Chapter 22 Roles & Rivalries #2
"That's blackmail," I huff, keeping my eyes firmly on the road this time because I will not give her more ammunition. "Pretty sure blackmail is illegal. I could prosecute you."
"It's only blackmail if I show Theo and Grayson," she counters, her voice full of pure mischief. "Otherwise it's just... personal insurance. A safety net. Leverage for when you inevitably do something annoying."
"When I do something annoying?" I raise an eyebrow. "Not if?"
"All Alphas do annoying things eventually," she says matter-of-factly. "It's in your nature. Might as well be prepared."
I huff again but don't say anything because she's got me there. Can't really argue with that logic.
I watch her with a side-eye as she squeals—yes, squeals—and stares at the photos on her screen, zooming in and out like she's examining evidence at a crime scene.
"Perfect," she declares, sounding extremely pleased with herself. "You look so grumpy in this one. Like someone stole your motorcycle. I love it. Definitely keeping this forever."
"Great," I mutter. "Thrilled to contribute to your blackmail collection."
"Collateral collection," she corrects cheerfully.
But seeing her this happy—genuinely happy over something as stupid as a photo of me blushing—makes my heart skip a beat despite my mock annoyance.
That smile on her face, the way her eyes light up with genuine delight, the pure joy in her expression. When was the last time someone looked that delighted over something involving me?
Even if it was unintentional and embarrassing?
I try to subdue a smile as I look back at the road. Fail completely. My mouth twitches upward despite my best efforts.
The landscape continues rolling past—more fields, a farmhouse with Christmas decorations twinkling against the gray sky, a herd of cattle huddled together against the cold.
The clouds are getting progressively darker, more ominous.
We probably have an hour, maybe ninety minutes before whatever storm is brewing decides to make our lives difficult. Need to shop fast and get back.
"Why don't you go live?" I suggest, breaking the comfortable silence that's settled between us.
She looks up from her phone where she's been scrolling through something. "Huh? What do you mean?"
"Go live on Instagram or TikTok or whatever platform you use for your content," I explain, keeping my eyes on the road.
"Our contract officially started yesterday when I signed those papers.
Charlotte's going to expect you to be making content regularly now.
Building engagement. Growing your audience. "
"But she knows I was hurt," Reverie protests. "She overheard me falling and passing out when you guys came to deliver the contract to my apartment. The whole concussion thing."
"You already informed her you're better now," I counter. "Told her the doctor cleared you. So from a business perspective, she's going to expect content. Probably sooner rather than later. Christmas is coming fast and the twelve-day campaign starts soon, right?"
Reverie gawks at me, her mouth falling open slightly in realization. "Oh my god. You're absolutely right. I haven't posted anything substantial in days. My engagement is probably tanking. The algorithm hates inconsistency."
Then nervousness crosses her features. She fidgets with her phone, running her thumb along the case. Her confidence from thirty seconds ago evaporating like morning frost.
"I probably don't look good enough though," she says, her voice going small and uncertain.
"My clothes aren't the prettiest. They're old and worn.
And what if Evergreen Media expects me to have the latest fashion?
Designer outfits? Professional styling? I don't have any of that.
What if people comment about how shabby I look? What if—"
"You look perfect," I interrupt firmly, meaning every single word. "Exactly like that. Natural and genuine and real. That's what people connect with. Not some overly styled, fake version."
"But—"
"Just be your cheery self," I continue. "Like you were in the bookstore when Grayson met you. Enthusiastic about everything. Excited to share things. That energy is what draws people in."
She blinks.
"How do you know about the bookstore?"
"Grayson talked about it," I admit. "Said he met an Omega who lit up the whole store with her enthusiasm. Got so excited about books that he ended up buying half a dozen he hadn't planned on purchasing. Said you were fun. Made the whole experience memorable instead of just another errand."
Reverie looks surprised. Touched. Like she doesn't quite know what to do with the compliment.
"Oh," she says softly.
I can see her trying not to overthink it. Trying to believe me instead of letting that voice in her head—the one that sounds suspiciously like her ex-pack—tell her she's not good enough, not pretty enough, not interesting enough to be on camera.
I wish I could reach into her head and delete every terrible thing they told her. Every criticism. Every insult. Every moment they made her feel less than. She deserves better than carrying their poison around.
"Okay," she says finally, taking a steadying breath. "Okay. I'll do it. But we have to have a plan first!"
"What do you mean?" I ask, genuinely curious about what elaborate plan she's concocting in that creative mind of hers.
"Think of this like a cozy romance novel!" She's animated now, gesturing with one hand while the other holds her phone. "I don't know exactly how to explain it, but everyone has roles! Character archetypes! We need to fit into them for the content to be interesting!"
I frown, glancing at her before remembering—
"Eyes on the road, Nash," she reminds me with a pointed look.
I groan and pay attention to the highway stretching ahead.
"I'm listening. Explain these roles."
"Everyone has like a role in books," she explains, her enthusiasm building with each word.
"Archetypes! Character types! You have the good guy in the pack—the one who's so sweet and perfect and makes you feel safe and cherished.
The golden retriever Alpha who everyone loves.
But behind closed doors..." She trails off meaningfully, letting the implication hang.
I can't help but look over at her, eyebrow arched.
"Behind closed doors what?"
"He's a menace," she elaborates, blushing slightly. "In the bedroom, I mean. He's sweet and gentle everywhere else, but when it comes to sex, he's dominant and commanding and knows exactly what he wants."
I ponder that for a moment, trying to picture Grayson in that role.
"So who fits that description in our pack?"
"Grayson," she says immediately, with absolute certainty. "He's giving total Superman in the sheets when he's Clark Kent everywhere else."
I blink.
"Huh? What does Superman have to do with—"
She groans dramatically.
"Alphas. You won't understand the reference! It's a comic book thing. Mild-mannered reporter by day, superhero by night. Same energy. Sweet rancher who reads and writes romance novels by day, dominant Alpha who knows exactly what to do in the bedroom by night. Get it?"
"I... guess that makes sense?" I'm not entirely sure it does, but she seems convinced.
"Trust me," she says confidently. "I've read enough romance novels to know the archetypes. Grayson is definitely that one. Next!"
She doesn’t allow me to comment before she’s already moving on in the unfolding plot running in her head.
"Then there's the grumpy one," she continues without missing a beat, completely in her element now. "The grouchy Alpha who looks annoyed by everything and everyone. Scowls at people. Probably doesn't smile much. But has this incredible soft spot for only his girl. Nobody else matters. Just her."
She's gesturing enthusiastically, painting the picture with her hands.
"Think of the typical 'I'll burn the world for you' trope! Or 'touch her and you die' energy! Protective to the point of violence. Would commit murder without hesitation if someone hurt his Omega. That type."
I don't even need to think about who fits that description.
The answer is obvious.
"Theo," I conclude.
Reverie squeals and bounces in her seat with genuine excitement.
"Bingo! Yes! Exactly! See? You're getting it now! You understand character archetypes!"
"It's not hard when you describe Theo perfectly," I point out. "The man literally burned those mystery flowers without reading the card. Didn't even hesitate. Just straight to the firepit."
"Exactly!" She's grinning now. "That's peak grumpy Alpha energy right there."
"And where exactly do I fall in this... romance novel pack dynamic?" I ask, genuinely curious now about how she sees me. What archetype she's assigned to the guy currently driving her to go shopping.
She hums thoughtfully, tapping her finger against her chin like she's seriously considering the question.
"Well, we get along pretty nicely so far."
I smirk. That's true. We do get along well. Easy banter, similar sense of humor, comfortable silences that don't feel awkward. She makes me laugh. I seem to make her smile. It works.
"Which we absolutely can't let happen," she announces suddenly, her tone serious.
My smirk falters.
"What? Why not?"
"Duh. It's boring." She says it like this should be obvious.
I gawk at her—well, I would if I wasn't supposed to be watching the road.
"Boring? Having a healthy relationship where two people get along is boring?"
She rolls her eyes like I'm missing something painfully obvious.
"YES! In fiction and movies and everything in the entertainment industry, obviously. People don't watch content about couples who just... get along perfectly from day one. Where's the tension? The drama? The will-they-won't-they anticipation?"
She shifts in her seat to face me more directly.
"Nobody wants to watch two people who like each other have nice conversations and be supportive. They want sparks! Conflict! Banter that's secretly foreplay! The kind of relationship where you're not sure if they're about to kiss or kill each other!"
"So you want fake conflict," I clarify.
"Exactly!" She points at me. "You have to be the one I don't get along with initially. We need a proper love-hate relationship! Bickering and banter and sexual tension that builds and builds until it explodes into passionate—"
She pauses and gives me a look.
"Eyes on the road, Nash," she interrupts herself, noticing I'm looking at her instead of ahead.
I huff and snap my attention back to the highway.
"Fine. We'll play the enemies-to-lovers trope for your content."
"Perfect! That's what I'm talking about!"
An idea forms in my head. A wicked, probably inadvisable idea that I'm going to voice anyway because apparently I can't help myself around this Omega.
"We'll see if you still hate me," I say slowly, letting the words hang in the air, "when I have you pinned to a bed, fucking you senseless until you're screaming my name and begging me not to stop."
Her whole face goes nuclear. Bright crimson from her neck to her hairline, spreading across her cheeks like wildfire.
"I-I-I'm not—" She stutters, completely flustered. "I'm n-not afraid of you."
I smirk, keeping my eyes on the road like the responsible driver I am.
"Yet you're stuttering. And blushing. Pretty sure that proves my point."
"Hush," she manages, her voice higher than normal. "That's—you can't just—that's inappropriate!"
"You're the one who wanted sexual tension and banter," I point out. "I'm just fulfilling the role you assigned me."
She makes a strangled sound.
"I'm going to start the live now. Right now. To escape this conversation."
"Running away from the tension already?" I tease. "Not very enemies-to-lovers of you."
"Shut up," she mutters, but I can hear the smile in her voice despite her embarrassment.
The landscape continues rolling past—more fields now giving way to scattered houses and businesses as we approach Millbrook's outer edges.
A gas station appears on the right, then a tractor supply store with farm equipment displayed in the parking lot.
Signs of civilization returning after miles of empty countryside.
"The small town is approaching," I inform her, nodding toward the buildings visible ahead. "Better get into character for your content. First impression matters."
She takes a deep breath, composing herself.
The blush slowly fades from her cheeks, though there's still a pink tinge that suggests she's not entirely over my comment about the bed. Her expression shifts from flustered to excited—that bubbly, enthusiastic energy that drew Grayson to her in the bookstore.
That genuine happiness that makes people want to watch her content.
She pulls down the sun visor to check her reflection in the small mirror. Fluffs her hair. Adjusts her sweater. Pinches her cheeks to bring some color to them—which is unnecessary given she just finished blushing, but she does it anyway.
"How do I look?" she asks, glancing at me.
"Beautiful," I answer honestly. "Like always."
She smiles—soft and genuine.
"You're surprisingly sweet when you're not being all grumpy lawyer Alpha."
"Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation."
"Your secret's safe with me." She winks, then holds up her phone.
I can see her opening Instagram, navigating to the live stream function. Her thumb hovers over the button that will broadcast us to however many followers she has. She looks nervous again—that flash of insecurity crossing her features.
She's worried about what people will think. About whether she looks good enough, sounds interesting enough, has the right content. All those doubts her ex-pack planted in her head trying to surface.
"Hey," I say, catching her attention. "You've got this. Just be yourself. That's what people want to see."
She nods, taking another breath.
Squares her shoulders. Puts on that bright smile.
Then she angles the phone to capture both of us in the frame—her in the passenger seat with the window behind her showing the passing town, me in the driver's seat with one hand on the wheel. The composition looks good even from my peripheral vision. Professional.
Like we know what we're doing.
She grins at the camera, and I can see the exact moment she transforms into Reverie the influencer instead of just Reverie the nervous Omega. Her whole demeanor changes—more confident, more animated, ready to entertain and engage with whoever's watching.
"Here we go!"