Chapter 6
Maya
It’s not gone but it’s more manageable now.
That’s all I need. Two weeks of manageable. Then I can deal with whatever is happening to me. The thing that made me purr when Adrian and Bash walked into that room. The thing that brought Elias to the subway station, watching from a distance as I went home alone.
The thing I still can't bring myself to name.
I move through the corridor toward the main set, my footsteps echoing in the empty space.
The night crew’s already gone, the morning team not quite arrived.
It’s the quietest part of the day, the fifteen minutes between when one shift leaves and another begins.
I’ve always loved this time—the sense of possibility, of a day not yet written.
It’s when I do my best thinking, make my clearest plans.
Today, though, my thoughts keep circling back to the same moment. The look on Adrian’s face when that sound—that purr—escaped my throat. The way Bash’s eyes widened. The absolute certainty in Elias’s voice when he put a label on what was happening.
An omega.
The word still doesn’t fit. Nothing about what happened yesterday changes the work I’ve done or the life I’ve built, but I don’t know whether anyone else will see it that way.
I push through the double doors to the main set, and the silence is shattered.
The morning crew is already here—earlier than I expected, already moving equipment into place for the first scene.
I step to the side, checking my tablet for today’s schedule.
First scene: 7:00. Main corridor. Tracking shot.
The lighting team passes me, heading for the northwest corner. The head gaffer—a woman with bright pink hair and a permanent coffee stain on her sleeve—notices me and slows, her eyes widening slightly.
“You’re here,” she says, the words somewhere between a question and a statement.
I nod, confused. “Of course I’m here. Why wouldn’t I be?”
She hesitates, then shrugs. “No reason. Just thought... never mind. Glad you’re feeling better.” And then she’s moving again, hurrying to catch up with her team.
I stare after her, clutching my tablet tightly. What was that about? I turn, looking for someone else to ask, and catch a PA watching me from the edge of the set. When our eyes meet, she looks away quickly, her cheeks flushing.
This isn’t right. Something’s off.
I head for the production office, needing to check in with the second AD before the day really gets going.
The hallway is busier now, people streaming in from the parking lot and the subway, stopping at craft services for coffee before heading to their stations.
I weave through them, nodding to the ones I know, keeping my distance from the ones I don’t.
And everywhere I go, I see it—that same moment of hesitation, that double-take, that whisper that stops when I get too close. Like I’m not supposed to be here.
I round the corner to the production office and nearly run into Michael, his arms full of call sheets and coffee. He startles, stepping back quickly, brown eyes flashing up at me as he pushes his dark hair out of his face.
“Maya!” His voice is too loud in the narrow hallway. “What are you doing here?”
Now I’m really confused. “Working? It’s Tuesday?”
He blinks, adjusting his grip on the coffee cups. “Yeah, but I thought—Stone said—“ He stops, catching himself. “Never mind. It’s good to see you. Really good.”
“Michael.” I keep my voice even, though something in my chest is starting to tighten. “What did Stone say?”
He hesitates, then sighs. “That you’re taking the day. That you’re not feeling well and need to rest. The second AD’s already adjusted the schedule. We’ve got everything covered.”
My stomach drops. Elias. He told them I wasn’t coming in. He made that decision—that choice—without asking me. Without even telling me.
And now half the crew is looking at me like showing up is something unexpected.
“He had no right,” I say, the words coming out sharp. “I’m fine. I’m here. I’m working.”
Michael holds up a hand, placating. “Hey, no argument from me. But maybe you should talk to him? He seemed pretty sure about it.”
“I’ll do that,” I say, already moving past him. “And in the meantime, tell the second AD I’m here. I’ll be at the main set if she needs me.”
I don’t wait for his response. I’m already moving, my feet carrying me toward the northwest corner where the first scene is being set up.
My skin feels too tight, that same heat crawling up my neck.
Not from whatever’s happening to my body—this is pure, old-fashioned anger.
The kind that makes my vision sharpen and my thoughts clear.
Elias had no right to speak for me, decide what I needed, and then tell my colleagues I wouldn’t be here like I had no say in it.
I push through the crowd, heading for the monitors where the ADs usually set up. I need to check the schedule and make sure the day’s plan is still intact despite whatever Elias told them. I need to get back to normal—or as close to it as I can get with this new awareness buzzing under my skin.
The tablets are working. Not perfectly—I can still smell the coffee from craft services, still feel the press of bodies too close to mine—but the edge is gone.
The overwhelming rush of sensation has dimmed to something I can push through.
Something I can ignore if I focus hard enough on the task in front of me.
And that’s what I do. For the next three hours, I lose myself in work—checking props, confirming positions, answering the endless stream of questions that keep a production running.
I’m careful to keep my distance from the crowd, to breathe through my mouth when the scents get too strong.
I focus on the lists, the schedules, the thousand details that need my attention.
And it works. Mostly. There are moments when the tightness returns, when the heat under my skin flares unexpectedly, when I have to stop and remind myself to focus on the task in front of me. I push through them, one by one, until the morning starts to take shape around me.
No one mentions Elias again. No one asks why I’m here when I’m supposed to be home resting. They just... adjust. Accept my presence. Move on to the next problem, the next question, the next task that needs doing.
It’s almost normal. Almost like nothing’s changed.
Until it isn’t.
I'm checking the prop placement for scene twelve when my attention catches on movement across the set. I look up without meaning to, my eyes finding him immediately.
Elias stands at the edge of the set, his posture relaxed but his attention fixed entirely on me.
He’s wearing his usual security uniform—dark pants, black button-down, the small earpiece that connects him to the rest of his team.
Nothing about him suggests he’s done anything unusual.
Nothing in his expression hints at the fact that he told an entire production crew I wouldn’t be here today.
Our eyes meet across the set. Something in my chest tightens—not anger this time, but something more complicated. I become abruptly aware of him in a way that's impossible to ignore.
He moves toward me, cutting through the crowd with efficiency.
People step aside without seeming to notice they’re doing it, creating a path for him without a word.
It’s the same way they move for Adrian and Bash, but something about it is different with Elias.
The space opens sooner. Wider. Like no one wants to be in his way.
He stops a few feet away, maintaining what feels like a deliberate distance. “You should be at home,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear it.
My jaw tightens. Any softness I might have felt evaporates in an instant. “You had no right,” I say, keeping my voice just as low. “No right to tell people I wouldn’t be here. No right to make decisions about my life.”
“You needed rest,” he says. It’s not an apology. It’s not even an acknowledgment that he might have been wrong. It’s just a statement of fact, delivered in that same even tone. “Presenting takes energy. Your body’s going through a fundamental change. Pushing through it will only make things worse.”
“I’m not presenting,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. “And even if I were, that’s my decision to make. Not yours. Not anyone else’s.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You purred, Maya. In a room with two alphas. That’s not something that happens to betas.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.” He takes a half-step closer, close enough that I can catch his scent—that clean, controlled note that cuts through the chaos of the set. “And I think you’re scared. That’s understandable. But pretending nothing’s happening won’t make it go away.”
Something in my chest twists—a mix of anger and something else I don’t want to name. “I’m not scared,” I say, though we both know it’s not true. “I’m angry. There’s a difference.”
“Fair,” he says. “But anger doesn’t change the facts. You’re in pre-heat. Your body’s preparing for a fundamental shift. And you’re trying to work fourteen-hour days in the middle of it.”
The word—heat—tightens something in my chest. I step back, bumping into the prop table behind me.
“Stop,” I say firmly. “Just stop. You don’t get to diagnose me.
You don’t get to decide what I can handle.
You’re security, not my doctor. Not my...
” I stop, not sure how to finish the sentence.
Not my alpha feels too loaded, too presumptuous, even in the privacy of my own head.
“Not your anything,” he finishes for me, his voice firm. “I know that. But I’m responsible for the safety of everyone on this set. Including you. Especially now.”
“I don’t need special treatment,” I say. “I don’t need to be watched or protected or—“
“Everyone needs someone,” he interrupts. “Especially when they’re going through something they don’t understand.”