Chapter 12
JAMIE
Morgan texts me the driver’s number, and he lets me know when he’s outside. He tells me he can take me anywhere, but I ask to go back to the hotel. I don’t have all that much time before I need to be at the venue.
Even if Morgan was joking about spending sixty euros on lunch… the omega in me can’t bear to disobey her. For better or worse, the hotel bar is pretty expensive, so I manage to hit the target by getting the fanciest latte possible, a gourmet sandwich, and a fancy cheesecake dessert to-go.
After that, it’s up to the room to change into my clothes for the evening and to start battling the anxiety rising in my stomach.
#
The backstage area is dim and criss-crossed with wires. I stand behind the curtain, moments from stepping out in front of the gathered crowd.
I never should have agreed to this. I’m shaking so badly everyone will be able to tell, and I might vomit.
A warm hand clasps my shoulder, and I hear her voice behind me. “Relax. You’ve got this.”
Calm ripples from her touch. She could say anything and I’d believe her. My lungs can suddenly fill again, and I stop hyperventilating.
She steps up beside me, gives a slight nod, the leads me out on stage. The applause is like the roar of a train, and the lights are so bright that I can’t see the audience. It’s just Morgan, me, and the host. Not so different from dinner.
It helps that the host is a curvy Irish woman with reddish-brown hair and a warm, calm affect. She’s already introduced us to the audience, so she pitches Morgan the first question.
On the stage, Morgan is a force of nature. I don’t need to see the audience to feel them respond to her as she captures every iota of attention.
I don’t even realize the host has asked me a question until Morgan looks to me and nods slightly.
At least I caught the keyword—access. The first question is about access.
I talk about how the extra obstacles to getting a prescription prevented me from going on suppressants until recently. I describe the limits I put on myself to cope—the limits all omegas live with.
The crowd murmurs compassionately.
For some reason, it’s taken me until this moment to realize that most betas don’t know an omega.
Most betas have no idea what we omegas face on a daily basis.
And I guess it doubly surprises me that…
they care. At least some of them. Enough of them.
Enough for my nerves to fall away, replaced by the conviction of my purpose.
The rest of the event flies by. I feel self-possessed, alive, electric. Confident.
Then it’s over, and the crowd is cheering, and I follow Morgan off the stage.
“Great work,” she says, and I glow.
There’s a reception right after, with another open bar and incredible hors d’oeuvres, like at the anniversary party.
As Morgan and I step out into the event hall, I realize I don’t know anyone and I have no idea how to mingle. I’m sure I’m supposed to make myself scarce, so I linger a few steps behind her.
But then Morgan calls me over and introduces me to the Dublin head of operations, who tells me it’s one of the best fireside chats he’s ever seen. I’m pretty sure it’s flattery, but I have no idea why he’d want to impress me. He still outranks me by like three levels.
Even though what Morgan and the man are talking about is kind of over my head, they still try to include me in the conversation, asking a few questions about my background. I stumble through answers, and I’m shocked that they seem to care—or are at least good at pretending.
A glass of wine later, I’m not overthinking things. Morgan continues to make her rounds, introducing me to each person. They don’t seem to mind answering my questions, so I keep asking them.
Morgan walks us over to another group, pointing out the European head of sales, Kenneth.
He’s an alpha with yellow-blond hair and electric teal eyes.
I tense when those eyes land on me, but his scent is dulled by suppressants, and he’s clearly deferential to Morgan. Thankfully, my body hardly reacts.
“Oh, here,” Kenneth says. “One of my rising stars.”
He waves over a mid-twenties beta man with a trendy haircut and a charismatic smile. “Hey, Morgan Hunter in the flesh!” he says as he comes over. “Girl boss!” He reaches out to fist bump Morgan.
Morgan looks down at his hand like he’s holding out a dead rat.
Kenneth makes an amused face like Uh oh.
“You’re new,” Morgan says, voice dripping with contempt. “So I’ll explain. Once. I don’t appreciate… cute.”
The young man gives a nervous laugh. “I just meant like…”
She taps her nails against her glass, showing off the points, and locks him in her stare.
He seems to realize she’s as tall as he is, and for as much work as he must put into his six-pack, she’s twice as strong.
He slowly deflates, tucks his metaphorical tail between his legs, and gives a deferential nod.
“Understood.”
“Good,” Morgan says, tone lightening. “If Kenneth believes in you, you’re a quick learner. Don’t let it happen again.”
“Of course.”
Kenneth cracks a joke, and then everything’s back to normal.
My heart races. I make a mental note to never get on Morgan’s bad side. That was… frightening. But also a little… exciting, somehow?
We get back to chatting, and by the end of the second glass of wine, I actually believe it when people say, “Great talk today,” and, “You really got me thinking.”
Okay. Signing up for this was a good idea. It’s going to work. It’s really going to work.
Or, if nothing else, I’m going to drink a lot of free wine.
#
The next morning, we check out of the hotel and hop back in the hired black car. The driver pulls up to the ritzy back area of the airport where all the private jets are. I assume that Morgan’s getting dropped off first, and I’ll be taken around to ride commercial.
But then Morgan stands waiting next to her open door. “Your seatbelt stuck or something?”
I blink.
“C’mon, we don’t have all day.”
“Oh!” I jump up. A uniformed staff member is already hauling my giant floral bag to the airplane, and I wince guiltily at the weight. Still, I’m getting used to Morgan’s style. This time, I keep my wits about me.
“Another cost-saving measure, deigning to share your private jet?”
“Yep.”
We’re not the only two traveling for this PR tour, though. “What about Claire? And Eileen?”
“Two’s company, three’s a crowd,” she says, starting up the steps to the plane. I think that’s all, but she adds, “They’re on a different schedule. Arriving earlier for setup.”
“It doesn’t seem fair that they’re doing all the work and I’m getting all the secondhand luxury.” I’m glad I got the comment out before stepping onto the plane, because the rich leather interior with gold accents leaves me speechless.
I love the smell of leather. I wonder if this is why it laces through Morgan’s scent—she probably spends a lot of time on her jet.
“Would you like me to make it fair?” Morgan teases, sinking down into an armchair and turning back to face me.
A glass of champagne waits in her cup holder, and there’s one for me in the matching chair.
This plane makes first class look like coach.
“To be entirely honest with you… No.”
“That’s what I thought. Sit.”
I take the armchair next to Morgan, and it’s insanely comfortable.
Like a cloud made of leather, if that’s even possible.
The champagne washes over my tongue, bubbles soothing my dry throat.
It’s early enough that I might still be the tiiiniest bit drunk from last night, but there’s a bottle of spring water in the cup holder by the window ready to ease my impending hangover.
At the same time, I realize that for as guilty as I feel every time I buy a disposable water bottle, that impact is minuscule compared to all the bottles rich people must go through on a daily basis.
Does Morgan even drink tap water? Like, ever?
I crack open the spring water, knowing I’m going to be so spoiled by the end of this.