probably had specially crafted.
Everything about him is precise and intentional, even at 1am.
He’s loosened his tie, the only concession to the late hour and informal setting.
Even here, surrounded by Hollywood’s finest degenerates, he looks like he stepped out of a boardroom.
Or maybe that’s just how I see him—my anchor in this cesspool of fake smiles and faker friendships.
“The premiere wasn’t that bad,” he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
I snort. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. I just don’t ever lie to you.”
The distinction makes something warm bloom in my chest. Or maybe that’s the tequila. Hard to tell anymore.
“They laughed during my death scene.” I reach for the shot glass, remembering too late it’s already empty. “My dramatic, Oscar-worthy death scene where I’m supposedly drowning in my own blood, and some asshole in the third row actually giggled.”
Mason’s hand covers mine before I can signal the waitress for another round. His fingers are warm, steady. Safe. “They also gasped during the chase sequence.”
“Yeah, when my bikini top almost fell off.”
“Phoenix—”
“And that touching moment where I’m supposed to be mourning my dead sister?” I pull my hand free, needing the distance. “Someone’s phone went off. Playing ‘Baby Shark.’ The entire theater lost it.”
Mason sighs, that particular exhale he reserves for when I’m being difficult. Which, according to him, is roughly eighty percent of the time.
“We have a six AM call time tomorrow,” he reminds me. “Flight leaves at eight.”
“Fantastic. Can’t wait to do this all over again in…” I blank on the city. “Where are we going?”
“Montreal.”
“Right. Maybe we’ll manage to find an hour of free time to take in the sights.”
If Mason can tell I’m joking, he doesn’t let on. “Doubtful.”
“Thank you, I know.”
The smoky herb flavor of the tequila still sits on my tongue, making me feel more than a little nauseous.
I grab the nearly empty champagne bottle from the ice bucket and pour myself another glass to wash the flavor away.
Holding up the champagne flute so it glitters like liquid gold in the club lights, I try to remember when I started mixing in the hard liquor.
I have the clear thought that I’m going to regret this in the morning before downing the glass.
Mason studies me silently. I can practically feel the urge to reach for my glass that he’s suppressing.
“Thank you,” I say suddenly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
Mason tilts his head. “For?”
“Everything. Being here. Putting up with my shit. Making sure I don’t end up face-down in a gutter somewhere.” I down the last tequila shot on the tray at our table, grimacing at the burn. “You take such good care of me, Mase. Better than I deserve.”
His expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache. “Phoenix—”
“I need another round.” I hold up the empty glass like it’s evidence of something important. “Whatever this was. The expensive stuff that doesn’t taste like paint thinner.”
Mason stands with another sigh, straightening his jacket. “Water first.”
“Buzzkill.”
“Always.”
He disappears into the crowd, navigating the press of bodies with practiced ease.
I watch him go, appreciating the way his tailored suit clings to his slim shoulders.
Mason’s always been beautiful in an understated way—not flashy like the actors and models cramming this place, but refined.
Elegant. The kind of handsome that sneaks up on you until one day you realize you’ve been staring at his hands while he types emails and wondering what they’d feel like tangled in your hair.
Stop it.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the inappropriate thoughts. Mason is off-limits. My assistant. My friend. The only person in this entire city who actually gives a damn about me as more than a meal ticket or a stepping stone. I won’t ruin that by getting drunk and making a pass at him.
Even if sometimes, when he looks at me with those storm-gray eyes, I swear I see something more than professional concern.
The crowd parts momentarily, and I spot Atticus across the room.
He’s holding court in a corner booth, surrounded by the kind of women who make their living being photographed in bikinis on yachts owned by men they’ll never sleep with.
One of them—blonde, legs for days, breasts that defy gravity—drapes herself across his lap while another whispers something in his ear that makes him laugh.
Our eyes meet across the chaos.
He raises his glass in a mock toast, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. Like we’re sharing some private joke. Like he didn’t just manipulate me into a fake relationship for publicity.
I glare back, reaching for my glass to return the gesture with maximum sarcasm, only to remember once again that it’s empty. My hand closes on air, and I nearly knock over the bottle in my embarrassment.
Atticus’s laugh carries over the music, rich and genuine. The blonde in his lap turns to see what’s so funny, and I want to sink into the leather booth and disappear.
Screw him.
I pour out the last of the champagne, not even caring that I spill half of it. The alcohol washes away some of the humiliation, but not enough. Never enough.
Around me, the VIP section writhes with Hollywood’s elite.
Actors, musicians, influencers—whatever that means—all pressed together in a display of wealth and desperation that would be sad if it wasn’t so pathetic.
A beta actor from a superhero franchise, who makes up for his lack of alpha muscle by performing all of his own stunts, grinds against a woman who definitely isn’t his wife.
Two omega models compare filler results in the bathroom line.
An alpha director old enough to be my grandfather holds court with girls who probably weren’t born when his first movie came out.
This is my world. My glamorous, enviable life that millions of people dream about.
I’ve never felt more alone.
The thing about being surrounded by people all the time is that it makes actual loneliness so much worse. Like being starving at a banquet where all the food is plastic. Pretty to look at, but ultimately empty. Useless. Fake.
I scan the crowd, trying to imagine myself with any of them. The beta actor’s cute enough, I guess, if you ignore the wedding ring tan line he’s trying to hide. The omega models would probably be fun for a night, but they’d sell the story to TMZ before the sheets were cold. And the alphas…
No. Never the alphas.
My skin crawls just thinking about it. The way they look at omegas like we’re prizes to be won. Possessions to be claimed. The way they smell—aggressive and overwhelming, designed to make omegas submit whether we want to or not. Van Schmidt smelled like cedar and smoke the night he—
Don’t.
I take another shot.
Mason reappears through the crowd, carrying two glasses of water and looking mildly annoyed. His tie’s gone completely now, top button undone, and there’s a faint flush to his cheeks that makes him look younger. Softer.
“Someone grabbed my ass,” he announces, setting the water down with more force than necessary.
“Welcome to Hollywood.”
“I’m serious. Twice.”
“Was it the blonde at the bar? She’s been eyeing you all night.”
He shudders. “Alpha.”
Of course. Mason’s an omega, like me, though he hides it well enough that most people don’t realize until they’ve known him for a while.
Suppressants, scent blockers and professional distance work wonders.
But in a place like this, with pheromones thick enough to choke on and inhibitions lower than the necklines, even the best suppressants can’t mask everything.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” He sits closer than before, our thighs touching. “Just reminded me why I hate these things.”
“And yet you come with me every time.”
“Someone has to make sure you get home safe.”
The words are casual, but there’s weight behind them.
Mason’s been taking care of me for three years now, ever since my last assistant quit mid-nervous breakdown (mine, not theirs).
He’s seen me at my absolute worst—passed out in bathroom stalls, sobbing over bad reviews, panic attacks in parking garages—and never once judged me for it.
Anyone I ever consider dating has to be a better partner than Mason is to me, which is impossible. The thought comes unbidden, tequila-honest and dangerous.
“Mase?”
“Mm?”
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if things were different?”
He goes still beside me. “Different how?”
“I don’t know. Just… different. If we weren’t who we are. If this wasn’t our life.”
“Sometimes.”
I turn to look at him more closely, really look at him, and find him already watching me. His eyes are darker in the club lights, pupils blown wide, and there’s something in his expression I’ve never seen before. Or maybe I have and just refused to acknowledge it.
“Phoenix—”
Before I can do something stupid—like find out what Mason tastes like or if his hair is as soft as it looks—I throw my arms around him in a messy hug.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” I say into his shoulder, words slurring slightly. “You’re the best thing in my life, you know that? The only real thing.”