Chapter 11: Chapter 11: A mistake from the past.
Chris set the phone back on the nightstand, the headlines still glowing faintly in his thoughts.
He hadn’t needed to look. He knew enough about Lucas Fitzgeralt from passing mentions; everyone did. But curiosity had its place, and after years of managing himself with a certain clinical precision, Chris wasn’t afraid of a little information. He wasn’t naïve either.
Dominant omega. He’d run the tests more than once, partly because Mia nagged, feeling bad that she and Andrew were more than a beta, and partly because he wanted confirmation that nothing was slipping past the inhibitors. And nothing ever did. The prescription worked as long as he kept up with it, and he did. No lapses, no emergencies. Just a routine he managed like bills or deadlines.
Trevor Fitzgeralt... he scoffed at the name; it was him, his misgendering, that brought him back to the clinic almost nine years ago.
’I should thank him, really. Without that second visit, I would have been more careless about it.’
If the timing had been different, he might’ve been "paired" with one of them: Trevor Fitzgeralt himself, Dax of Saha, the kind of man who looked at people like they were weapons, or Marianne Lancaster, another dominant alpha whose family would have paraded him like a trophy.
’Or all three. How would that actually work?’ He wondered. He had heard rumors that Lucas had not only Trevor but also Dax at his fingers and based on what that doctor told him, maybe it was the truth.
’I shouldn’t care about this.’
Chris let the thought go with a shake of his head and pushed the phone farther across the nightstand, as if distance would help silence the noise it had stirred. The clock ticked steadily toward morning whether he liked it or not.
Fine. If Mia had dragged him into this circus, he might as well get moving.
He swung his legs off the bed, feet pressing against the cool floorboards, and crossed to the small cabinet where he kept his prescriptions. One amber bottle clicked easily into his palm. He popped the cap, tipped out a pill, and swallowed it with the last of last night’s water, the chalky aftertaste already familiar enough to ignore.
He yawned hard enough for his jaw to make a small pop sound and looked at his desk full of notes and sketches he had finished last night.
He already sent the mail with the deliverables’ final form and blissfully for a while he was free, without contracts or work lined up.
He scratched one of his shoulders with lazy movements and decided to take a shower and then deal with the disaster he had to clean on the desk.
Chris peeled the shirt over his head and let it drop onto the chair, following it with the pants. The mirror caught him sideways, its edge angled just enough to make him pause.
With clothes on, he could pass for what everyone assumed, a lean, unremarkable beta. That was the whole point of the inhibitors, the careful grooming, and the choice of casual cuts and looser fits.
But stripped down, the truth was harder to ignore. The taper of his waist into broader hips, the length of his limbs, the softness that sat over hard muscle. It was all omega, even without the scent to give him away. Elegant lines, like someone had designed him to attract as many eyes as possible.
He rolled his shoulders once, not admiring so much as cataloging. He knew he looked good. He just preferred not to deal with the attention that came with it.
With a faint snort at his own reflection, Chris turned away and padded into the bathroom. The shower knobs squeaked faintly under his hand, steam blooming as water thundered against tile. He stepped in, letting it wash everything else out of his head.
The shower left him loose and drowsy, heat soaking into his skin until the last of the night’s stiffness unraveled. He toweled off, dressed in soft joggers and an old t-shirt, and padded barefoot back into the kitchen. The kettle hissed, the scent of coffee filling the small apartment as he leaned against the counter, scrolling idly through news he already knew too much about.
His desk still looked like a battlefield, but for once, he didn’t have to touch it. No contracts looming, no deadlines crawling up his spine. Just coffee, sunlight cutting in through the blinds, and a rare hour of stillness.
He’d just sat down, mug warm between his hands, when the phone buzzed. The name flashing across the screen pulled his brow down.
"Ethan?" he muttered, then thumbed the call open. "What’s wrong?"
The line crackled for a second before Ethan’s voice came sharp, a little too fast:
"Chris, you need to know... Clara’s in the city. She’s here for the Fitzgeralt marriage."
Chris went very still. His thumb tightened around the ceramic handle, and the mug nearly slipped. "You’re joking."
"I wish I was. She’s already posting about it, tagging every tabloid she can find. And you know her... she’ll sniff around anyone even remotely tied to Fitzgeralt. I figured you’d want the warning."
Chris exhaled through his teeth, rubbing a hand down his face. Clara. Disaster didn’t even begin to cover her. She’d been a mistake years ago, a fling to get Andrew and Mia off his back, but her tendency to look like someone she wasn’t made his life a living hell with her. And worse, she’d worshiped Trevor Fitzgeralt like he was some kind of messiah.
Of course she would come running for this circus.
"Thanks," Chris said dryly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "For fuck’s sake... and I thought Mia ruined my day."
"What happened?" Ethan asked, cautious now.
Chris let out a humorless laugh. "Well, let’s say I’ll be a waiter at the wedding. Mia roped me in. She’s in heat and most likely forgot her dates again."
There was a pause on the other end, then a low whistle. "You’re kidding. Fitzgeralt’s circus, with Clara running around like a deranged groupie? That’s..."
"—a nightmare," Chris cut in, voice flat.
"Relax," Ethan said, his tone shifting to something closer to reassurance. "She’s going with her family. That means she won’t cause trouble, not while they’re watching. You know how her father is... face before fun."
Chris stopped pacing, shoulders slumping a fraction. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. "Great. So I get to dodge her stares and her obsessive babble instead of a full-blown disaster." He muttered then, almost to himself, "And I can’t even drink anything to wash this shit down."