Page 93 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

I’m about to skip ahead when the audio shifts.

In the late afternoon, the office sounds thin out—most people gone for the day. Phoebe’s still at her desk. I can hear the click of her mouse, the soft tap of her fingers on the keyboard.

Then her phone buzzes against the desk.

She picks up. “Hello, Marc-André.”

But her voice sounds completely different. Low, warm, with a seductive quality that rolls through the syllables of his name like she’s tasting them.

“Yes, I’m doing well. How are you?”

Then she laughs and I have to press my earphones closer to make sure it’s actually her. Because it isn’t her bright, self-conscious laugh that I’ve gotten to know—it’s a lower, throatier sound.

“Yes, we’re still on for Saturday. Be at mine by eight. I’ll be wearing that thing you liked last time.”

She laughs at whatever he says in response—it sounds breathless and conspiratorial, a laugh I’ve never heard from her before. I can hear her chair shift as she leans back, settling into the conversation the way you sink into a hot bath. No time, really. Right. She must’ve been lying—this has to be her boyfriend. But why would she lie about having one?

Then her voice changes.

“What?” The seduction drops out of her tone like a trapdoor opening. “That’s two hundred more than last time.”

She’s trying to keep her voice low, but the panic bleeds through, her voice rising to a pitch she can’t control.

“No, I—I understand. I know rates change. It’s just—that’s a lot, Marc-André. That’s...”

She pauses, and I hear her breathing quicken. Whatever Marc-André is saying, it’s setting her on edge.

“Fine.” The word comes out resigned. “Fine, but you’ll have to stay until lunchtime the next day, and...”

Her voice drops to a whisper so low the desk mic barely catches it. I press the headphones harder against my ears, leaning forward on the bed.

“...I want you to fuck me all night. And no talking, like last time.”

She laughs softly at whatever he says in response.

Then the phone clatters against the desk.

I stare at the waveform on my laptop screen, the green line flat and silent now, and feel the pieces rearrange themselves in my head with the clean, decisive click of a puzzle falling into place.

Holy shit.

She’s not talking to a boyfriend. She’s talking to an escort.

Phoebe Brandt is using alpha escorts. That’s why she’s in debt and she keeps checking her phone. That has to be it. She has a secret double life behind that bright, friendly surface. She’s just a woman spending money she doesn’t have on—in her own words—getting fucked all night.

And just like that, my mind is back in Max’s office. His hands around my wrists, his mouth hot against mine, the low growl in his throat when I bit his lip. The way his body pinned me to the wall and I could feel every inch of him through his clothes. The way I wanted more, not less. The way I arched into him like I was trying to climb inside his skin.

What would it be like if he fucked me all night?

Stop.

But the thought won’t stop. Because the need in Phoebe’s voice is starting to sound more and more familiar.

I turn off the recording and set a reminder to delete the files in the morning.

Phoebe Brandt is not the mole.

I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, and I already know I won’t be sleeping tonight.