Page 27 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas (Hollow Haven #2)

A newspaper interview. Public recognition in print that would exist beyond tonight’s reception. Another validation that my work mattered enough to be documented and shared.

“Of course,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.

As James asked questions about my photographic process, my connection to wildlife conservation, and my plans for future exhibitions, I was aware of the three alphas staying close enough to offer support, but far enough away to let me handle the interview independently.

They understood that this was my moment, my accomplishment, my chance to speak for my own work without needing anyone else’s interpretation or approval.

This was what support was supposed to look like. Not control disguised as care, but actual belief in someone’s ability to succeed on their own terms.

The interview lasted fifteen minutes, covering my background in wildlife photography, my work with the local rehabilitation center, and my hopes for using art to support conservation efforts.

By the time James finished taking notes, I felt like I’d successfully represented both my artistic vision and the conservation work that inspired it.

“Thank you,” James said, shaking my hand. “This should run in next week’s arts section. Should be good publicity for future exhibitions.”

As he walked away, I looked around the room at the crowd still examining my photographs, at the business cards I’d collected from people interested in my work, at the three men who’d shown up to celebrate me without making the evening about their own needs or expectations.

Six months ago, I’d been convinced my creative life was over. Sterling had succeeded in making me believe that photography was a self-indulgent hobby, that real omegas focused on supporting their alphas’ important work rather than pursuing their own passions.

Tonight, I was standing in a room full of people who appreciated my work, with professional opportunities being offered and regional recognition being documented. I was reclaiming not just my artistic ability, but my right to take up space with my creative vision.

“How are you holding up?” Elias asked quietly, appearing at my side with another cup of tea.

“Better than I expected,” I said honestly. “Different than I expected. More… real, I guess.”

“Real how?”

“Like this is actually my work being celebrated, not some performance of being the kind of omega who dabbles in a hobby.” I paused, trying to articulate the difference.

“Like these photographs matter because of what they document and how they make people feel, not because they make me seem more interesting or accomplished.”

“Art for its own sake instead of art as social currency,” Elias said, understanding immediately.

“Exactly.” I looked around the room again, taking in the genuine interest and appreciation. “This feels like recognition rather than approval. Like my work has value independent of whether it serves anyone else’s agenda.”

Wes rejoined us, with what looked like a small group of teenagers in tow. “Willa, these students from the high school environmental club want to ask you about photography techniques for documenting their watershed monitoring project.”

This was the most surreal night of my life.

Talking to the students about camera settings and composition strategies felt natural and energizing.

They asked intelligent questions about wildlife photography ethics, about balancing artistic vision with scientific documentation, about career paths that combined conservation work with creative expression.

Their enthusiasm reminded me why I’d fallen in love with this work originally.

The way it connected aesthetic appreciation with environmental awareness, the way it could inspire people to care about protecting what they saw.

By the time the official reception wound down at nine o’clock, I’d spoken with conservationists, artists, community leaders, students, and what felt like half the population of Hollow Haven.

I’d collected business cards, scheduled follow-up meetings, and agreed to consider opportunities I couldn’t have imagined this morning.

But more than the professional recognition or career possibilities, what stayed with me was the feeling of being seen and celebrated for who I actually was.

Not for who someone else wanted me to become, not for how well I supported someone else’s vision, but for the work I created and the perspective I brought to documenting stories that mattered.

As people began leaving and Kit started the cleanup process, I found myself standing in front of my photographs one more time, trying to process the evening’s events.

“Successful night,” Rhett observed, joining me in front of the wildlife rehabilitation series.

“More successful than I dared hope,” I admitted.

“You earned every bit of recognition you received tonight.” His voice carried the same conviction he used when explaining mechanical repairs. A factual assessment rather than empty encouragement.

“Thank you. For being here, for believing in the work when I wasn’t sure I could.”

“You didn’t need any of us to believe in it. The work speaks for itself.” He paused, looking at the photographs with that focused attention he brought to complex problems. “But I’m glad I got to watch you remember how good you are at this.”

Wes and Elias appeared as we finished packing the photographs, both offering to help transport everything back to my duplex.

“I can manage,” I started to say, then caught myself. “Actually, yes. I’d appreciate the help.”

Accepting assistance without apologizing for needing it, acknowledging support without feeling diminished by accepting it. These were small things that felt significant after months of forced independence and self-reliance.

Driving home with my photographs safely loaded and three different men following to help me carry everything inside, I thought about artistic courage and community support, about the difference between being celebrated and being controlled.

About how recognition felt when it was offered freely rather than used as leverage for behavioral modification.

Tonight felt like coming home to myself. Like remembering who I was before someone else’s expectations convinced me to become smaller.

Tomorrow, I’d follow up on the professional opportunities that had emerged tonight. I’d schedule meetings with conservation organizations and regional arts councils. I’d begin planning future exhibitions and considering career possibilities I’d stopped believing were available to me.

But right now, I just wanted to savor the feeling of being seen and appreciated for my actual work, my contribution to stories that mattered. I wanted to remember what it felt like to take up space with my creativity without apologizing for the room it required.

This was what artistic fulfillment was supposed to feel like, I thought as we pulled into my driveway. Not approval earned through compromise, but recognition given freely because the work deserved it.

Then I looked out the window to see the guys pulling up their vehicles behind me.

And maybe, just maybe, this was what support was supposed to look like too.

People who showed up to celebrate your successes without making them about their own needs or expectations.

People who believed in your ability to succeed on your own terms while offering assistance when it was genuinely helpful.

People who understood that loving someone meant wanting them to flourish as themselves, not transforming them into someone else’s vision of who they should become.

The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. Because if that’s what these three men were offering, actual support for who I was becoming rather than attempts to shape me into who they needed, then I was going to have to decide what I wanted to do with that kind of unprecedented freedom.

But that was tomorrow’s challenge, I decided as we began unloading my photographs. Tonight was for celebrating what I’d accomplished and acknowledging that maybe, just maybe, I was ready to stop hiding from my own artistic potential.

Ready to stop apologizing for taking up space with work that mattered.

Ready to remember who I was when I was brave enough to be myself.

And maybe even ready to do all that with these three men standing beside me.