Chapter Five
Ava
I can feel a headache building at the base of my skull when I exit the courthouse. They’ve been happening more and more lately, and I can’t figure out why. I probably just need food, water, and to punch something until my hand bleeds. I hurry toward my town car.
Sliding inside, half of me keeps waiting for Mark to reach out and grab my arm, ready to continue sparring. If he tries, I swear, I might stab him in the throat with my stiletto.
Tony glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Office?” he grunts in his deep Brooklyn accent.
I press my fingertips to my head. “Maybe. Definitely need to eat first.” Guilt churns in my gut as I try to remember if I had breakfast. Shit. Then I remember, yes, I did. A protein shake, a boiled egg, and fruit. I’m good. Still in control. I breathe deeply through my nose and out my mouth.
Through the tinted glass, I glimpse Mark as we pull away from the curb. For a moment, I swear he’s staring right at me.
Asshole.
I love my office; I really do. But on days like today, I envy Mark’s setup. He’s right across the street from the courthouse with no traffic or delays to worry about. Meanwhile, I’ve got to get across town, I’m starving, and I have a million briefs waiting for me back at the office.
Tony clears his throat, and I look away from the window to find a sandwich wrapped in white butcher paper being waved at me through the partition. “Eat. Traffic will take forever. Chopped cheese from the bodega.”
I give him a grateful smile and unwrap it, the scent of the sauteed onions and beef making my mouth water. I force all the negative thoughts about the food out of my mind and think about how proud Jack will be when I tell him. He’s a sucker for a good bodega sandwich.
I chew quietly as I watch the buildings and other cars slowly move past us.
The blaring horns, the shouts, and the sound of the never-ending road construction all just sound like home to me.
Normally, they’d help put me at ease. But I can’t shake Mark’s stunt in court.
The ambush with the witness? Okay, fair game.
I’d been pissed, but that’s just how it goes.
Honestly, I was more pissed at the judge for the bullshit fifteen minutes.
Reynolds has had it out for me for a while.
Calling me unprepared in front of the jury, though? And worse, suggesting it was because of my pesky emotions? That was too far. My hands tremble slightly, and my chest is tight. Omegas are sensitive by nature, and I can usually control it better than this. I just feel… hurt.
Which confuses me and pisses me off further.
I don’t understand. We always snipe and spar, but that felt oddly personal.
Was it the fundraiser gala the other night?
My comment about him always seeking me out?
I didn’t think anyone overheard, and I honestly didn’t even think it was that mean.
He gave as good as he got with the “I barely think of you” line.
A low, frustrated whine slips out unbidden between my teeth.
Finally, the car stops. I wrap the rest of my sandwich up and thank Tony, offering it to him.
He grunts, takes it, and goes back to scrolling on his phone.
His people skills aren’t exactly top-notch, but you would be hard-pressed to find anyone in this city as loyal as him.
Much like Shelby, he could destroy me with the blink of an eye, but I trust him with my life.
The Foreman, Weller, and Kendrick building rises above me, dizzying in height.
Seeing my name on the facade still gives me a flutter of disbelief.
I earned this. Sacrificed everything to get here.
Yet, my secret is that I’m constantly terrified and waiting for the other shoe to drop that will snatch it all away.
The biggest threat at the moment is this pull toward Mark Taylor.
A goddamn alpha, when here I am, an omega hiding in plain sight.
If I were smarter, I’d ask to be transferred out of his borough.
Though I doubt the other partners would go for it.
My showdowns with Mark are a fantastic publicity machine that brings us big-name clients on a regular basis.
Without our fights and NYTV coverage, would I have made partner as quickly as I did? It’s hard to say.
I ride the elevator up, smiling at everyone as I pass. Finally, I reach my level, and Shelby meets me at the door. She reaches for my briefcase and coat, and I let her take them without much of a fight. I’m exhausted.
“I had a salad delivered, plus Gatorade. You’ve been surviving on energy drinks, right?”
“Excuse you! I had a great breakfast, and I actually just had half of a chopped cheese in the car,” I say dryly.
“Suppose I have Tony to thank for that. Well, the salad can go in the fridge for dinner then. I’m sure you’ll be here far too late.”
We head into my office, and she kicks the door closed behind us. I make a beeline for my desk and crack open the Gatorade, swallowing some white pills sitting beside it. It occurs to me I have no idea what I just took. I probably shouldn’t just trust Shelby blindly like I do.
“Those were headache meds, right?” I ask.
“No, they were ecstasy tabs,” she says seriously as she punches in a code on the back wall, stepping aside as the hidden door swings open.
I roll my eyes.
A major perk of being the highest-earning partner?
You can do all sorts of construction in your office without interference.
Another perk of being a partner who’s also a defense attorney?
Colleagues are excellent at never asking questions they don’t want answers to. Plausible deniability in practice.
Shelby, as a fellow omega, understands the importance of a nest when you’re stressed or upset.
She motions with her hand for me to go inside but doesn’t step in herself, knowing that I won’t want her scent in there.
Omegas are territorial by nature about their nests.
The scents should only ever be mine or my alpha’s.
Since I long ago made peace with the fact that I’d never have one of those, my nest only ever smells like my own orange and vanilla scent.
Just like I made peace with giving up on my dreams of having children.
To do so, I’d have to go off my suppressants and find an alpha willing to be a sperm donor during one of my heats.
Not exactly something you can do at the clinic under the assumed name I use.
Sometimes when I think about all the lies I have to constantly juggle to keep everything in the air, I feel so tired I can barely put one foot in front of the other.
Then I think about Maya, fighting to keep custody of her kids simply because of her designation.
Or the omegas who want to be lawyers or surgeons.
We aren’t technically banned from those professions.
It’s just that none of us have ever passed law school or the bar—except, of course, for me.
And I suppose any other omegas that might hide as betas.
But without the financial privilege my family had to pay for the best suppressants and a whole new identity, I don’t see that being common.
Not that there are no omegas smarter than me.
Of course there are. The problem is gatekeeping.
The discrimination is nearly impossible to prove.
Schools hide behind statistics, pointing out that many omegas attend private omega academies emphasizing domestic or vocational training over traditional academics.
Then they shrug and blame limited seats and high demand.
It creates a system that looks fair on paper while quietly shutting doors.
Everyone, particularly alphas reaping all the benefits, pretends not to notice.
“I’m heading home for the night,” Shelby says, already gathering her things.
“Gracie has dance practice and the twins have karate, so Ron and I are dividing and conquering. Make sure you unwind in the nest for a bit before you dive into those briefs. The last thing I need is you burning yourself out.”
“Yes, Mom,” I deadpan. “I will. Go home. And tell Gracie I’ll be there Saturday for the recital.”
She snorts a laugh. “You better. It’s your ass on the line if you don’t. She’s terrifying.”
I grin. “As my goddaughter should be. Love you. Now get.”
I kick off my shoes and slip into the nest, closing the door softly behind me.
The space is small, not much bigger than a supply closet, but it feels like stepping into a private sanctuary.
A giant, oversized chenille chaise lounge sits at the center, more bed than chair, buried beneath a chaotic sprawl of pillows and blankets in every soft texture imaginable.
Faux fur. Cotton spun so fine, it almost feels like silk.
Plush fleece. A couple of old knit throws that have been loved nearly threadbare from my childhood.
A narrow bookcase stands across from it, crammed with dog-eared paperbacks and comfort reads I have revisited more times than I care to admit. The lighting is kept intentionally low, warm and muted, with strands of fairy lights crisscrossing the ceiling and casting a gentle glow over the walls.
The world feels quieter here. Softer.
I flop onto the chair, letting myself sink into all the fabrics. Normally, I’d already feel myself unwinding just from being wrapped in soft things saturated in my scent. Today seems different. I don’t feel soothed, and my headache lingers.
Why are my feelings hurt? I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, let alone Mark Taylor.
I lay there for a few more minutes before admitting defeat and realizing that my nest will be no comfort to me tonight. I sigh and rise, closing it back up tight, and settle at my desk to attempt to focus on the briefs.