Epilogue 2
Zoe
Six months later
“Absolutely not,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “That is a terrible offer, and we both know it.”
The collector opposite me, a man in his sixties with more money than taste, gives me a condescending smile. “My dear, I assure you, in the current market—”
“In the current market,” I interrupt smoothly, “the piece is worth at least thirty percent more than what you’re offering. And that’s a conservative estimate.”
His smile falters. “The artist is relatively unknown—”
“For now,” I counter. “But after her feature next month, and her upcoming installation? Her prices will only climb.” I lean in slightly, my voice dropping to a confidential tone. “You know it, I know it. The only question is whether you want to be ahead of the curve or behind it.”
A flash of grudging respect crosses his face. He studies me for a moment, taking in the confident set of my shoulders, the direct, unflinching way I meet his gaze. His eyes flicker briefly to my neck, to the four vivid, unmistakable claiming marks that stand out against my skin.
Six months ago, that look would have made me reach for a scarf, would have sent a flush of embarrassment up my neck. Now I just raise an eyebrow, daring him to comment.
He doesn’t. Instead, he names a new figure. One that’s still below what I want, but much closer.
I counter once more, and we settle on a number that makes us both happy. Or at least, makes me genuinely pleased and him begrudgingly satisfied, which in the art world counts as a win-win.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Clarke,” he says, extending his hand.
“Clarke-Sterling,” I correct automatically, shaking his hand with a firm grip. “And the pleasure is mutual.”
As he moves away to examine his new acquisition more closely, I allow myself a small, satisfied smile. Another sale for Clarke & Sterling Curatorial, and a significant one at that.
I feel a presence at my side and turn to find Rett watching me, a glass of champagne in each hand. His blue eyes are warm with a pride so naked it makes my breath hitch.
“That was impressive,” he says, handing me one of the glasses. “I thought he was going to walk away empty-handed.”
I take a sip of the champagne, savoring the crisp, dry taste. “He was never walking away. He just needed to feel like he’d put up a good fight.”
Rett’s mouth quirks in a small, private smile. “You’ve always been able to read people. But now...” His gaze drifts to my neck, to the marks there. “Now it’s like you have some kind of superpower.”
I laugh, the sound light and easy. “It’s not a superpower. It’s just...” I pause, considering. “Confidence, I guess. Knowing exactly where I stand.”
And I do know. After six months as the official, claimed beta of the Sterling pack, I know exactly who I am and where I belong.
The insecurities, the doubts, the fears that used to plague me have faded to background noise, easily drowned out by the deep, steady hum of the bond that connects me to my alphas.
Rett’s eyes darken slightly, his gaze dropping to my lips. “You look stunning tonight,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down my spine. “That dress was a good choice.”
The dress in question is a deep, rich red that complements my skin and dark hair. It’s custom-made, with a neckline that dips low in the back and leaves my shoulders bare, putting my claiming marks on full display. It’s bold, confident, and utterly unapologetic.
“Tristan helped me pick it out,” I admit. “He said it would make a statement.”
Rett chuckles, the sound a warm rumble. “That sounds like Tristan. Speaking of...”
My gaze follows his to where Tristan stands, surrounded by a group of potential donors.
He’s in his element, a glass of champagne in one hand, the other gesturing expressively as he speaks.
I can’t hear what he’s saying from this distance, but whatever it is has his audience captivated, their faces alight with interest and amusement.
As if sensing our attention, he glances our way, his eyes finding mine across the crowded room. He gives me a slow, deliberate wink that sends a curl of heat through my belly, a silent promise for later.
“He’s good,” I murmur. “Really good.”
“Always has been,” Rett agrees. “But he’s different now. More focused. More...”
“Fulfilled,” I finish for him. “You all are.”
And it’s true. All four of my alphas have changed in subtle but significant ways since the claiming. The static is gone, of course. But it’s more than that. There’s a sense of completeness, of rightness, that radiates from each of them now.
My gaze drifts, finding Diego near the catering table.
He’s engaged in what appears to be a passionate discussion with the head chef, his hands moving expressively as he makes some point about the canapes.
But even as he speaks, his attention is partially elsewhere, his gaze regularly checking on a pair of twin babies in a stroller nearby.
Leah’s twins. They’re already showing signs of their mother’s indomitable personality. Diego has appointed himself their unofficial guardian whenever they’re in the gallery, ensuring they’re not overwhelmed by the noise or the crowd.
“He’s already planning their birthday party,” Rett says, following my gaze. “Even though it’s months away.”
I laugh, not at all surprised. “Of course he is. He probably has a menu planned out already.”
“Three menus,” Rett corrects. “He can’t decide between themes.”
The thought makes my heart swell with affection. Diego, with his big heart and nurturing soul. And Leah, for her part, is more than happy to have four doting honorary uncles for her children.
“And Dane?” I ask, my eyes searching the room for my fourth alpha.
Rett nods toward the entrance. “Doing what he does best.”
Dane is moving through the periphery of the crowd. To the casual observer, he might seem like just another guest. But I know better. He’s scanning the room, his pale eyes missing nothing.
A flash of movement catches my eye, and I turn to see Leah making her way toward us, maneuvering the twin stroller. She looks radiant in a sleek black dress that somehow manages to be both elegant and practical.
“There she is,” Leah says as she reaches us, her smile wide and genuine. “The woman of the hour.”
I lean in to give her a quick hug, careful not to disturb the sleeping babies. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” She steps back, her gaze sweeping over me with undisguised approval. “Look at you. A business mogul. A pack mate. Who knew all you needed was to get accidentally claimed by four traumatized alphas?”
I laugh. “It’s been a weird set of months,” I admit.
Leah’s gaze drops to my neck, to the claiming marks. “They look good on you,” she says, her voice softer, more sincere.
“They feel good,” I reply simply.
She smiles, understanding in her eyes. Then she glances down at the stroller, where one of the twins is beginning to stir. “Uh oh. I think someone’s waking up. I should probably get them home before we have a meltdown in the middle of your big night.”
“Do you need help getting to your car?” Rett offers.
“Diego’s already offered,” Leah says with a knowing smile. “In fact, I think he’s more eager to hold the babies than to actually help me.”
As if summoned by her words, Diego appears at her side, his face lighting up as he peers into the stroller. “Are these beautiful chiquitas ready to go home?” he coos, his voice soft and gentle.
Leah rolls her eyes, but there’s fondness in the gesture. “Yes, and their exhausted mother is ready too. Would you mind helping me to the car?”
“It would be my honor,” Diego says with a slight bow that makes Leah laugh.
As they move toward the exit, Diego carefully maneuvering the stroller through the crowd, I feel a vibration from the small clutch tucked under my arm. My phone.
I extract it, glancing at the screen. It’s a Google Alert for my name. Something Tristan set up months ago to “keep track of your growing fame,” as he put it.
I open the notification to find a link to a new article on PackTrackr. My heart gives a small, instinctive jump at the sight of the website’s name. But as I read the headline, the tension melts away:
“From ‘Mystery Beta’ to Art World Mogul: Zoe Clarke-Sterling and the Sterling Pack Redefine Power and Partnership”
I click through to the article, scanning the content quickly.
It’s a glowing profile piece, full of quotes from “sources close to the pack” (Tristan, undoubtedly) about my business acumen, our collaborative approach to art curation, and our “philanthropic initiatives aimed at bringing art education to underserved communities.”
I slip the phone back into my clutch, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across my face.
“Everything okay?” Rett asks, his hand settling on the small of my back once more.
“Perfect,” I say, leaning into his touch.
As if drawn by some invisible signal, the other two alphas begin to make their way toward us. Tristan excuses himself from his group of admirers, while Dane materializes from the edges of the room. They converge on us, forming a loose, comfortable circle.
Our pack.
Tristan slips an arm around my waist, his hand settling just above Rett’s on my back. “Successful night,” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. “Three major sales and at least two serious investor prospects.”
“Four sales,” Dane corrects quietly. “The Mosseau just sold to the couple by the window.”
I follow his gaze to where a young couple stands, admiring a striking abstract painting.
“Good eye,” I tell Dane, earning a small, pleased nod in return.
I lean back, taking in the bustling, successful gallery around me.
Clarke & Sterling Curatorial is making waves in the art world.
But more than the professional success, it’s the personal fulfillment that takes my breath away.
The deep, abiding sense of belonging that comes from having found my place in the world. My pack.
Six months ago, I was a lonely beta with a secondhand couch and an unremarkable life. Now I’m at the center of something extraordinary with four remarkable men who love me, support me, challenge me, and cherish me.
I am home.