Page 13 of Heat Island
ECS_Admin: Ms. Jones, I’m following up on our last discussion. Unfortunately it will be impossible to assemble a pack of three alphas meeting your specifications on short notice, or even at all. Would you perhaps consider any of our beta companions or alphas who don’t quite meet your qualifications?
I sigh, remembering yesterday’s humiliating conversation.
“At least three alphas?” The representative on the phone had laughed. “Most omegas are lucky to find one suitable alpha for this sort of thing. And you want three? For an escort arrangement? It isn’t going to happen.”
Then she’d promised to reach out to me with anyupdates, not even bothering to hang up before cackling to her coworker about the ridiculous omega who just called for the fifth time.
Josie interrupts my thoughts, dragging me toward the kitchen section. “Saren says we need the twelve-piece cookware set because we’ll be entertaining so much.”
The same Saren who complained when I worked late instead of cooking him dinner.
“What do you think about this juicer?” Josie asks, her eyes sparkling.
“It’s perfect.” I try to match her enthusiasm while my mind drifts back to how I’m going to find a pack well-groomed enough to convince my exes the relationship is real.
The representative had been blunt. I need to lower my standards considerably. That the kind of alphas available for escort arrangements are typically…less polished.
I know, without the rep saying it, that I need to settle for heat-breakers—alphas who help omegas through heats without emotional attachment. Usually desperate, socially awkward types without solid finances or connections who don’t have the option of forming genuine relationships with an omega. Or the gruff, yearning-for-the-good-old-days alphas who still catcall women from construction sites, drink cheap beer, and look down on any man who doesn’t work with his hands.
None of those types are going to convince my exes of anything but my obvious desperation.
I can’t show up at Heat Island with alphas like that. Everyone would see right through it.
Even Saren, Egret, and Brendin, who refused to see the real me for the entirety of our relationship.
“Trin? Are you listening?” Josie waves her hand in front of my face.
“Sorry, just thinking about the flowers for your bouquet.” The lie comes easily.
“You’re the best sister ever.” Josie hugs me tight. “I can’t believe I get to marry my perfect alphas and have my amazing sister plan it all.”
I hug her back, wondering how I’m going to pull this off.
I glance at my watch, ready to fabricate an emergency call from work when a familiar voice cuts through the store’s ambient music.
“Is that the most beautiful girl in the world?”
My stomach drops through the floor. I know that voice—its particular cadence, the slight rasp at the edges. I’ve heard it whisper almost those exact words against my ear in the dark.
Josie squeals and spins around. “Egret.”
He strides toward us, his massive frame wrapped in an expensive navy suit that has been tailored to within an inch of its life. His dark hair is shorter than when we dated, styled in that effortless way that actually takes considerable time and money. His cologne—sandalwood and something citrusy—hits me a moment before recognition should dawn in his eyes.
But it doesn’t.
Josie launches herself into his arms, and he lifts her off the ground in a dramatic spin. “Shopping for our new home?” He kisses her forehead as he sets her back down on the ground, his eyes never once flickering to me. “Did you find everything you wanted?”
“Yes. Trinity’s been helping me pick everything out.” Josie gestures toward me, beaming.
Egret turns to me with a perfectly blank expression,extending his hand as if we’re strangers meeting at a business conference. “You must be the famous Trinity. Josie talks about you constantly.”
My fingers go numb. I stare at his outstretched hand, unable to process what’s happening. Is he really pretending he doesn’t know me? That we weren’t engaged? That he didn’t break things off in the coldest way possible, never to be seen or heard from again?
“Trinity?” Josie prompts, confusion crossing her face.
I force myself to take his hand. His grip is firm, professional—the handshake of someone meeting a stranger, not touching the woman whose body he spent three years thoroughly exploring.
“Nice to meet you,” he says smoothly. Not a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Not a hint of shame.
