11. Chapter 11

Waverly and Jeremy continue their walk around the country club, taking the many twists and turns through the clusters of small villas dotted throughout the property, and the different facilities located strategically along their path. Counting the number of champagne and wine glasses she saw in the hands of the members, her own little game which currently sits at 37.

“Do you like being Nicole’s personal assistant?” Waverly asks.

“Totally, best job I’ve ever had,” he says. “Sure, the hours are suffocating and more often than not I have to deal with the usual breedist prick, but it’s great.”

Waverly nods her head in understanding.

She’s never once had to deal with any sort of bigotry, personally. All her life, Waverly had always been surrounded by open-minded people. People who knew that there was more to life and all its unimaginable wonders than to waste time and effort judging people; basing their worth and contribution to humanity on their biology.

On their breed.

Something that can’t be changed, the same way a person can’t change the color of their skin.

“Does it happen often?” She asks, curious.

“No, not everyone we come across has this incredible dislike of omegas.”

“But when you do?”

For a moment, their fun time slide to the grassy ground beneath them. “I just try to ignore it.”

“It’s hard sometimes,” Jeremy says, giving her a faraway look. “You’re trying to work and do your job, but some idiot in a business suit says otherwise.” He clears is throat. “Looks at you like you don’t deserve the amazing job you have. That the only reason as to why you’re even graced with the opportunity of being in their presence is solely out of pity. If not, then you’re just a piece of meat.”

“Jeremy…”

“Sometimes I don’t know which is worse,” he explains. “But, uh, it’s not all bad, you know? Working with Nicole. We have fun and she never works us too hard, always telling us to take a break and chill. She had a bunch of stuff put into the break room; pool table, video games, everything you can imagine. Once a month we have tournaments.”

“Does she ever join them?”

“Not really. She spends most of her time in her office, or in meetings with board members, lunch dates with colleagues and investors.”

Waverly scratches the inside of her wrist. Brows furrowing upwards softly, somberly. “Not even with friends?”

“She does. She tries.” Jeremy adds. “Just not all the time. It isn’t easy.”

“Oh, okay.” Nothing is in this world, she thought. Everyone puts up a front and has a secret to hide, the difference is: some hide it better than others. She bites her bottom lip.

“I’m probably rambling a bit more than I should,” He says sheepishly. “But Nicole takes care of those closest to her. Hell, she agreed to help me hunt Bigfoot. Not a lot of people would do that.”

“You’re right.”

“I mean, she goes as far as to give Perry’s girlfriend a modeling job just to keep her off the streets.”

“Wait, off the streets?” She asks before leaning forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Like prostitution?”

“She’s more of an escort, technically,” He replies, voice kept at a normal volume. Apparently talk of this nature is commonplace at Whitewater Country Club. Honestly, if extramarital affairs run rampant among its members to the point that the club itself practically goes out of its way to stay secretive in regard to their exploits, she should’ve figured.

“Stephanie used to be a full-time model,” Jeremy continues. “But she never had her big break and when professional jobs started becoming scarce she turned to an escort service.”

“And as an escort, does she ever… you know…?”

He nods his head. “The money’s a lot better and more consistent. Sometimes the businessmen who hire her know Perry. Can’t tell you how many times he’s gone to a function or benefit and sees her on someone else’s arm.”

Waverly is completely flabbergasted. She straightens her back as they take a walk back towards the main building, unable to believe what she’s hearing. This world of interconnecting relationships spider webbing across the other into a clustered mess is beyond confusing. On top of what can only be described as a plague-like epidemic of unfaithful affairs, cheating husbands and dishonest wives. Casual and known to all, masquerading under the guise of some dysfunctional form of polyamory. She stares at Jeremy, searching his eyes for an answer to all this madness and he responds nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. Hey, there’s nothing we can do. The brunette shakes her head and refuses to believe that these impossibly rich bastards are so ravenously void of any sort of moral compass.

‘Eat the Rich’ is a concept she’s quite familiar with her years or reading literature and history—Wynonna even going through a rebellious phase as a teenager where she practically lived and died by it; it’s as if it were the French Revolution and she was some lowly peasant woman keen on butchering a few noblemen in their beds and lobbing the queen’s head off with a meat cleaver—supported by the idea that sometime, someday, the working class would rise up once more with torches and pitchforks; dismantling the establishment and having the streets run red with blue blood. But there’s no point in having to do any of that when the rich themselves are ethically cannibalizing each other!

She feels sick.

She never agreed to be given such an in-depth look into this world.

“H-How does Perry feel about that? About knowing that whenever he sees his girlfriend with some older man, they’re probably going to end up sleeping together.”

“Furious. Frustrated. Disengaged.”

She bites her bottom lip again. “Why is he still with her then? I doubt he actually likes being made a fool.”

“Oh they have, but Perry doesn’t want to let her go. Even while believing that she’s doing this not only for the money but because she can’t stand the sight of him anymore. Too much tension and problems at this point.”

“So now it’s Perry’s fault.”

“A while back he went up the mountains on a hiking trip and came across what appeared to be an abandoned wolf pup. Turns out it wasn’t alone because the mother mistook him as a threat and attacked him, completely tore up his shoulder and his chest. Ruined the tattoo he had.”

Waverly blinks. “His tattoo?” Nicole said he lost it in a car accident.

“Yeah, the accident left him horribly scarred. Perry thinks Stephanie loves him but can’t help but be repulsed by him.”

“That’s unfair.”

“It is. She has sex with others while moonlighting as an escort to compensate for them being unable to.”

By the end of the week if Waverly doesn’t go insane right alongside these people, she’s not sure what will happen.

“Sometimes you want people to realize and understand that their current way of doing things is messed up. That a change needs to happen if they want to survive.”

He licks his lips tentatively. “Or else be doomed to stay stuck in it forever.”

“But they have to see these things out for themselves, you can’t help someone who doesn’t want it.”

“Exactly.”

They fall into a quiet silence, save for Jeremy apologizing for swiftly changing gears from their jovial discussion on Bigfoot, cryptozoological investigation and why bringing an avid photographer to a (now known) bear hotspot is asking for trouble, to an incredibly frustrating and albeit somber window into the secretive lives of some of the country’s elite. On their way back, the stop by in front of a small snack and juice bar with an array of chairs and tables beneath large umbrellas out front.

But then Jeremy, suddenly thirsty, although Waverly suspects it has more to do with the cute barista behind the counter in an apron instead of the less than appetizing selection of meals and beverages listed on their specials sign, heads for the juice bar. Waverly lets him go, the omega male practically checking his appearance in the reflective screen of his phone.

A quick, “how do I look?” before she sends him off with an extra bounce in his step. Grateful that the bar is void of customers, save for the old man currently sleeping at one of the tables. Waverly makes a face, trying not to point. But Jeremy waves a dismissive hand.

“Don’t worry about him.” He says. “He always comes around at this time to take a nap there.”

Ah. “Okay then.”

While Jeremy is busy trying to casually lean against the counter of the juice bar in an attempt to be cool, Waverly takes a walk around the corner towards the portion of the restaurant dedicated solely to serving quick on the go snacks and small portioned meals, probably running with a healthy/dietary gimmick judging by the amount of times the words ‘100% organic’ is written next to every item on the menus. On a rack beside the counter is a number of snacks that look as unappealing as they are expensive. She truly wants to know as to what well-meaning individual thought up of creating and marketing tofu chocolate bars. To her intrigue, there’s several of these chocolates covered tofu bars lined up in different colored packages. Some advertising the inclusion of peanuts, cinnamon, orange zest, and extra peanuts.

Even with dabbling in veganism from time to time, whenever she could afford it, Waverly would never shell out close to three dollars one of these appetite suppressants.

She does what the majority of Canadians and slightly hungry normal thinking people would do, go for the cheaper, tooth rotting candy bars sitting behind the counter.

“One milk chocolate Hershey bar, please.”

“No problem,” the older man behind the counter says with a smile, “That’ll be two dollars.”

“Sure.” You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

It’s highway robbery. But she reaches into her purse—the same croc-embossed leather handbag with the Saint Laurent logo monogramed on the side, worth two thousand dollars—and hands the man the bills in exchange for the chocolate bar that would’ve costed a dollar back home.

She then takes a seat at one of the tables, the overhead umbrella proving shade, and takes it upon herself to return to the land of the poor and downtrodden. The peasants who have to spend their lives working just to afford the chance of being turned away at the country club’s gates.

Scrolling through the dashboard of her Instagram, she likes all the photos she sees Chrissy had taken while on the job at the bookstore. Continuing downward she finds Wynonna’s photos, whiskey bottles mostly, and gives them a like.

It’s a mindless action that brings comfort, that is until she sees one of Champ posing shirtless in front of his pickup truck with sunglasses on. Arms raised and flexing for the camera. Rolling her eyes, Waverly immediately skips past him, wondering to herself as to why she still follows the egotistical idiot.

The omega finds him again on her feed, but this time in the form of a minute-long video. Out of curiosity she presses her thumb on the post and the video plays, dated yesterday in the afternoon.

The video itself isn’t different from anything else she’s seen of the beta on social media. He’s just telling the camera what he did during the day, always exaggerating the details to appeal to a wider audience. Brandishing the slightly bruise beneath his left eye as some sort of trophy; Nicole never touched him, so Champ must have gotten it at Shorty’s for trying to pick a fight with someone.

“Idiot,” she mutters under her breath before putting the phone down.

Just in time to catch a small boy—no less than seven-years-old—standing on his tip toes and leaning over the counter trying to grab someone’s attention. The older gentleman who had attended her was probably in the back and couldn’t hear him, and since Jeremy and the cute barista he was trying to flirt with were on the other side, chatting amicably, it would be awhile before someone heard the boy’s call.

The boy huffs. He then tries to launch himself higher into the air and onto the counter to grab a candy bar. But try as he might, he can’t seem to get his footing until he finally does and is halfway on top before he starts wriggling his feet at the lack of solid ground beneath. He’s back on the right side of the stand and growls.

“Here.”

The boy turns around and makes a face before pointing to himself. “M-Me?”

“Yeah.” Waverly nods, holding out a piece of the Hershey bar towards him. “I’d rather share with you than to see you get in trouble; sit with me until they come back.”

The boy looks back towards the empty counter, and then around, before coming closer. He accepts the piece of chocolate and takes a seat opposite Waverly. He’s definitely seven and from the expensive dark jeans, the white shirt with the Emporio Armani bird logo located on the breast pocket and the pair of sneakers on his feet, there’s no doubt in the omega’s mind that he’s someone’s child.

“Do you know where your parents are?” She asks softly, “They must be worried about you.”

He shakes his head. “They’re busy.”

“What’s your name?” Waverly asks, starting off slow not wanting to startle the boy.

“Mason.”

“Well, Mason, are your parents too busy to pay attention to you?”

“They’re too busy to pay attention to anything.”

She hands him another piece of the Hershey bar and he takes it gladly, thanking her even without raising his head so she can see his face. Waverly bites her bottom lip.

“Do they work a lot?”

The boy, Mason, looks up and scratches his arm. “Sometimes they do.”

He has a full head of thick blonde hair combed back with a few unruly strands refusing to conform, falling over his forehead to the side of his bright, honey-golden eyes. He then smiles shyly, fair cheeks blushing a pretty pink.

“You’re pretty.” He says, eyes then trained on a small speck on the table instead of Waverly’s own. She smiles, he’s sweet and cautious. A far cry from the confidence his alpha scent predicts for him later in life. He’ll learn when he’s older.

“Thank you, Mason, and you’re quite handsome yourself.” He blushes harder, going as far as to rub his own face to erase the embarrassment.

“That’s what my Mama always says,” he sulks.

Waverly leans back against the chair, breaking one last piece and handing it to him. “Well, she’s right.”

He shrugs his shoulders. Definitely at that age.

“She always says stuff like that, and Mommy does too. But they say it too much.”

“And you don’t like it?” He nods. “How come?”

“Sometimes I don’t feel handsome.”

“Do you sometimes feel ugly?” She asks, and Mason gives her a look of disgust.

“I don’t feel good. Not ugly.” He corrects, and Waverly apologizes; mentally facepalming because, yeah, the kid may have feelings of inadequacy, but god forbid he isn’t narcissistic enough to not know that he’s a good looking, angel-faced brat.

Unbelievable.

“Do you have a grandpa?”

“I used to, but he, uh, he passed away.”

Before Grandpa Edwin succumbed to his long battle with lung cancer, he used to regale the girls with stories about cowboys and bandits in the Wild West. His visits were always signified by the sound of Blue Suede Shoes playing loudly from the cassette player in his car, Elvis Presley’s deep voice crooning verse after verse into the air while he sings alone. Slightly tone-deaf and leaving a trail of wilting flowers after him.

“I’m sorry.” Mason mumbles, eyes tempering and almost teary. Waverly notes that he tries to hold them back, sniffling and wiping his nose. “I don’t like my grandpa,” he adds, sniffling again. “He wants me to do things I don’t like.”

“Yeah? Like what, Mason?”

“Sports. Football, mostly.”

“Have you tried talking to your grandpa?” It’s a fair question but can already surmise that doing so wouldn’t matter.

He shakes his head. “He doesn’t care, he wants me to be a big strong alpha.”

Waverly bites her tongue to hold back a growl, angrily, she crumples up the brown wrapper and its silver foil into a tight ball before chucking towards the nearby garbage bin. Mason regards with an inquisitive look, curious to know what her next move will be. What guiding light she’ll bestow upon him to follow.

She’s seen all the wonders and privilege that come with being wealthy and important, growing up with ideas that everything would fine, everything would be perfect, if she had several hundred thousand dollars to her name. That her world would be filled with vibrant colors, instead of the usual bleak and monochrome tones sprinkled here and there to ruin the overall picture.

Oh, how ignorance is surely bliss; now that she’s on the other side of the glass with a firsthand look, she’s knows that every childhood fantasy of dreaming to be like the characters on her once favorite television show centered around rich kids in high school is a complete fallacy.

“You don’t have to be a football player or play sports to be a strong alpha.” The omega exclaims. “You can be whatever you want to be, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Can I get a smile then? A big one!”

Mason smiles brightly and Waverly can’t help but mirror him. She sees a jogger stop by the snack bar, panting and wheezing before walking towards the counter where the sweet old man from earlier, still in his apron with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up around his shoulders. She then turns back to Mason.

“Hey, there’s—” but he’s gone. Looking around, the boy is nowhere to be seen and Waverly, suddenly stricken with terror, stands to look for him. The majority of the area is completely barren, save for the random instances of people walking up and down the path.

“Are you alright there Miss?” The jogger asks, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand. The old man behind the counter is just as concerned.

“D-Did you see a boy here? Just now?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Right now, when you came, I wasn’t sitting with a child? Blonde hair, alpha?”

The jogger shakes his head and the old man shrugs his shoulders, doing the same. “You were sitting by yourself and on your phone.”

Oh…

Seeing no other reason as to continue asking for Mason, she cuts her losses and puts a hand to her forehead. Blaming her momentary confusion on the heat and apologizing to them for invoking a slight sense of panic at the thought of a missing child. She checks her phone again before returning it back inside her handbag and walking around the corner to the juice bar with Jeremy and his crush.

“Hey, sorry about that.” His face is too thickly shrouded in an ethereal glow and the omega can’t blame him.

“No problem.”

As they continue their walk, Waverly vigilantly watches all the people they pass by. All the people walking the same path, dressed in expensive clothing made from the finest material, the numerous luxury brand logos embossed on their shirts, their pants, their sneakers, their hats and purses. Each one she sees, at first, is recognizable, but they further they go and the more members they come across—casually greeting a few with smiles and waves—the stranger and obscure the names are. It’s almost funny, these people don’t know that the brunette isn’t one of them, the dress and the heels and the handbag providing the perfect cover. The guards at Remus Pointe and the bodyguard Saks had turned their noses up at her, smelling the scent of poverty emanating from her pores. But here she is, deep in the heart of one of the most exclusive country club in all of Alberta, and no one can tell that her base salary is less than fraction of the average required to even be offered a membership here. Or maybe, that’s the just it: there isn’t much of a difference besides the ability to actually be able to afford all of life’s materialistic treasures.

But even as she thinks this, ready to reconcile her feelings about these people, she comes across a group of older men huddled together in a pack-like formation strolling past them. Half stare at Jeremy and herself with distrust, while the others turn their heads away in revulsion. A few were growling as well and that gets Jeremy to move faster.

Of course, right when she is just about to change her whole view, she is reminded of why the gap between the rich bastards and people like herself exists.

To be frank, Waverly can’t wait for this day to end. For Nicole to finishing up her meeting and for them to go back to Remus Pointe and forget everything and anything having to do with Whitewater Country Club and the insanity-inducing madness of its disingenuous members.

And to her immense displeasure, the day won’t end without the omega having to come face to face with one of them.

“FORE!”

They see it coming at the last minute, golf ball hurling towards them at lightning speed like a meteor barreling through the clouds in a display of fire and chaos. Jeremy is quick on his feet and grabs Waverly by the forearms with a sort of strength only bestowed upon those in an adrenaline fight or flight rush and pushes to the side where the ball sails past them. Like a bullet, it breaks through the air before embedding itself into the side of a trash can. The impact leaving a brutal and obvious dent into its once pristine and magnificent side where it bounces off and slowly rolls back. Coming to stop beside Jeremy’s foot.

“Hey, you okay?” Jeremy asks, eyes wide, still panting.

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine. You?” He nods his head before releasing the tight hold he has on her arms and sigh with relief. Rubbing them in remorse, silently apologizing for grabbing her so forcefully.

He then bends down to pick up the golf ball still sitting on the ground beside his foot. The small dimpled white ball with the initials ‘WCC’ monogrammed onto its surface is insignificant and the irony that this tiny thing could have caused so much damage doesn’t escape her.

Instead she looks to its owner, the one who hurled the ball their way. To the horizon, a golf cart leisurely strolls down the vibrant green hill it sat upon towards them. There are two men dressed in white and both of them, underneath the shadow of the rim of their golf hat look less than pleased.

Waverly doesn’t know why, until they get closer and start whistling at them. “Hey, hey boy, hand the ball over.”

“Good god no,” Jeremy groans quietly under his breath. “Not them. Not again.”

“Hurry up, boy, I don’t have all day for you to be wasting my time. Let’s go.” One of the men, short brown hair and thick black-rimmed glasses, huffs agitatedly. Jeremy moves to give back the golf ball, but Waverly grabs his wrist.

The man with the glasses narrows his eyes and growls. “Are you fucking deaf?”

But before Waverly, or even Jeremy is able to stop her from lowering herself to the rude man’s level, she bites back. “Are you fucking blind? You could’ve hurt someone!”

“I said ‘fore’ or do you not know basic golf terminology?”

“Do you not know what it means to be a decent human being?” The brunette challenges. “My friend and I could have gotten hurt and yet, you still haven’t apologized.”

The man stares at her intently, lip curling back in disgust. As if she could have the sheer audacity to not only stand up to him, but to also think that she deserved an apology. How positively absurd!

Despite there being several instances in ancient history where omegas are revered and celebrated—the Mayans worshiped omegas as harbingers of life and new beginnings and Genghis Khan serving as a warlord for the largest contiguous empire in history—they say that ever since the dawning of recorded history, omegas have always been considered second-class citizens at best, property at worst. Centuries spent being nothing more than slaves, concubines, bargaining chips, pawns in someone else’s games, have prepared her for this.

That deep inside their DNA, ingrained into the cells that serve as the building blocks of the human body, an omega inherently knows when they are being reduced to the bare bones of their existence by a breedist. A bigoted prick who believes in the delusion that their breed is superior and unquestionably deserving of everything the world has to offer.

The man with the thick black-rimmed glasses and unending sneer of disgust etched onto his features is no different.

“How dare you talk to me that way, you little bitch.” He spits, hands balling into fists at his sides. “I ought to have you and whatever pitiful wretch you lay under removed from this club immediately!”

“On what grounds, you undignified bastard?”

“Undignified?” The man gasps, pale face turning several shades of red. Almost purple. “Undignified?”

“Waverly… let’s just leave.” Jeremy tries, but the brunette remains firm.

The man sputters and trembles in anger, he’s a powder keg on the verge of exploding. Yet, the second man seen riding around on the golf cart, steps off. Dressed in the same white attire as per the club’s rules, he towers over everyone considerably and while his height leaves much to be intimidated of, his movements across the space between them is silent.

It’s only when he stands before them that Waverly realizes who he is.

“Now, now, Tucker, let’s not get too hasty.” Victor says, clapping a strong hand on the man’s shoulder. “It was an accident, but you did almost hit them. So, apologize.”

“I will not!” The man, now known as Tucker, shrugs Victor’s hand away. “I single-handedly built a prestigious university made to produce a treasure trove of successful alumni. I am an impact player, a Gardner, and if you think that I will sully my good name just to appease some omega bitch than you sir, are even more of a fool than they are!”

Waverly’s eyes widen into saucers. How can a human being be so repulsive? Now she truly understands and feels more than sorry for Jeremy for having to deal with this level of humanity’s worse on a regular basis. Frustrated, that the man Ghost River University constantly regards as a role model and leader to the hundreds of students filing through its doors, going as far as to name their library after, is an unredeemable breedist prick.

She is now more than thankful for not winning the Tucker Gardner Excellence in Academics Award last semester.

“Tucker, please. Have some dignity, it wouldn’t kill you to apologize to them.”

“Never.” Tucker snarls. Turning sharply on his heel, he returns to the golf cart. “You alphas may enjoy playing the hero to a bunch of dirty omegas, gets your fucking cocks hard. But we betas have higher standards and I refuse to waste any more of my precious time with the likes of a sniveling little coward and some uncouth whore!”

“You are over exaggerating,” Victor sighs.

But Tucker gets on the golf car and the engine roars to life viciously, the beta throwing the vehicle into reverse before putting it back into drive and slamming his foot down on the pedal. The vibrant green grass is ruined beneath the burning rubber, a small cloud of dirt filling the air as he takes off. Waverly sighs, relieved that she no longer has to deal with such a horrid bastard. Only to be reminded, and proven deathly wrong, that Victor is still here.

Tucker showed all his colors, Victor hasn’t.

“I am truly sorry that you had to deal with that. He has an inferiority complex and has been indoctrinated since birth with the idea that he’s a descendant of the Romanov Family; the rightful heir to the Russian throne.” Victor chuckles, “Despite half the country for the past century claiming it for themselves as well.”

Waverly doesn’t join him in his obvious merriment; of course, he’d find such a thing hilarious. Since the untimely assassination of Tsar Nicholas II and his entire family in 1918, not a year goes by where someone isn’t claiming to be Anastasia or a descendant of the last royal family to the country’s name. All the while the alpha’s own pedigree is well documented and known to anyone with a semblance functioning brain matter.

It’s amazing to see that medieval rivalry still being upheld in the modern era.

Nevertheless, she could honestly care less. “Still, doesn’t absolve him from acting like a complete asshole.”

“Won’t find me arguing with you there.”

“So, why go golfing with him, then?”

Victor shrugs his shoulders. “Business.”

The brunette frowns, shaking her head at him. She’s already standing at the edge of an abyss full of preying hyenas clawing at the walls for the next meal. Why not lean over the rabbit hole and see what more could be revealed about this messed up world. “He’s a horrible and disrespectful person, but let’s excuse all his less than reputable actions because he’s a great business partner?”

A shiver runs up her spine at the look in Victor’s eyes: a quiet split-second change before returning to the faux kindness playing upon his face. Had she not witnessed the kind of person he is behind closed doors she would’ve fallen for it too.

“We all have to do things we don’t want in order to get ahead; life is all about sacrifice.” He explains as a matter-of-factly.

“Not when it comes to morals and ethics.”

“Everything has a price, I’m sure we can agree on that.”

He smirks. A true, honest to god smirk; a wolfish smile that shakes the omega down to her core. Teeth bared, with a hint of fangs peeking out against his bottom lip. Eyes turning red for a few heartbeats before settling back into their natural honey-golden color beneath the shadow of his hat. If he could, he’d eat her alive and use her bones to pick his teeth.

Victor knows who she is, there’s no doubt in her mind, about that. For once, Waverly doesn’t know what to do or say next. Especially with knowing the kind of person he is behind closed doors.

“Yeah, uh huh, w-we’ll be right there,” she hears Jeremy say, on the phone before hanging up. “Hey Waverly, the meetings over so we should head on back.”

The shift in Jeremy’s demeanor does not go unnoticed. Be neither Waverly, or Victor.

“Cole’s finished? Well, why don’t I walk with you?” He’s not leaving and Jeremy visibly flinches.

“Oh, that’s no necessary—”

“Nonsense!” The alpha cuts in with a dismissive cut of his eyes. “It’s no trouble at all.”

Victor bends his arm, extending it towards Waverly. “Shall we?”

She takes it, not wanting to know what would happen if she didn’t.

“She was a wild child, messy too. More often than not my wife would have to bathe her after every meal, especially if we had pasta. She loves the sauce, so much so that most of it would end up on her face than in her mouth.” Victor laughs.

“When she was five, for the entire year, she would come to us and say that she wanted to be a firefighter, a doctor, a police officer. Every day she wanted to be something different. Every day was a different dream.”

Waverly, against the wishes of the most rational and logical parts of her mind, smiles. Genuinely smiles at the number of stories Victor tells her about Nicole’s childhood. The fun, wild child who went through so many phases in an attempt to find herself. The rock star phase where she had the habit of wearing heavy eyeliner stolen from her older sister’s makeup kits, the paleontologist phase where dinosaurs were so awesome and all she wanted to do was watch documentaries on them. It’s cute. Imagining a small ginger-haired child with bright eyes and an even brighter mind, so curious about the world around her and where she fit into it. Inquisitive and full of big fantastical dreams.

Admittedly, she enjoys hearing all of it. If she had to make a definitive choice between learning the ins and outs of the world that belongs to people like Victor, Tucker Gardner, and everyone else within the 1%, and learning everything she can about Nicole’s life as a human being instead of wealthy CEO, she’d pick the latter. Wholeheartedly, pick the latter. More than anything else in the world.

The toxicity of this wretched lifestyle is cancerous. And walking beside Victor, arm in arm with him while Jeremy sweats profusely behind them, is only furthering that idea.

“And now?” She asks. “What do you think of her?”

The alpha gives her a pearly white smile. “Of course. She’s the apple of my eye and I’m more than proud of how she’s handled the company, we’re going to be publicly traded in a few months.”

Waverly puts up a smile. “Must be exciting.”

“It is… but,” He starts. “What about you? To my knowledge, you’re Nicole’s friend. Correct?”

“Y-Yes…?”

“Is that a question or a statement?” He asks, his voice suddenly has a certain edge to it and instantly a wave of apprehension washes over her.

“It’s a statement.”

“How sure are you of that? After all, you two just met not too long ago.”

Waverly narrows her eyes.

“We just met, yes. But I feel like we’re going to be good friends even if it’s just a little while.”

It’s a complete and utter lie. They both know this, but Waverly isn’t about to paint her relationship with Nicole in a negative light by verbally stamping a legitimate expiration date on it. Everyone who is aware of their contract knows that by the end of the week, three days so far and two left to go, she’ll be gone. Her college tuition and student loans will be paid for and she’ll never come across the likes of them ever again. The brunette already harbors ill will about the technicality that she is indeed, by sheer definition alone, a prostitute.

It’s taken time, and effort, and learning just how ravenous these people are, for her to accept and embrace this once in a lifetime experience; as too good to be true as it is. But she’ll be damned to is she will willingly let this snake of a man corner her in such a way.

She’ll stares at the alpha and is only pulled away from his intense gaze when they arrive at the club’s main building, a short walk around the corner where they spot Nicole in front of it. Arms crossed and furious, the forced smile plastered to her features is pulled so tight it’ll split her face in half if pulled any further.

“What’s this?” Waverly can already see the vein throbbing angrily on Nicole’s forehead.

Victor nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders. “Just having a little chat with Waverly.”

“Clearly. How’d you guys meet?”

“Through Tucker—”

“Tucker?” Nicole exclaims.

“Calm down, he said a few things before speeding off in his golf cart in a huff.”

“It’s never ‘just a few things’ with that bastard.”

“Nothing that hasn’t been dealt with before.”

“Doesn’t matter, things are different, and you know that.”

“Since when?”

“I’m not having this discussion with you,” Nicole barks.

“See how she antagonizes me, Waverly?”

“You are far from a victim—”

“And are you really going to lecture me on what makes a victim and what doesn’t?” Victor snorts. “Excuse me for not having the required number of scars needed to qualify for victimhood.”

“Good God why must everything be so difficult with you, Dad?”

Waverly motions to stand beside her, closer, to reach out and grab the older woman’s hand and remind her it’s okay, it’s okay. Instead, the omega keeps to herself and waits patiently for someone, anyone, to make the next move. And to her immense displeasure and surprise, Victor, Nicole’s own father, takes great joy in his daughter being caught off guard—pushed into a corner with no exit for her to run for.

“Dad? Oh that’s rich, I haven’t heard you call me that since you were locked up.”

Everything slows to a stop, punctuated solely by Jeremy’s audible gasp.

Nicole’s eyes widen in shock, head rearing back as though she had just been slapped. Immediately, Waverly snatches her hand back from Victor’s arm.

She takes a step back and simply stares. Stares at the two alphas before her, the amount of tension burning between them hangs heavily in the air. Thick and unrelenting, swallowing everything in its wake like a hungry black hole eager to destroy everything in its path. To the side, Jeremy looks shell-shocked. He looks as though he wants the earth to open up and swallow him up.

Nicole is no better.

If anything, she’s worse.

“Oops!” He says in fake surprise, going as far as to cover his mouth with his hand. He then turns to Waverly, “You didn’t know, did you?”

Waverly shifts her gaze from him to Nicole and furrows her brows.

“W-What is he talking about?”

For once, Nicole flits her eyes towards her but doesn’t hold it. Looking away instantly.