Ivan POV
Back to Work
The lights are too bright, the clothes are a size too tight, and the stylists keep brushing over my skin like I'm a mannequin. Still, I show up. Still, I pose. Still, I smile on cue.
Because this is the job.
And this shoot—this overhyped, overly symbolic "empowering omega" spread for Zogue—is my last major commitment before my heat hits. If my body sticks to schedule, I've got maybe three days left. Four, if I'm lucky and the suppressors from the island did more than delay the inevitable.
We've been back for just over a week, and it's jarring how quickly Zander returned to form. No more sandals or straw hats or fruit skewers under sunlight. He's back in his three-piece armor, exuding enough cold authority to freeze a room. The moment we stepped off the boat, he slipped the mask back on like it never came off.
And I get it. I do. That's the world he lives in. But sometimes, when I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm not looking—or when he texts me stupid reminders like "Drink water. You're probably dehydrated."—I see him again.
The Zander from the island. The one who existed without boardrooms or bloodlines. The one who wasn't a Vale, but just… Zander.
Sometimes, I wonder if I could ever be that place for him. The quiet. The escape. The island.
But then I step onto set, and the world snaps back into its regular shape.
---
Today's shoot is for Zogue. Yes. Zogue. Hilarious.
I've been named Omega of the Year.
Which sounds impressive until you realize it probably has more to do with who I'm dating than what I've done. Still, I can't find it in myself to care. I'm good at what I do. Whether or not they picked me to suck up to Zander Vale, I'll prove I deserve it—on my own terms.
The concept is supposed to be bold. Revolutionary. Uplifting. A high-profile spread featuring omegas in diverse fields—science, business, fashion, military—meant to showcase how far we've come.
But looking around at the camera angles, the soft lighting, the emphasis on jawlines and waistlines and carefully rehearsed vulnerability, I wonder if it actually changes anything. If these perfectly curated visuals, stamped with phrases like Power and Voice and Freedom, actually reach the omegas who need them. Or if this is just another fantasy sold back to us with a gold leaf border.
Is this what women on Earth felt like? Pushed into empowerment while still expected to stay soft, sweet, and slightly apologetic for existing?
Maybe.
But at least I look phenomenal.
That helps.
---
I'm mid-pose, trying not to overthink my next expression, when I spot him.
Harry.
The protagonist of this world. The one the original Ivan was supposed to be jealous of while clinging to Dorian's scraps. A gentle foil to Dorian's cruelty. Soft-spoken. Steady. Reliable.
He still is all those things.
But now, he also looks like a ghost of himself.
The hoodie he's wearing drapes off his shoulders like it doesn't belong to him anymore. His movements are too slow, like he's conserving energy. His skin is pale beneath his makeup, and the shadows beneath his eyes don't need studio lights to be noticeable.
Something about it tugs at me.
I want to look away. Want to shrug and remind myself that he's not my problem. That I've done enough salvaging in this world. That I have my own mess to manage.
But I remember.
I remember the original Ivan. The one Dorian broke in places no one else could see. The one who clung to fake promises and empty touches because he didn't know how to ask for more.
And I can't walk away.
Not this time.
---
I whisper to an assistant, asking them to quietly redirect Harry for a wardrobe check. Tell him it's private. Technical. Something vague.
Then I head to one of the private bathrooms at the back of the studio. It's quiet here—no flashes, no stylists, no press.
Just tile and silence and the sound of my own heartbeat.
I lean against the sink and take a breath.
I don't know exactly what I'll say.
But I know I'm not letting him leave this room without hearing it.