I kind of hate to admit it, and maybe it’s the placebo effect, but the rest of my hangover really is melting away. It makes sense—why chug water when you can inject it into your veins?
The answer is that the latter isinsaneand requires a medical professional. But it’s nice to not stress my stomach any further.
For the first time in Morgan’s presence, I’m actually… relaxed. This is nice.
Morgan sighs and stands, lifting her phone. “I’ve got to take this. I’ll meet you at the event center. If you spend less than sixty euros on lunch, you’re fired.”
And then she’s gone.
“She was kidding, right?” I murmur to my nail tech.
She giggles and shrugs. “Yeah… I think so.”
Chapter 12
JAMIE
Morgan texts me the driver’s number, and he lets me know when he’s outside. He tells me he can take me anywhere, but I ask to go back to the hotel. I don’t have all that much time before I need to be at the venue.
Even if Morgan was joking about spending sixty euros on lunch… the omega in me can’t bear to disobey her. For better or worse, the hotel bar is pretty expensive, so I manage to hit the target by getting the fanciest latte possible, a gourmet sandwich, and a fancy cheesecake dessert to-go.
After that, it’s up to the room to change into my clothes for the evening and to start battling the anxiety rising in my stomach.
#
The backstage area is dim and criss-crossed with wires. I stand behind the curtain, moments from stepping out in front of the gathered crowd.
I never should have agreed to this. I’m shaking so badly everyone will be able to tell, and I might vomit.
A warm hand clasps my shoulder, and I hear her voicebehind me. “Relax. You’ve got this.”
Calm ripples from her touch. She could say anything and I’d believe her. My lungs can suddenly fill again, and I stop hyperventilating.
She steps up beside me, gives a slight nod, the leads me out on stage. The applause is like the roar of a train, and the lights are so bright that I can’t see the audience. It’s just Morgan, me, and the host. Not so different from dinner.
It helps that the host is a curvy Irish woman with reddish-brown hair and a warm, calm affect. She’s already introduced us to the audience, so she pitches Morgan the first question.
On the stage, Morgan is a force of nature. I don’t need to see the audience to feel them respond to her as she captures every iota of attention.
I don’t even realize the host has asked me a question until Morgan looks to me and nods slightly.
At least I caught the keyword—access. The first question is about access.
I talk about how the extra obstacles to getting a prescription prevented me from going on suppressants until recently. I describe the limits I put on myself to cope—the limits all omegas live with.
The crowd murmurs compassionately.
For some reason, it’s taken me until this moment to realize that most betas don’t know an omega. Most betas have no idea what we omegas face on a daily basis. And I guess it doubly surprises me that… they care. At least some of them. Enough of them. Enough for my nerves to fall away, replaced by the conviction of my purpose.
The rest of the event flies by. I feel self-possessed, alive, electric. Confident.
Then it’s over, and the crowd is cheering, and I follow Morgan off the stage.
“Great work,” she says, and I glow.
There’s a reception right after, with another open bar and incredible hors d’oeuvres, like at the anniversary party.
As Morgan and I step out into the event hall, I realize I don’t know anyone and I have no idea how to mingle. I’m sure I’m supposed to make myself scarce, so I linger a few steps behind her.
