Chapter 13: Chapter 13: Showtime
The bus hummed with chatter, everyone restless with too much energy and too little space. Some compared schedules, others speculated about tips, and a few were already taking selfies against the tinted glass, laughing about how this was their "one shot at luxury."
Chris half-listened, thumb running idly across the edge of his phone. His mind was still fixated on Clara and how to never meet her at the wedding.
A few seats up, a younger voice rose above the hum.
"Forget the paychecks, did you see the photos? Trevor doesn’t even walk beside him; it’s more like... carrying him. Lucas, I mean. He’s crazy about him."
That name pulled Chris’s gaze up for half a second. Lucas Fitzgeralt. The dominant omega everyone had an opinion on.
"Dominant omega," someone else echoed, like they were saying "legend." "No one thought it would actually happen. A pairing like that, it’s history. Whole textbooks will probably cite it someday."
"Well, he’s the only one in what... twenty years? Of course Duke Trevor keeps him safe and loved. His mother, though... the bitch! To traffic your own child..."
The bus swelled with agreement, indignation bouncing between rows.
Chris shifted against the window, the cool glass steadying him while the rest of the bus jostled and squeaked. Someone’s perfume was too sweet, and someone’s elbow kept nudging the aisle. He scrolled aimlessly on his phone without really reading anything.
Up front the talk about Lucas rolled on, softer now but still enough to carry back to him. A few photos passed hand to hand, bright on phone screens. Trevor bending toward Lucas, Lucas’s hand on his arm. Everyone had an opinion.
Chris let the corner of his mouth twitch. Safe and loved, they said. More like monitored and bubble-wrapped. He’d seen enough rich people to know how quickly "protective" turned into "tracking." Still, there was no bite in the thought, just a quiet, almost envious amusement.
He rubbed a thumb over the edge of his phone. Another dominant omega out in the open. Alive. Visible. A whole room full of people saying his name like it meant hope instead of trouble.
Chris exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. ’Good for him.’ Then he dropped his gaze back to the screen, blending back into the noise of the bus.
—
The bus slowed, the chatter dimming as everyone craned their necks toward the windows. The manor rose like something out of a stockholder’s dream, glass facades catching the late light, sleek stone wings unfolding across manicured lawns that looked airbrushed into existence. Banners in cream and gold fluttered at the gates, and even the security booths gleamed like they’d been polished twice over just for the occasion.
Chris let out a slow whistle under his breath. "All this... and this isn’t even the main estate."
He filed out with the others, the hiss of the bus doors sealing behind them. Uniforms were handed out quickly: starched white shirts, black waistcoats with the Fitzgeralt crest stitched in subtle thread at the breast, and polished ties. Chris accepted his bundle without fuss, already tugging the collar straight.
The courtyard buzzed with staff adjusting cuffs, smoothing skirts, and tying aprons. A coordinator with a clipboard and the kind of voice that cut through concrete barked assignments by the handful. Gardens, east wing reception, service halls, ballroom. Chris stood at the edge, uniform jacket slung over his arm, waiting his turn.
"Please not gardens," he muttered, thumb brushing the phone in his pocket. The last thing he needed was to run into Clara playing duchess among the roses. He could dodge most things with sarcasm, but that... that would just be hell.
"Main hall," the clipboard voice snapped, thrusting a slip into Chris’s hand before he could even open his mouth.
He glanced down at it, groaned low in his throat, and shoved it into his pocket. The main hall. Where every important guest in the empire would gather, where the cameras would sweep, and where the staff would be drilled to within an inch of perfection.
Good news: Clara wasn’t getting within spitting distance of that room. Bad news: if she caught wind of him working there, she’d latch on like a leech, fluttering lashes and begging him to sneak her in. He could already hear it: ’Chris, please, just this once, you owe me,’ and his blood pressure spiked at the thought.
He dragged a hand down his face, muttering, "Kill me now."
The corridor to the staff wing smelled faintly of starch and lemon polish. Chris ducked into the men’s changing room with the others, shouldered his way to a free locker and started swapping his T-shirt for the crisp white shirt. Around him buttons clicked, ties were knotted, and someone swore softly about their shoes being too tight.
"Don’t spill anything on the crest," a veteran server muttered, passing by. "You get billed for embroidery."
Chris glanced down at the silver thread over his heart and snorted under his breath. Perfect. Wear a family’s emblem like a bull’s-eye and pay for the privilege. He tugged the waistcoat straight, fingers quick from practice. It fit well enough, if a little snug at the shoulders.
From the next bench a boy barely out of school was fumbling with his tie. "First time?" Chris asked, keeping his tone casual.
The boy nodded nervously. "Yeah. I’ve only done hotels."
"Hotels don’t have nobles," Chris said dryly, looping the boy’s tie once and handing it back to him. "Same rules though. Glasses on trays, trays stay level, don’t look too long at anyone who can buy you twice over."
The boy blinked at him, unsure if that was advice or a joke. Chris gave him a faint smile that could be either.
When the call came, "Main hall staff, line up!" Chris slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his waistcoat and followed the stream out. His shoes clicked against the marble as they filed toward the service corridor that opened just behind the grand staircase.
The swell of music and voices from the main hall rolled toward them like heat. Chris inhaled once, steadying himself. Smile when necessary, keep your head down, and don’t get caught on camera, he reminded himself. A job was a job.
Then, as they reached the door, he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for himself: "Alright, Malek. Showtime. Try not to end up in a designer handbag."