Chapter 4 #3
"Yes," Charlotte confirms, and I can hear the sympathy in her tone.
She knows. Somehow, she knows this isn't simple.
"We understand that pack dynamics can be complicated, and we're not asking you to bond with someone you don't want to bond with.
But for the campaign to work, for the narrative to be authentic, we need you to be part of a pack.
Even if it's a new pack, even if the bonds are still forming—that's actually a beautiful story in itself. "
A beautiful story. My trauma repackaged as content. My fear turned into a marketing opportunity.
But also... twenty-five thousand dollars. Freedom from debt. Security. The chance to build something real.
"I understand," I say slowly, my mind racing through possibilities. "And what's the timeline? When would I need to... have a pack?"
"The campaign officially launches the first week of December," Charlotte explains. "So ideally, we'd need you to be part of a pack by then. That gives you a couple of weeks to figure things out. I know it's fast, but—"
"I understand," I interrupt, though I don't. I don't understand how I'm supposed to find a pack in two weeks.
I don't understand how I'm supposed to trust anyone with that kind of access to my life after what Kael did.
How this perfect opportunity came with the one condition I'm least equipped to handle.
But I also can't say no.
Not to this. Not to the chance to finally, finally get ahead instead of constantly scrambling to survive.
"Can I—" I pause, gathering my thoughts. "Can I think about it? Review the contract and see if... see if this is something I can make work?"
"Absolutely," Charlotte says warmly. "Take your time. The contract will be in your email within the hour. Look it over, think about what this would mean for you, and reach out if you have any questions. My direct number will be in the email."
"Thank you," I manage. "Really. Thank you for this opportunity."
"You're welcome, Reverie. I really hope this works out. You're exactly the kind of person we want to work with, and I think you'd be amazing in this campaign."
We say our goodbyes, and I end the call, the phone still pressed to my ear even though she's gone.
The apartment is quiet.
So quiet I can hear my own heartbeat, can hear the wind rustling the trees outside, can hear the distant sound of someone's car starting down on the street.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen, at the call log showing the number from Evergreen Media Collective. Proof that this actually happened. That I didn't dream the whole thing.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
The opportunity of a lifetime.
Everything I've been working toward.
But only if I have a pack.
I look around my apartment—my safe space, my sanctuary, the home I built from nothing. The fairy lights are strung haphazardly across the slanted ceiling, casting everything in soft, warm gold that makes even the shabbiest corners look magical.
I installed them myself, standing on my rickety desk chair and praying I wouldn't fall and break something important. They're the cheap kind from the hardware store, but they're mine, and they make me happy.
The stack of books on my nightstand towers precariously—my to-be-read pile that never seems to shrink no matter how many reading marathons I pull.
The three beautiful hardcover editions from my secret admirer sit on top, their sprayed edges catching the light. I still can't believe someone did that for me. A stranger. Someone who saw me want something and just...gave it to me.
My throw pillows are scattered across my bed in chaotic patterns—floral mixed with geometric mixed with solid colors that shouldn't work together but somehow do.
None of them match. I bought them all secondhand from the thrift store, picking whichever ones made me smile.
Kael would have hated them. Would have said they looked tacky, uncoordinated, childish.
Good. That means they're perfect.
The candles on my shelf are in ridiculous scents—"Candy Cane Forest," "Sugar Cookie Dreams," "Gingerbread Village," "Winter Wonderland Wishes." I have at least fifteen different holiday-scented candles because when they go on sale after Christmas, I buy them in bulk.
My apartment always smells like a bakery and a pine forest had a baby. It's excessive. It's extra. It's completely me.
My vision board hangs on the wall next to my desk—a collage of magazine cutouts and printed pictures and handwritten goals.
Build a life I love, it says in my bubbly handwriting.
Find joy in small moments.
Create content that matters.
Be brave enough to dream.
I made that board six months ago, on a day when everything felt impossible and I needed to remind myself why I left, why I'm fighting so hard to build something new.
And now the universe is offering me everything on that board.
The career.
The stability.
The chance to do what I love and actually make a living from it.
But only if I have a pack.
I built this life alone. Without a pack.
Without anyone's help—well, except for Hazel and her pack, who gave me jobs and friendship but never asked for anything in return.
Except for Miss Bea who lets me work flexible hours at the bookshop.
Except for Mrs. Chen who pays me to help at the flower shop and always sends me home with the leftover arrangements.
Okay, maybe not completely alone. But without a pack. Without pack bonds. Without anyone having that kind of power over me again.
Just me, my determination, and what Kael would call an 'unhealthy amount of optimism' but what I call survival instinct dressed up in glitter and aggressive positivity.
But maybe...being alone isn't the same as being strong.
Perhaps asking for help isn't the same as being weak.
That finding a pack doesn't have to mean repeating the past.
This could mean writing a different story.
Surely…this time could be different.
The thought terrifies and thrills me in equal measure. Like standing at the edge of a cliff with a parachute you're not entirely sure will open, but the view is so beautiful you might jump anyway.
I think about the Alpha from the bookshop.
The one with the maple-honey scent that made my hindbrain sit up and pay attention in ways I've been trying to ignore.
The kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
The gentle way he picked up my books. The fact that he bought me three expensive hardcovers because I mentioned I couldn't afford them—no agenda, no strings, just because he wanted me to have something that made me happy.
A stranger who saw me want something and just... gave it to me.
That's not what Kael would have done. Kael would have bought me the books and then spent the next six months reminding me of my debt. Would have used it as proof of my dependence, my inadequacy, my inability to provide for myself. Would have twisted a gift into a weapon.
But that Alpha? He didn't even tell me his name. Didn't want credit. Just wanted me to have something nice. What kind of Alpha does that?
A good one. The kind who doesn't exist in my experience but exists in all the books I read. Or one I've been too scared to hope for.
Truth be told, there are good Alphas out there. There are packs that don't break you. I could find something real. Something that doesn't hurt. Something that feels like coming home instead of running away.
The thought terrifies me and thrills me in equal measure.
I pull up my phone, opening my notes app where I keep my daily affirmations.
I scroll past all the usual ones until I reach a blank page, and I start typing.
"I am worthy of good things. I am worthy of success. I am worthy of a pack that treats me with respect and kindness. I am worthy of taking risks that scare me. I am worthy of the life I'm building."
I read it back to myself, letting the words sink in.
I am worthy.
My email dings.
I look down to see a new message from Charlotte Webb, subject line: Evergreen Media Collective - Holiday Campaign Contract.
The contract. The opportunity. The catch.
Alright, Reverie. You need a pack.