Page 49

Lila

T he first-class cabin feels surreal after a month of small-town simplicity.

All leather seats and hushed luxury that speaks to a world I'd almost forgotten existed.

Through the airplane window, Los Angeles sprawls beneath us in its familiar grid of highways and palm trees, the Pacific glittering in the distance like scattered diamonds.

"Nervous?" Dean asks quietly, his hand finding mine across the narrow aisle. Even in the navy suit Julian helped him select, he looks like himself. Warm eyes, easy smile, the kind of solid presence that makes everything feel manageable.

"Getting there," I admit, watching the city grow larger as we descend. "It's been a while since I've done this."

"We've got you," Callum says from the seat behind me, his voice carrying that gruff certainty that's become my anchor. The charcoal suit transforms his usual flannel-and-jeans aesthetic into something that could grace magazine covers, but his hands are still calloused from honest work.

Julian sits beside him, reviewing his meticulously prepared notes with characteristic thoroughness. The black tuxedo fits him perfectly, making his dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses look distinguished rather than bookish. When he glances up and catches me watching, his smile is soft with wonder.

"Thank you," I say suddenly, needing them to understand. "For coming with me. For being willing to step into this chaos."

"Wouldn't be anywhere else," Dean says simply, and the others nod in agreement.

The Beverly Hills hotel Rebecca selected is exactly what I expected. Marble columns and crystal chandeliers, understated luxury that costs more per night than most people spend on rent. Paparazzi cluster outside the entrance with telephoto lenses, probably hoping to catch early arrivals.

"Mrs. James and guests," the concierge says smoothly, apparently briefed on our unconventional arrangement. "The penthouse suite is ready."

The elevator ride passes in charged silence. We're all feeling it, the weight of being back in my old world, the awareness that tonight changes everything between us.

The suite is stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, and the living area is larger than my entire house in Honeyridge Falls.

But it's the bedroom that makes my breath catch, one massive bed, clearly intended for all of us.

A silent acknowledgment from Rebecca's team that they understand exactly what kind of pack we are.

"Damn," Dean breathes, moving to the windows. "This is how the other half lives?"

"This is how I used to live," I correct, watching him take in the view. "It's beautiful, but it never felt like home."

Julian emerges from the bathroom, looking slightly dazed. "There's a television above the bathtub. Who needs to watch TV while bathing?"

"Rich people with too much money and not enough sense," Callum says dryly, testing the mattress with a critical eye. "Bed's solid though. Good construction."

Their reactions—Dean's wonder, Julian's analytical fascination, Callum's practical assessment—hit me like a revelation.

I love them.

The thought stops me cold in this ridiculous penthouse that costs more per night than most people make in a year. Not the complicated, strategic affection I felt for Dustin's pack. Not grateful attachment from being cared for.

Love. Real, bone-deep, forever kind of love.

I love Dean's golden heart and how he stress-cooks when nervous, the way he looks at me like I hung the moon.

I love Julian's brilliant mind and how he counts things to make sense of the world, sees patterns others miss.

I love Callum's gruff exterior hiding the gentlest hands, how he fixes broken things and makes them beautiful again.

They're exactly themselves. Unimpressed by superficial luxury, focused on what actually matters. They transformed themselves into tuxedo wearing perfection for me tonight, but they're still Dean who brings coffee, Julian who leaves books, Callum who repairs porches without being asked.

They're mine. And I'm completely, utterly, irrevocably in love with all of them.

The realization should terrify me. Falling this hard, this fast, this completely.

Instead, standing in this opulent suite that represents everything I used to think I wanted, all I feel is certainty.

This is what home feels like. Not marble and crystal, but three men who chose to step into my chaos because they love me back.

"Lila?" Dean's voice carries gentle concern. "You okay?"

I blink, realizing I've been standing frozen in the middle of the suite, probably staring at them with whatever expression accompanies life-changing emotional revelations.

"I'm perfect," I say, and for the first time in my life, I mean it completely. "Just... taking it all in."

"The suite is pretty overwhelming," Julian agrees, though his analytical gaze suggests he knows there's more to my contemplation than interior design.

"Not the suite," I say softly, looking at each of them in turn. "This. All of you. Being here together."

The words carry more weight than they should, and I watch understanding dawn in their expressions. Not the full truth—I'm not ready to voice those three words yet, not here, not now—but enough that they know something fundamental has shifted.

"We should start getting ready," I say, my voice steadier now, grounded by the knowledge of what I'm fighting for tonight. "Hair and makeup team will be here in an hour."

What follows is controlled chaos that somehow works. The stylists Rebecca sent transform our suite into a professional preparation station, but instead of the tense efficiency I remember from my old life, everything feels warm and collaborative.

Dean submits to having his hair styled with good humor, joking with the makeup artist about whether firefighters are supposed to look this fancy. "Aunt Maeve's going to have a field day when she sees the photos," he says, examining himself in the mirror. "I clean up better than I thought."

He's not wrong. The perfectly fitted tuxedo transforms his already impressive frame into something that belongs on red carpets, but the warm brown eyes and easy smile are pure Dean.

Callum endures the grooming process with stoic patience, though I catch him testing the durability of his bow tie like he's evaluating construction materials.

When the stylist finishes, the result is breathtaking.

Sharp lines and contained power, understated elegance that speaks to quiet confidence.

Julian approaches the preparation with characteristic thoroughness, asking detailed questions about fabric care and formal wear protocol until the stylist looks charmed rather than annoyed.

The final result makes my mouth go dry. Sophisticated, intelligent, devastatingly handsome in ways that transcend conventional prettiness.

"Your turn," the lead stylist says with professional enthusiasm.

The next hour passes in familiar ritual. Hair twisted into an elegant updo that required three people to achieve, makeup applied with camera-ready precision, the emerald gown Rebecca selected fitted with attention that makes movement feel like choreography.

I wait until the door closes behind the styling team, leaving us alone in the suite. The sudden quiet feels intimate after hours of professional chatter and bustling activity.

When I finally emerge from the bedroom in full red-carpet regalia, the silence in the suite is profound.

"Fuck," Callum breathes, then immediately looks apologetic. "Sorry. I mean?—"

"No, that's exactly right," Dean says, his voice rough with something that makes heat pool low in my belly. "Lila, you look..."

"Incredible," Julian finishes, his dark eyes traveling over me with obvious appreciation. "Absolutely incredible."

The emerald silk clings in all the right places, the neckline elegant but suggestive, bringing out my eyes exactly as Rebecca predicted. I look like the movie star I used to be. Polished and perfect and ready for cameras.

But standing here, surrounded by three men in perfectly fitted tuxedos who look at me like I'm the most beautiful thing they've ever seen, I don't feel like a movie star.

I feel like myself. Their omega, their pack member, their love.

"You all look incredible too," I manage, my voice slightly breathless. "Like you were born for this."

"We weren't," Julian says quietly, adjusting his cufflinks with nervous precision. "But we're here for you."

The reminder of why we're here. What we're walking into, what tonight represents should make me nervous. Instead, looking at them, seeing how they've transformed themselves while remaining fundamentally unchanged, makes me feel invincible.

"Ready?" I ask, reaching for the small clutch holding my phone, lipstick, and the emergency chocolate Dean insisted I pack.

"Almost," Callum says, his voice carrying an edge that makes me look up sharply.

There's something in his expression. Heat, possession, something that makes my pulse quicken despite the formal setting.

"Callum?" I ask, but he's already moving toward me with predatory grace.

"You look perfect," he says, his hands settling on my waist with careful reverence for the expensive silk. "But you don't smell like yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"You smell like products and perfume and performance," Julian adds, understanding immediately. "Beautiful, but not you."

Dean moves closer, his scent warming as he processes their suggestion. "We should fix that," he says, his voice dropping to something rougher, more intimate.

"Guys," I start, my heart rate picking up for entirely different reasons. "We don't have time?—"

"We have exactly enough time," Callum interrupts, his thumb tracing my dress's neckline. "To remind you who you really are before you have to perform being someone else."

The words cut through all the glamour and preparation to the heart of what I actually need. Not to look perfect for cameras, but to feel like myself—their omega, their love—regardless of what world we're walking into.

"The dress," I whisper, but my protest lacks conviction.

"Will be fine," Julian says, moving behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders. "We know how to be careful."

"Do we?" I ask, but I'm already leaning into their touch, my body responding despite every rational thought about timing and appearances.

"Trust us," Dean murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "Let us remind you who you belong to."

Looking at them. Three alphas in perfect formal wear who've transformed themselves to support me but still look at me like I'm the center of their universe. I realize this is exactly what I need.

Not perfection, but truth. Not performance, but connection.

"Yes," I breathe, melting into their combined warmth. "Please."

Because in twenty minutes we'll walk into a world of cameras and expectations and careful image management. But right now, in this moment, we're just us.

And that's all I need to remember who I really am.