Page 213 of His Drama Queen

"Then you're a fool." Mother's voice goes cold. "And you'll come crawling back when reality sets in. When the bills come due. When she realizes she needs more than passion and idealism to survive."

"Maybe," I say. "But that's my choice to make."

"Your choice." Mother laughs bitterly. "You think you have choices now? Without MY money? Without MY connections?"

"I'll have whatever I earn," I say. "Whatever I build. Whatever Vespera and I create together."

Mother straightens her shoulders, slips back into Eleanor Ashworth, matriarch.

"Fine," she says. "Leave. Follow your Omega to New York. But when you do, understand that you're making a choice too. The Ashworth fortune comes with conditions. Loyalty. Obedience. Appropriate marriages."

She pauses, letting that sink in.

"Your father and I discussed this on the drive here," she continues. "We're in agreement. Choose her, and you choose a harder path. No trust fund. No family connections. No easy opportunities." Her smile is sharp. "This house? Family property. You'll need to be out by morning."

I should feel shame. Fear. Panic.

But all I feel is relief.

"I'll manage," I say. "We'll manage."

"You'll fail," Mother says. "And when you do, don't come running back expecting me to save you."

She turns to leave, then pauses.

"Your brother said the same thing," she says quietly. "When he chose his male Omega over family. He said he'd manage too."

My heart stops. "Julian?"

"Gone seven years now. Living in Brooklyn with his pack, working three jobs to make ends meet, too proud to ask for help." She looks back at me. "Is that the life you want? Struggling? Barely surviving?"

"If that's what it takes," I say. "Yes."

Mother shakes her head. "Then you're more of a fool than I thought. You have until sunrise to clear out. After that, I'm having the locks changed."

She walks to her car—a black Mercedes parked across the street—and drives away without looking back.

I stand there for a moment, letting it sink in. Cut off. Disowned. Free.

Then I walk inside to face my pack.

The three of them are in the living room when I enter. Vespera on the couch, Corvus pacing, Oakley standing by the window.

"Well?" Vespera asks.

"We have until sunrise," I say. "She's changing the locks on the pack house."

"Of course she is," Corvus says. "Family property."

"I'm sorry," I say to all of them. "You're losing this place because of me."

"We're leaving this place because of us," Vespera corrects. "All of us. Together."

She's right. This isn't Dorian Ashworth's failure. This is four people choosing each other over everything else.

"So let's pack," I say. "Take what we can fit in my car. Everything else stays."

We split up. My room—the master bedroom with the walk-in closet full of expensive clothes I never wanted—becomes a decision point. What matters? What's just weight?