Page 2 of A Cobbled Conspiracy

As I pulled on my clothes, my phone buzzed from the nightstand. A text from Mrs. Henderson:

Thinking of you, dear. The district isn’t the same without your morning wave from the shop window.

Then another, from Rosie:

Saved you some of that sourdough you like. It’ll keep until you’re back.

And another, from Sarah:

If you need anything, just let me know.

The messages kept coming, a steady stream of support from the community I’d been forced to abandon. Then one from Emma that made me pause:

The timing of all this with the election next week…

I checked the private chat thread that linked only me, Penny, Sarah, and Rosie—our little circle of confidants.

Sarah

Adelaide’s been making rounds, talking about security and community safety. Election’s got everyone on edge.

Rosie

People are starting to ask questions about Blake’s ability. Adelaide’s looking more and more like the safe choice.

I suddenly realized Jake and Blake belonged here too. And Dominic. I tapped Blake and Jake’s names, sending each of them an invite.

My finger lingered over Dominic's name on the screen, trembling slightly.

Dominic’s phone sat in an evidence locker somewhere, sealed in a plastic bag. I'd send his invite when he came back to me.

I’d almost forgotten about the election—less than three weeks away. The timing of Dominic’s arrest couldn’t have been worse for Blake’s campaign. While he’d been scrambling to hire lawyers and coordinate with federal agents, Adelaide was making public appearances, expressing concern for community safety, and positioning herself as the steady hand during a crisis.

I can’t exactly blame her. Exploiting your opponent’s weakness—that’s how elections are won.

Another message from Mrs. Tang in the community thread:

Heard Blake missed the candidate forum last night. Adelaide handled questions about the federal investigation like a pro. She really seems to understand what we’re going through.

The timing stung. Five days ago, Blake had been running a competitive campaign against Adelaide. Now he was spending his time in detention centers and lawyer offices instead of on the campaign trail.

My chest tightened with guilt and gratitude in equal measure.

And here I was—hiding in Blake’s protective tower while he faced whatever threats had driven me here. Meanwhile, his poll numbers were plummeting with each passing hour.

I was doom-scrolling through the rest of my messages when voices drifted through the wall. Blake must be up early, probably already strategizing for this afternoon’s hearing.

My stomach clenched again, harder this time. At 1:00 PM today, I’d sit in a courtroom and learn whether Dominic would come home or remain locked away until trial. Blake had been cautiously optimistic yesterday, talking about weak evidence and prosecutorial overreach, but my omega instincts screamed that something was wrong.

I’d spent half the night researching bail procedures online, reading legal blogs and case studies until my eyes burned. Federal prosecutors didn’t bring charges without confidence. The evidence against Dominic had to be substantial, or at least substantial enough to convince a judge. Corporate espionage carried serious prison time, and flight risk assessments for wealthy defendants were always complicated.

What if they denied bail? What if Dominic had to wait months—maybe over a year—for trial? The bond couldn’t sustain that kind of separation, could it? I’d read alpha-omega health studies during my sleepless research binge. Prolonged separation from a claimed mate could cause depression, physical illness, even fertility issues.

My hand drifted unconsciously to my stomach. We hadn’t talked about the future yet. Would Dominic want children? Now, with everything so uncertain, the conversation we’d never had felt like a missed opportunity that might slip away forever.

The apartment’s front door opened and closed, followed by the familiar sound of Blake’s voice mixed with others. I sat my phone back on the nightstand and pulled on my jeans and one of Dominic’s sweaters—stolen from his apartment by Blake along with several other items deemed “important” before the federal agents could confiscate them—and padded out to find my temporary pack clustered around Blake’s massive kitchen island.

“Morning,” Penny called out, though his usual bounce was muted by exhaustion. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his normally perfect pink hair looked like he’d been running anxious fingers through it. “Coffee’s fresh if you can stomach Blake’s fancy machine.”