Page 39

KNOX

“If I hear one more thing about a mate, I’m going to hit the fan,” I fume, looking at my campaign manager. “This is the third time this week you brought this to my attention.”

“You need this,” he says, worrying. “You’re dropping points by the day, and for the masses to think you’ve settled down, you need to settle down.”

“I’m trying here, okay?”

“Whatever happened to that woman you were supposed to meet up with? You told us about her, but we didn’t hear anything else about it.”

“I fucked up.” I burrow my face in my hands and sigh. “All the way fucked up. I didn’t think she was strong enough not to take the subtle hits the people in our social circle would throw at her.”

He nods. “She surprised you, didn’t she?”

“That’s an understatement, Jeffery. A big understatement indeed.”

“So, make it up to her.”

For a moment, I can’t even look at Jeffery. The thin veneer of self-assurance I wear in every meeting, and every photo op feels cracked, leaving me raw and exposed. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the restless drumming of my fingers on the polished oak table.

Regret gnaws at me—sharp-edged and insistent, echoing every word I should have said, every call I never made. Guilt coils in my gut, thicker with each breath, as I replay the missed chances, the careless doubts, and the way I let my fears overshadow what really mattered.

My campaign manager’s advice floats in the space between us, but all I can do right now is sit here, haunted by the weight of my own mistakes.

It’s easy for him to say to make it up to her.

But it’s easier said than done. Remi is not the type of omega that simply lets shit slide.

She’s an alpha female in an omega’s body.

“You have no idea how much I’m trying to make it up to her, but I know no great gesture or jewelry or even fancy dinners will make it up to her.

She’s wholesome and down-to-earth. She’s not the type of female who wants flashy things, even if I did cave and sent her two dozen roses and a tennis bracelet today. ”

“Give her what she wants,” he says, garnering my attention as I frown in confusion.

“I’m trying to.”

“No, you’re not.” He shakes his head with a soft smile. “You’re trying to give her what you want.”

For a long moment, his words hang in the air—sharp, simple, inescapable. I stare at the grain of the table, tracking the patterns with my eyes, searching for answers, a way out, a loophole that would let me keep my pride intact. But there’s no comfort there, only a mirror for my stubbornness.

I replay everything—every bravado-filled attempt I shoved into the space between us, hoping to bridge a chasm I barely understood.

Each action, when stripped bare, was tailored to soothe my own conscience, not to reach the heart of what she truly needed.

The realization stings, a truth brewing beneath defensiveness and self-pity.

Slowly, I let the defenses drop. I see, with embarrassing clarity, the way I’ve been mistaking effort for understanding, mistaking gestures for genuine connection.

Remi deserves more than that. She deserves to be seen, not dazzled.

She deserves someone willing to listen, to learn, to honor what matters most to her—even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it means letting go of my own ideas.

Jeffery is right. I look up, meeting his gaze, and there’s acceptance—reluctant but real—in my eyes. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to stop trying so hard to prove myself and start trying to truly understand her.

“I have to go.” I rush around, grabbing my things.

Without waiting for him to say something, I make my way out of the office.

My team is working tirelessly to bring my numbers back up in the poll, but to be honest, right now, I couldn’t care less about the poll or even winning the election.

My focus is on the blonde-haired, honey-colored-eyed beauty who’s stolen all my thoughts and feelings.

The world narrows to tunnel vision as I stride down the corridor, the echo of my footsteps ricocheting off polished linoleum and glass.

The fluorescent lights overhead flicker past in quick succession, each a silent metronome marking my urgency.

I barely register the curious glances of colleagues, the distant ring of a phone, the muted hum of a copier—none of it matters.

I’m a single-minded force, propelled by something raw and overdue.

Bursting through the doors, I gulp the brisk air, lungs expanding as if for the first time all day.

My keys are already in hand by the time I reach the parking lot, fingers trembling not from cold but from anticipation.

The car door slams behind me, the engine roaring to life before I’ve fully buckled in.

My mind skips through memories—her laughter, the way she tucks hair behind her ear, the steadiness in her gaze—and every fiber of me aches to close the distance.

The city blurs past in streaks of concrete and neon.

I tap the steering wheel, impatient at red lights, rehearsing words I might say: apologies, honest and unembellished, promises without grand gestures.

I take corners too sharply, driven less by recklessness than by hope.

Street after street falls away behind me, each turn bringing me closer to her door, to the chance of being truly seen and, maybe, forgiven.

I don’t stop to second-guess myself. I park hastily, heart pounding, and bolt toward her porch, hope and fear a tangle in my chest. Today, it’s not about winning her back with spectacle but finding the courage to show up—plain, imperfect, and real.

I knock on her door, standing there, shifting from foot to foot. I wait, anxious about my appearance at her home but happy that I made this decision.

No answer.

I knock once more. I take a look around before bringing my attention back to her door.

I notice the fall wreath on it; its friendly presence makes me smile.

Remi is the most wholesome person I have ever met.

She’s the person that’s just right for me, and I should’ve never believed that she couldn’t make it in my world.

It's my job to protect her, not for her to protect herself. The only thing she should do is show up, and I should take care of the rest. I can’t believe I was such an asshole to think otherwise.

I rap harder this time, the sound echoing through the quiet porch and out into the noon air.

Still—nothing. A knot forms in my stomach, tightening with each passing second.

My pulse stammers against my throat. I try the bell, jabbing it twice for good measure, willing her to appear, to give me any sign that she’s there and willing to see me.

The silence stretches, oppressive and absolute.

My mind spins with worst-case scenarios: maybe she’s gone out, perhaps she’s upstairs with headphones in, maybe she’s deliberately ignoring me.

I press my forehead against the door, breathing shallowly, panic fluttering inside my ribcage.

I pace the small stoop, glancing at my phone, at the windows, and back at the door.

Each moment without an answer chips away at my resolve, leaving only raw desperation.

I knock again—louder, a plea disguised as persistence. “Remi?” My voice cracks, the sound swallowed by the stillness.

I find myself whispering her name, as if she might hear it through the wood, as if my longing alone could draw her to me. But all I get is the faint rustle of leaves and my own anxious heartbeat pounding in my ears.

It’s then that I notice that her car is not in her driveway. A whoosh of air releases from my lungs as a weight is taken off my chest. I bring up my phone and load the Select-A-Mate app. It’s then the horror of just what I’ve done hits me harder than ever before.

We didn’t even get her cell phone number in our quest to break the mating. Instead, I’m having to resort to the mating app to get in touch with her. It’s a problem I plan to rectify soon.

Self-loathing roils through me, black and merciless, as the truth lands with merciless precision—I didn’t worry enough, didn’t fight hard enough for something as simple, as essential, as her number.

What kind of person relies on an app for something so real, so vital?

How could I have let a system, a soulless interface, be the lifeline between us?

I see now, with excruciating clarity, the ease with which we let her slip away—the lazy faith we placed in technology, the way we’d already started looking toward the possibility of someone else.

We’d been so quick to accept the idea of a different mate, so willing to go along with the process, thinking it was safer to let things unravel than to risk reaching out, risk needing her.

Regret gnaws at me, sharp and relentless.

My hands tremble with the memory of every missed chance, every time I could have spoken, asked, held on.

I want to scream at my own stupidity and curse myself for not guarding what mattered most. If I’d only cared more—truly cared, and not just told myself I did—maybe I wouldn’t be here.

However, horror completely takes me off guard when I see what’s in front of me.

Her messages? They’re gone.

Our match? It’s gone.

All of it … it’s gone.

There’s one message waiting in our inbox. Something tells me I don’t want to read this, but I’m powerless to stop myself from clicking it.

3XtheCharm,

I hope this message finds you well. We received word from your match that you all have amicably split ways. Due to the nature of your phone call, we have decided to re-match you in our system.

We wish you well,

Select-A-Mate Team.

A sound rips from my chest—raw, animal, utterly powerless to stop the ache inside me. The pain is volcanic, scorching every inch of hope I had left. My knuckles blanch as I grip the phone, the screen’s pale glow a silent witness to my unraveling.

Remi chose to end it, too. It wasn’t an accident or a glitch.

She wanted out. She wanted someone else.

Something inside me fractures, splintering like glass beneath a hammer, and all I can do is let the howl of loss burst free, echoing through the street.

The agony of being unwanted, of being re-matched so clinically, so easily, burns hotter than humiliation—this is grief in its purest, ugliest form, and I am powerless before it.

It's exactly what we were trying to do to her, and I hate myself for ever trying to put Remi through this level of pain. Scent match mates are for life, regardless of whether you want it or not. And I do. I want her more than I want my next breath.

Now, it’s time to prove it to her before she chooses someone else.

I refuse to lose her.

We refuse to lose her.