Page 148 of Pack Plus One

“You are,” Liam agrees, his tone soothing. “But perhaps we could?—”

“—discuss strategies to ensure his business mysteriously fails its next health inspection,” Jude suggests.

“Jude,” Liam and Mason say in unison, their tone warning.

Caleb, who has been unnervingly quiet, finally speaks. “What did he say to you?”

I pause my pacing, caught off guard by the direct question. “What?”

“When you confronted him,” Caleb clarifies, his voice careful and controlled in a way that tells me he’s working hard to manage his alpha instincts. “What exactly did he say to you?”

I hesitate, not wanting to pour fuel on the fire. But something in Caleb’s steady gaze makes me answer honestly.

“He implied that my bakery is unprofessional and chaotic,” I admit. “That I’m just playing at being a business owner. That his approach—catering to ’proper omegas’ with traditional values—is what customers really want.”

Caleb’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains level. “And how did that make you feel?”

It’s such an unexpectedly gentle question that it catches me off guard, my carefully constructed defenses crumbling. To my horror, tears well up in my eyes.

“Like maybe he’s right,” I whisper, the admission painful. “Like maybe I am in over my head. Like maybe I can’t actually do this.”

The pack moves as one, closing the distance between us. Jude wraps an arm around my shoulders, Liam takes my hand, and Mason presses a handkerchief into my palm. But it’s Caleb who steps directly in front of me, his large hands cupping my face with surprising tenderness.

“Look at me,” he says, and I do, my vision blurry through unshed tears. “That asshole isn’t right about anything, least of all you.”

“But—”

“No,” Caleb cuts me off. “Listen to me. I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked on this. I’ve watched you negotiate with suppliers until they drop their prices out of sheer exhaustion. I’ve tasted what you create, Leah. It’s not just food—it’s fucking art.”

His vehemence startles a watery laugh from me. “It’s just pastry.”

“It’s not ‘just’ anything,” Caleb insists. “And neither are you.”

“What he’s trying to say,” Liam interjects gently, “is that your ex is an ass stuck in the 1930s.”

“Exactly,” Jude agrees. “The guy’s so full of shit his eyes are brown.”

“His eyes are blue,” I snort.

“Not the point,” Jude says, squeezing my shoulder. “The point is, he’s wrong. And we’re going to help you prove it.”

“How?” I ask, wiping at my eyes with Mason’s handkerchief. “His bakery looks like it’s backed by serious money. He’s got staff, marketing, professional everything. I’ve got... wallpaper that won’t stick and paint that may or may not optimize appetite.”

“You’ve got us,” Mason says simply.

I look around at them—at Jude’s infectious enthusiasm, Liam’s steady reliability, Mason’s quiet competence, and Caleb’s unwavering strength—and something shifts inside me. Maybe accepting help doesn’t have to mean surrendering control. Maybe it just means having a safety net while I take bigger risks.

“Okay,” I say finally. “Let’s do this. You and me.”

The relief in their scents is immediate and overwhelming, a collective exhale that I hadn’t realized they were holding.

“But,” I add firmly, “no sabotage. No threats. Nothing that would reflect poorly on Sweet Omega. We win this fairly or not at all.”

“Agreed,” Mason says immediately.

“If we must,” Jude sighs dramatically.

“Of course,” Liam nods.