Chapter Thirty
Jasmine
It had been almost a month since my last heat; it was due anytime now, and I prayed to whoever reigned up there that it wouldn’t come tonight, the night of the gala performance.
I took a deep breath and looked at myself in the mirror as I finished off my stage makeup.
Then again, I’d been that worried about tonight all week, I doubted it would show up at all!
I wasn’t worried about the singing. I knew I could do that with my eyes closed and a gag over my mouth.
But what made me nervous was all those people.
Not just any people, but reporters, celebrities, and potential donors for the charity this was all for.
The gala was being held to help disadvantaged children.
Children who had been orphaned in the great earthquake of Shaker City.
And since the orphanage had burnt down, and the social services system was shot, there was nowhere for these children to go.
The lady who’d run the orphanage had sadly died in that fire, but her daughter was the guest of honor tonight, celebrating everything she had done to rebuild a bigger, better, and brighter place for these kids.
In the meantime, she and her pack had taken every single one of them in.
.. although that sounded a little too cramped for my liking!
My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I smoothed them down the front of my gown for the fifth time in as many minutes; the silk slipping beneath my clammy palms. The midnight blue fabric was beautiful, catching the light and throwing it back in whispers of inspiration.
There was a knock at the door, and a woman with a microphone and headset stepped in, holding a clipboard.
“It’s time,” she said. I nodded and she left.
But as she did, my legs crumpled, breathing screaming through my chest, like trying to take a breath in a room full of water.
Gripping the side of the dressing table, I stared at my reflection.
Young, with eyes that held the light and sparkled.
I could do this. Heck, I’d put make-up on!
It was something I rarely bothered doing, but damn, I looked good.
I mentally chastised myself for thinking that way.
Catching myself mid-thought, I remembered why I was here.
Here, to sing my heart out, to prove I am somebody that mattered, somebody worth listening to, worth looking at.
Not a punching bag or another body to fuck when they wanted.
I was a proud, beautiful Omega, and I glowed.
I made my way to the stage, concentrating on my breathing.
The backstage corridor was narrow and dim, a stark contrast to what waited beyond the heavy velvet curtain.
I pressed one trembling hand against the wall to steady myself, feeling the cool plaster beneath my fingertips, grounding me in something solid when everything else felt like it was spinning away.
Through a gap in the curtain, I could see them.
The crowd. Hundreds of them, maybe more, filling the ballroom in their expensive evening wear.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling like frozen fireworks, casting prisms of light across faces I didn't recognize but somehow knew were important.
My stomach twisted itself into knots that had knots of their own.
This was different from singing on street corners.
Different from the recording studio, where only my Alphas had watched.
This was exposure on a scale I'd never experienced, vulnerability in front of people who would judge every note, every breath, every imperfection.
The gown suddenly felt too tight across my chest. I tugged at the bodice, trying to create space for my lungs to expand properly, but the boning held firm. Couture didn't accommodate panic attacks.
A memory flashed: me crouched in an alley, my voice raw from singing through the cold, counting coins with frozen fingers while strangers walked past without looking.
The contrast between then and now was so vast it made my head spin.
How had I gotten here? It had only been six weeks!
What made me think I belonged on that stage?
“You're going to be incredible.” Lucian's voice cut through my spiral, warm and certain, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
I turned to find him approaching with sheet music tucked under one arm, his rosewood scent reaching me before he did.
He wore a tailored suit that made him look sophisticated and artful, every inch the accomplished musician he was.
“I can't do this,” I whispered, and my voice came out thin and fractured. “Lucian, there are so many people, and they're all—”
“They're all about to discover something beautiful,” he interrupted gently. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the warmth in his hazel-brown eyes. “You've been singing your whole life, Jasmine. This is just another audience. Bigger, yes. But the music is the same.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to absorb some of his confidence through proximity alone. “What if I forget the words? What if my voice cracks?”
“Then we'll adapt.” His hand found my shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “I'll be right there with you, following your lead. Trust yourself the way I trust you.”
He held my gaze for another moment, letting his certainty settle over me like a blanket, then moved toward the stage entrance.
I watched him walk away, watched his posture straighten as he prepared to take his position at the grand piano that waited in a pool of spotlight.
Even from behind the curtain, I could see the instrument's glossy surface reflecting the chandeliers' light.
Footsteps behind me made me turn. Theo materialized from the shadows, his considerable frame somehow managing not to seem threatening despite filling the narrow corridor.
His leather scent wrapped around me, familiar and grounding, and when his hand found my shoulder, I felt some more of the tension drain from my muscles.
“Breathe, honey,” he breathed, his scarred face gentle in the dim light. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like you're singing.”
I obeyed, pulling air in slowly, feeling my diaphragm expand. The technique was automatic after years of practice, my body remembering even when my mind was in chaos.
“Better,” Theo murmured. His hand squeezed once, firm and reassuring, before releasing. “You're going to be amazing. We all know it. Now you just need to go out there and show them.”
Beyond the curtain, I heard Kade's voice giving instructions to someone—the sound technician, probably.
His oak scent drifted back to where I stood, mixing with Theo's leather and the lingering traces of Lucian's rosewood.
The combination created something that smelled like safety, like home, and I breathed it in deeply.
Theo stepped back, giving me space but not leaving. His presence was a solid weight at my back, protection without pressure.
The house lights dimmed, and my heart kicked up immediately, pounding so hard I thought everyone backstage must be able to hear it. This was it. This was actually happening.
A voice came through the sound system, smooth and professional, announcing my name.
The words seemed to echo in the sudden hush that fell over the ballroom, carrying a weight I hadn't expected.
Someone important was introducing me, saying things about my talent and potential that made my face burn with embarrassment and something that might have been pride.
I took one more breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped toward the gap in the curtains.
The stage stretched before me, vast and exposed beneath lights so bright they made my eyes water.
The grand piano sat to one side, and Lucian was already there, his hands poised over the keys, waiting.
The audience was a sea of faces rendered indistinct by the glare, but I could feel their attention like a physical thing pressing against my skin.
I released my fists, nails leaving crescents on the palms, and walked onto the stage.
My legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
The gown's hem whispered against the polished floor, and my knees were shaking so badly I was surprised I didn't collapse.
But I kept moving, one step after another, until I reached my mark at the microphone.
The spotlight hit me full force. Heat bloomed across my face and shoulders, making sweat prick along my hairline.
The light was so intense I couldn't see past the first few rows, couldn't make out individual faces in the darkness beyond.
Maybe that was better. Maybe not knowing exactly who was watching would make this easier.
Lucian started to play. The delicate opening notes drifted through, and I recognized the introduction we'd practiced a hundred times in the studio. My cue was coming. Four bars. Three. Two.
I opened my mouth and sang.
The first note came out wrong. Too soft, wavering at the edges, betraying every ounce of fear that coursed through my veins. I heard it immediately, felt it falter in the air, and panic spiked hot and sharp in my chest.
But Lucian didn't falter. His piano continued, steady and sure, carrying the melody when my voice couldn't. The notes he played seemed to wrap around mine, supporting them, lifting them, and I felt something in my chest ease fractionally.
I pulled in another breath, deeper this time, engaging my diaphragm properly. The second phrase came through stronger. Still not perfect, still carrying traces of nervousness, but more solid. More real.
The audience had gone completely silent. Not the restless silence of people waiting to be impressed, but something deeper. Attentive. Present. They were actually listening.