Epilogue
Maya
The theater lobby smells like perfume and anticipation.
I stand near the east wall with a glass of water I haven't touched, watching photographers gather behind their barricades through the main entrance doors.
A woman in a headset moves past me while speaking rapid-fire instructions into her phone.
Outside, flashes already pulse against the glass as early arrivals begin filtering in.
The giant poster for our film hangs on the wall to my right, thirty feet tall, and the sight of it still makes my stomach flip.
Two months ago, I was certain I would never stand here.
Not like this. Not wearing a dress that costs more than my old monthly rent, not with three bond marks, and especially not with the scent of my three alphas layered into my skin so thoroughly I can no longer tell where mine ends and theirs begins.
Two months ago, I was building a nest in a borrowed bedroom and trying to convince myself I would still have a career when my heat ended.
Today I’m watching publicists in black glide through the crowd with clipboards and practiced smiles. Security guards stand at intervals along the walls, their expressions professionally blank. Someone near the bar swings a champagne flute with too much enthusiasm and nearly clips a passing waiter.
The noise builds in layers—conversations overlapping, laughter rising and falling, the distant pulse of music from somewhere deeper in the theater.
I take a sip of water and continue people watching.
Adrian appears beside me without warning.
One moment I'm standing alone by the wall, and the next he's there.
His hand brushes the small of my back, a touch so familiar it barely registers as contact anymore.
He's in a charcoal suit that fits him like he was born wearing it, and his cedar-amber scent reaches me before he speaks.
“Is that water?” he asks, glancing at my glass. “Did you eat earlier?”
“I had half a protein bar in the car.”
His expression immediately suggests he finds this inadequate. I tip my head toward his shoulder without thinking about it. His hand rises to the back of my neck, his thumb brushing once along my jaw before he steps away again and heads toward Bash near the center of the lobby.
I watch him go and feel the bond shift softly in my awareness. Two months later, it still catches me off guard sometimes. Not the existence of it, but the ease. The certainty of knowing exactly where he is in a crowded room without needing to look.
Across the lobby, Bash catches my eye. He's in the middle of a conversation with a producer I recognize from three projects back, but his attention flicks to me the second I look in his direction.
The corner of his mouth lifts. He raises his glass in a silent acknowledgment before turning back to the conversation.
Elias appears at my side a few moments later.
He doesn't say anything. He rarely does when words aren't necessary.
One of his hands finds mine and squeezes once before lifting to brush his thumb lightly across a bond mark at the side of my throat.
Then he lets go and turns toward the entrance, where security is beginning to organize the first arrivals onto the carpet.
A production assistant I don't recognize approaches with a headset and a clipboard. “Ms. Collins? They're asking for final confirmation on your placement for the carpet walk. The director wants you with the core cast.”
I nod. “That's fine.”
She hesitates. Her gaze drops briefly to my bond marks before flicking toward the three alphas moving through the lobby around me. Something shifts in her expression—respect, maybe, or curiosity—and then she's gone, already speaking into her headset as she walks away.
Two months ago, this interaction would have destroyed me.
Someone looking at my throat, seeing what I am, and making a calculation about my value would have followed me for days.
Now I watch her go and feel nothing beyond the distant recognition that yes, I'm an omega, and yes, those are bond marks.
Neither of those things changes the fact that I'm standing in this lobby because I earned my place here.
A few minutes later, Adrian returns and settles beside me, his shoulder pressing lightly against mine as he surveys the lobby. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“I'm okay,” I tell him, and I mean it.
His hand finds the sleeve of my dress and adjusts it where it's slipped slightly off my shoulder. The gesture is automatic. He doesn't even look at what he's doing. His fingers smooth the fabric into place before his hand drops away and reaches for the phone buzzing in his pocket.
A moment later, Bash appears on my other side. The scent of bergamot and spice washes over me as he leans in and brushes a kiss against my temple so casually it barely qualifies as one. “You ate half a protein bar?” he murmurs. “That's not food. That's a suggestion.”
“I'll eat after.”
“You'll eat the almonds in my pocket right now.” He says firmly as he reaches into his jacket, produces a small packet, and presses it into my palm without waiting for a response. Then he's moving again, his hand trailing briefly across the small of my back as he passes.
I open the almonds and eat three without tasting them. My stomach settles almost immediately.
People watch us. I've stopped being bothered by it. At first, every glance felt like exposure. Three alphas and an omega moving through public spaces together, the bonds visible and the dynamics unmistakable. Now the attention has faded into background noise.
Let them look.
Let them see Adrian defer to me in production meetings. Let them see Bash introduce me as the person who runs the floor. Let them see Elias position himself slightly behind my left shoulder in crowded rooms, not because he thinks I need protection, but because that's where he's decided he belongs.
Their respect changed the way everyone else treated me, and I never saw it coming.
The first week back on set after my heat, six people straightened when I walked into the production meeting.
Not because I was an omega, but because Adrian Wells pulled out my chair before taking his own seat, Bash had already set my coffee on the table exactly the way I take it, and Elias stood near the door with an intensity that makes even seasoned producers think twice before speaking carelessly.
None of them announced what they were doing.
They didn't need to.
They showed everyone else how to treat me simply by treating me that way themselves.
I finish the almonds and tuck the empty packet into my clutch just as a familiar voice cuts through the noise of the lobby.
“Maya!” Nadia appears from between two clusters of suited executives, her dress catching the light in waves of deep burgundy. She looks exactly like herself—animated, warm, and slightly too loud for the room—and the sight of her makes me smile instantly.
I'm moving before I consciously decide to. We meet in the middle of the lobby, and her arms come around me with enough force to nearly knock my clutch from my hand.
I hold on just as tightly.
Her scent is unchanged. Vanilla and something floral beneath it. The familiar scent of my oldest friend. For a moment, I'm eighteen again, sharing a too-small apartment and dreaming about careers neither of us had built yet.
“You’re crushing me,” I murmur into her shoulder.
“Good.” She squeezes harder. “You deserve to be crushed. Look at you. You’re glowing. It’s disgusting.”
I laugh against her dress. When I pull back, her eyes are bright. She isn't crying—Nadia never cries in public—but something soft crosses her face before she tucks it away behind her usual composure.
“Thank you,” I say. “For all of it. You know what I mean.”
She waves a hand. “Please. I did the bare minimum. I showed up and repeated obvious things until you finally started believing them. Any friend would have done the same.”
“Maybe.” I smile. “But you're more than a friend.”
Her expression softens. “Well, we're related in every way but blood,” she says.
“Exactly.”
She points at me. “Don't make this emotional in a theater lobby.”
I smile at that.
Over her shoulder, I catch movement.
An alpha I recognize from the supporting cast is standing near the bar, his attention fixed on Nadia with an intensity that feels familiar in a way it wouldn't have two months ago.
Every time she shifts position, his eyes follow.
Every time she laughs, something in his expression softens by a fraction I doubt anyone else would notice.
I notice.
A few months ago, I wouldn't have.
“Nadia,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “The guy by the bar. Third supporting role. The one who plays the brother. He's been watching you since you walked in.”
She doesn't turn. Doesn't even glance in that direction. “I have no idea who you're talking about.”
“Sure, you don't.”
“He's probably looking at my dress. It's very nice.”
“He's not looking at your dress.”
She presses her lips together and changes the subject with all the subtlety of a freight train. “Are you nervous?” she asks. “About the carpet?”
I let her have the escape route. “Terrified.”
“Good. You should be. Everyone's going to be looking at you.”
“That's what I'm afraid of.”
She takes my hands and holds them at arm’s length, her expression shifting into something more serious than her premiere persona usually allows.
“Listen to me. They will look at you because you are standing next to three of the most sought-after alphas in the industry, you are wearing a dress that cost more than my car, and you have bond marks on your throat that literally everyone can see. But they will also look at you because your name is in the credits of this film as the person who kept the entire production from collapsing, and because in approximately forty-eight hours you will walk onto another set as the most competent coordinator any of them have ever worked with, and because you, Maya Collins, are exactly where you belong.”