Chapter 38 Jessica
JESSICA
The letter arrives on a Tuesday in late November, delivered by certified mail. Heavy cream stationery embossed with "WHITMORE FAMILY ATTORNEYS."
I stare at it across the kitchen table while Nacho reads over my shoulder and Carlos makes pancakes that smell like they're two minutes away from being charcoal.
"You want me to open it?" Nacho offers.
"No. I need to." I slide my finger under the seal and pull out the single page. "Oh."
“Good or bad?" Carlos flips a pancake. Catches it. Grins at his own success.
I scan the letter. "It's a settlement offer. They're offering money to sign an NDA. A lot of money."
"How much?" Pedro appears in the doorway, already dressed for his shift at the clinic, coffee in one hand and his car keys in the other.
"Enough to start three businesses." I keep reading. "In exchange, I agree not to speak publicly about Callum, not to cooperate with any media regarding the Morrison family, and to cease all contact permanently."
"That's blackmail." Sergio's voice comes from behind Pedro. He's in his coaching jacket, fresh from morning practice, hair still damp from the shower.
"That's desperation. Can I?" I hand Nacho the letter. He scans it quickly. "Morrison's law firm is bleeding clients after Rosa's article. Three other women came forward. Their reputation's in free fall. This is damage control."
Carlos abandons his pancakes and leans against the counter. "What do you want to do?"
The money could buy a fresh start. I'd never see Callum or his family again.
But what about the other women? The ones who come after me? My silence would cost them everything.
"No." I take the letter back from Nacho, stand up, and walk to the counter where the paper shredder sits next to the toaster.
I feed the settlement offer into it. Watch it transform into confetti.
"I'm not signing anything. I'm not staying quiet.
If the Morrisons want to make this go away, they should start by taking actual responsibility instead of throwing money at the problem. "
"You're sure?" Pedro sets his coffee down. "That money could change your life."
"My life already changed." I turn to face all four of them. "I found my pack. I built my business. I don't need Morrison money. What I need is to make sure no one else goes through what I did."
Sergio crosses the room in three strides and pulls me into his arms. "That's my girl."
Carlos grabs the spatula and points it at us. "Our girl."
"Pack." Nacho's voice is firm.
I'm still wrapped in Sergio's arms when my phone buzzes on the table. I wiggle free and grab it.
Mom: Jessica Marie, I just saw the most interesting margarita recipe on Pinterest. It has jalapenos in it. JALAPE?OS. Who puts peppers in alcohol? Is this what the kids are doing these days?
I snort.
Me: Mom, that's been a thing for like ten years.
Mom: Well I've been in Mexico for a few weeks and I'm very behind on pepper-based cocktail trends. Your Aunt Linda tried one and said her mouth went numb. She also said it was "delightful" but I think she was already drunk.
"Everything okay?" Sergio glances at my phone.
"My mom is discovering spicy margaritas." I show him the screen. "This should be entertaining."
Another buzz.
Mom: Speaking of Mexico, did you know they have different electrical outlets here? I've been trying to charge my iPad with a hair dryer adapter for two days. No wonder it wasn't working. I thought Mexican electricity was just weaker.
Me: Mom, no. That's not how electricity works.
Mom: Well how was I supposed to know? They don't teach you these things in school. Also, I bought you a sombrero. It's very large. You'll love it.
Me: No I won’t!
Mom: It has tassels. What’s not to love?
Carlos peers over my shoulder at the texts. He makes a strangled sound that might be laughter.
"Your mom sounds happy,” he says.
“She’s discovering that other countries exist." I type back quickly. "She called me last week to ask if Mexican Coke was different than American Coke."
"Is it?" Pedro asks.
"It's made with cane sugar instead of corn syrup, so yes." I look at him. "Don't tell my mom that. She'll start a conspiracy theory."
Buzz.
It's a photo this time. Mom standing in front of a pyramid, wearing the biggest sombrero I've ever seen, giving two thumbs up. She's sunburned. Her hair is a disaster. She looks absolutely delighted.
Mom: This is me at the pyramid of the moon! I climbed 47 steps before my knees gave out. Your father would have been proud. Also disappointed I only made it 47 steps but mostly proud.
My throat gets tight at the mention of Dad.
Me: He would have carried you up the rest of the way.
Mom: He absolutely would have. Then complained about his back for three days. I miss him, sweetheart.
Me: Me too.
Mom: On a lighter note, I bought you THREE sombreros. The first one has tassels. The second one has SEQUINS. The third one is normal sized but I'm going to bedazzle it myself when I get home.
Me: Please don't.
Mom: Too late. I already bought the bedazzler. This is happening.
"I like your mom." Carlos is reading over my other shoulder now. "She has excellent energy."
"She's going to interrogate all of you with a spreadsheet when she gets back."
"Looking forward to it." Sergio refills his coffee.
The doorbell rings.
All four alphas go still. Nacho's hand automatically goes to where his gun would be if he were on duty. Pedro straightens. Sergio sets down his coffee. Carlos grabs the spatula like it's a weapon.
"Are we expecting someone?" I look around.
"No." Nacho's already moving toward the door.
I follow him to the front entrance. He checks the peephole, and his shoulders relax.
"It's Stacey and Harmony."
He opens the door. Both women stand on the porch wrapped in scarves against the November chill.
Stacey's hair is styled in perfect waves despite what must have been a long drive.
Harmony looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, and her scent is all wrong.
The usual gentle chamomile and rain is sharp with stress, spiked with something bitter that makes my omega instincts prickle.
"Finally." Stacey pulls me into a crushing hug. "You look good. Like, annoyingly good for someone who just went through heat."
"How long did you drive?" I hug her back, then reach for Harmony.
"Six hours." Harmony melts into my arms. Her scent shifts slightly, the bitter edge softening to something more like burnt sugar and worry. She's trembling.
"You okay?" I pull back to look at her.
"Long drive. Stacey's playlist choices." She tries to smile, but it wobbles. The stress scent intensifies, sweet turning acrid.
"My playlists are art," Stacey protests. She steps inside and tosses her coat toward the rack. Misses. Leaves it on the floor. "Hey, pack. Looking appropriately domestic."
The brothers have gathered in the living room. Sergio leans against the doorframe. Pedro's abandoned his coffee on the side table. Carlos still has the spatula. Nacho closes the door behind us.
"How bad was the drive?" Carlos asks.
"Educational." Stacey kicks off her shoes. "I learned that Harmony has seventeen different ways to ask me to change the music."
"It was the same song for an hour." Harmony's voice is quiet, but her scent spikes with frustration. Sharp lemon cutting through the chamomile.
I catch her hand. It's cold despite the warmth of the house. "Come sit. Tell me what's wrong."
We move to the couch together. The brothers follow. Sergio takes the armrest beside me. Pedro sits on my other side. Carlos perches on the coffee table. Nacho turns a dining chair to face us.
Stacey settles next to Harmony, close enough that their shoulders touch.
"What happened?" I ask gently.
Harmony's scent shifts again. Fear now, metallic and cold, overwhelming the sweetness. "I think someone's following me."
The room goes still.
"Following you how?" Nacho's voice is immediately professional. Cop mode.
"Little things at first." Harmony's hands twist in her lap. "Flowers on my doorstep with no card. Three times in two weeks. Then photos showed up. Of me. Leaving my apartment. Getting coffee. At the gym. Someone's watching me."
Her scent grows more distressed. Burnt sugar mixing with something like ozone before a storm. It makes my chest ache.
"Did you file a police report?" Nacho asks.
"Yes. They said without threats or direct contact, there's nothing they can do.
Just 'be aware of my surroundings.'" Harmony's laugh is brittle.
"I'm a model. People take my photo all the time.
But these are different. These are surveillance.
Close-ups through windows. Parking garages. Places I should be alone."
"That's stalking," Nacho says flatly.
"That's what I said." Harmony's voice cracks. "But the detective said I'm a public figure. People are interested. Unless they threaten me or trespass, it's legal to photograph someone in public."
Stacey puts her arm around Harmony's shoulders. "Which is why we drove six hours on a Tuesday. I told her she needed to get out of Portland for a few days. Clear her head."
"Smart." Sergio's watching Harmony with that assessing alpha look. "You're staying here tonight."
"We don't want to impose." Harmony's scent spikes with anxiety. Sweet and sour at once, like fruit left in the sun too long.
"You're not." Carlos stands. "You're staying in my room. Both of you. I'll take the couch."
The five of us have been sleeping in one bedroom since the bonding. Two queen beds pushed together, a tangle of limbs and blankets that leaves me waking up with someone's elbow in my ribs every morning. It's cramped and chaotic, but we definitely need to figure out a better solution.
"We can get a hotel," Stacey starts.
"No." All four brothers say it at once.
Harmony startles at the synchronized response. Her scent jumps, chamomile suddenly honey-sweet with surprise.
"You're staying," Pedro says more gently. "Tonight, tomorrow, however long you need. We have space. And this house is secure."
Nacho pulls out his phone. "I'm calling the Portland precinct. I know some people up there. We can push this harder."
"Plus," Carlos grins, trying to lighten the mood, "Stacey owes me a pool rematch. She took sixty dollars off me last time."
"Strategic gaming," Stacey corrects. She's already relaxing, but Harmony is still wound tight.
I squeeze Harmony's hand. "Stay. Please. You'll be safe here."
Her scent finally begins to settle. The sharp edges soften. The burnt sugar sweetens back toward chamomile. Not calm yet, but getting there.
"Okay," she says quietly. "Thank you."
"Good." Sergio stands. "Now, has anyone eaten? Because Carlos made about four dozen pancakes and they're getting cold."
"Four dozen is an exaggeration," Carlos protests.
"You made an entire hockey team's worth of pancakes."
"That's just good planning."
We move to the kitchen as a group. Carlos starts reheating pancakes while Pedro pours coffee. Stacey commandeers the syrup. Harmony sits at the table, her scent gradually sweetening as the warmth and food and company work their magic.
By the time we're all eating, her chamomile and rain scent is almost back to normal. Still tinged with worry, but the sharp panic is gone.
"So," Stacey says through a mouthful of pancake, "tell me you still have that letter. The settlement one. I want to see what kind of desperate bullshit the Morrisons are peddling."
I pull out my phone and show her the photo I took before shredding it.
Her eyes widen as she scrolls. "Holy shit. That's real money."
"Was real money." I lean back in my chair. "I shredded it just before you arrived.”
"Good." Harmony's voice is firm. Her scent spikes with approval, bright and clean like rain on pavement. "You shouldn't have to stay quiet to make them comfortable."
"That's what I said." I look at both of them. "Rosa's article has three other women coming forward. If I take the money and disappear, what does that tell them?"
"That silence can be bought." Stacey sets down her fork. "Which is exactly what they want everyone to think."
"Not happening." I take a bite of pancake. "I'm not staying quiet. I'm not making this easier for them."
"Good girl." Stacey grins. "Now, about tonight. Are we going to that Irish pub? Because I have been practicing my pool game and I am ready to take more of your pack's money."
Nacho raises an eyebrow. "You want to hustle us again."
"I prefer 'engage in friendly competition.'" She examines her nails. "But yes. Tonight. Pool table. My cue stick versus your fragile male egos."
"Sixty dollars," Carlos mutters.
"Seventy if you count the drinks I made you buy," Stacey adds cheerfully.
"I'm in." Pedro actually smiles. "Someone needs to defend our honor."
"You have no honor." But Nacho's mouth twitches. "She destroyed all four of us last time."
"Because I'm good." Stacey stands and starts clearing plates. "So? Tonight? Please say yes. Harmony needs to get out of her head, I need to win money, and you all need to lose gracefully."
"We're terrible at losing gracefully," Sergio says.
"I know. That's half the fun." She grins at him.
I look at Harmony. Her scent is calm now, sweet chamomile and rain without the bitter edge. "You up for it?"
"Actually, yes." She smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes. "I could use the distraction."
"Done." Carlos finishes loading the dishwasher. "Stacey and Harmony, you're in my room upstairs. Second door on the left. Make yourselves comfortable."
Last time they were in Sergio’s room. They head upstairs then Carlos carries up their bags, Stacey already talking about thread counts and pillow quality.
Sergio pulls me against his side. "Your friends are good."
"They drove six hours because Harmony was stressed and Stacey wanted to make sure I was okay after the settlement letter." I lean into him. "Yeah. They're good."
"So tonight we're getting hustled at pool."
"Looks like it."
He kisses the top of my head. "Worth it to see you smile."
And tonight, we'll go to the pub. Stacey will destroy my alphas at pool while Harmony and I sit at the bar and laugh. The Morrisons will stay in their world of lawyers and settlements and damage control.
And I'll stay in mine.
This one. Right here.
With my pack and my friends and my shredded letter in the trash.
This is everything.