Page 11 of Knot Their Safe Haven

The Haven needs me functional, not maudlin.

The Omegas under my protection need me strong, not wondering about what-ifs and might-have-beens.

But as I work, I can still taste Knox on my lips, still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, still hear Icarus's laughter echoing from the gym.

Twenty years of secrets and shadows.

How much longer can we maintain this distance before something breaks?

The answer, I suspect, is not much longer at all.

VOICES ACROSS OCEANS

~VELVET~

My office looks like a paper bomb detonated at the epicenter of organized chaos.

Financial reports sprawl across the mahogany desk, legal documents tower in precarious stacks on every surface, and empty wine bottles—three, to be precise—stand sentinel among the devastation. The movement passed twelve hours ago, and I've been fielding calls ever since.

"The anonymous donation cleared this morning," Harrison's voice crackles through the speakerphone, my lead investor sounding equal parts excited and suspicious. "Fifty million, Scarlett. Fifty fucking million from a ghost."

I swirl the remnants of a 2015 Château Margaux in my glass, watching the burgundy liquid catch the lamplight.

My contacts have been out for hours, leaving my eyes their natural dark brown—almost black in this lighting. Her lavender locks are a frizzy mess, a contribution to her constantly running her hands through them like it’s going to make some significant difference.

Fifty million. Someone with that kind of money to burn on our movement, and they don't even want credit.

"Have we traced the source?"

"Shell companies within shell companies. Whoever this is, they know how to hide their tracks. Could be one of the seven founding Omegas using a different channel, or could be an Alpha with a guilty conscience, or maybe?—"

"Could be someone who actually gives a damn about changing things," I interrupt, exhaustion making me less diplomatic than usual. "Does it matter where it came from if it helps us protect Omegas?"

"It matters if there are strings attached we can't see yet."

Everything has strings. The question is whether they're chains or lifelines.

"Run the security protocols again. If anything seems off, we pull the funds." I massage my temple where a headache has been building for hours. "What about the government pushback?"

"Minimal so far. They're probably still processing what happened. We moved faster than they expected."

"Good. Let them scramble. By the time they mobilize, we'll have the infrastructure in place."

We discuss logistics for another twenty minutes—safe house expansions, legal team additions, medical facility upgrades.

Every word costs energy I don't have, but this is the price of revolution. You don't change the world from a comfortable position.

When I finally end the call, the office feels too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you notice your own heartbeat...breathing…your own loneliness.

Almost forty, fighting battles for everyone else while my own bed stays cold.

It hard to feel this heaviness.

This weight of being left behind because the rest of the world around you is moving forward to society’s standards. Reaching peak of their promotions, getting married, being marked in apack and starting a family without a hint of contraints. Living the dream life and showing how happy and fulfilled they are.

Then there’s me…the anomoly.

Secret baby, lovers who wouldn’t dare come to the surface and scream to the top of their lungs that they’re association to me is more than business, and am I happy?