Page 13

The words on the exam paper swim before my eyes. I blink hard, forcing myself to focus on the question on my Constitutional Theory final. I know the answer but my brain is too fuzzy to throw up the words I need. Ironically, it’s a topic I could normally dissect in my sleep.

Sleep. That’s the problem. Last night was just one more featuring Nash Thorndike’s hands in my dreams, his voice, his mouth... my body responding with embarrassing enthusiasm to the man I’d walked away from six weeks ago.

I shift uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair, tugging at the collar of my new crisp white shirt. The whole suit is new and it feels stifling in the overheated exam hall, but I have an interview at Brennan & Wallace in two hours. I can’t risk being late. It’s my first callback after a dozen applications.

If I can just get through this exam first.

Another wave of nausea rolls through me. I swallow hard, drawing a deep breath through my nose.

It’s just stress, I tell myself. It’s the pressure of finals, applications and everything that happened with Nash. I’ve been working too hard and not sleeping. My immune system is shot. I’m probably picking up every bug in range.

I glance up, catching Meg’s concerned look from two rows over.

She’s been so protective of me since I got back. It’s both lovely and annoying. We’ve always looked after each other but the last six weeks, she’s been hovering and I’m on the verge of snapping at her.

I’ve been studying non-stop. I’m burned out. I work too hard. And I’ve still got all the Thorndike hormones working their way out of my system.

Of course, I don’t feel well.

As soon as finals are over and I’ve got an internship confirmed, then I’ll take some time off to rest. I don’t look after myself properly. I know that. She doesn’t have to tell me.

I return to the exam, forcing my attention to the paper. I know the answer to this question. I’d written an entire critical analysis on it last semester. I can do this.

Forty-five minutes later, I scribble my final conclusion and set down my pen just as the proctor calls time. My shirt clings to my back with cold sweat, but I’ve finished. Three more finals to go, and then, hopefully, the internship that will launch my career as an omega rights attorney.

I avoid Meg on the way out. She’s just going to fuss over me again and all I want to do is get this interview over with.

Brennan & Wallace were the first and only firm to respond to my application. It’s unsurprising given how the media’s been painting me. My jaw tightens. Depending on which newspaper you read, I’m either a brave defender of omega autonomy or a hysterical radical undermining social stability. Neither portrayal seems to impress law firm hiring committees.

I walk fast, turning toward the stairs that will take me to the subway station.

The ride downtown is uncomfortable in ways I hadn’t anticipated. There’s physical discomfort: the persistent nausea, the sweating. That’s expected. The stares are not.

A woman elbows her companion, whispering as they both look my way. A man in a business suit keeps glancing up from his phone, eyes narrowing in recognition.

Before the Nash Thorndike situation, I had been known in activist circles but now my face has been splashed across the media.

I’ve become a symbol in a larger culture war. And symbols, I’m discovering, don’t get to have upset stomachs or anxiety about job interviews.

I get off one stop early, needing fresh air. The ten-block walk will help clear my head and settle my stomach.

I check my reflection in a store window as I pass. I’m pale but presentable. The dark circles under my eyes are mostly concealed. I like the way I look in the suit. I can do this.

The Brennan & Wallace offices occupy the thirty-second floor of a gleaming downtown tower. I give my name to the receptionist, then take a seat in the waiting area, trying to ignore the renewed churning in my stomach. I’d skipped breakfast, unable to face food, but now I’m regretting the decision. My head feels light, my hands clammy.

“Mr. Torres?”

A professionally dressed beta woman appears in the doorway.

“We’re ready for you.”

I stand, extending my hand.

“Thank you for the opportunity. I’ve admired Brennan & Wallace’s work for years.”

“We’ve certainly noticed yours,”

she replies with a small smile, leading me down a hallway lined with framed newspaper headlines documenting the firm’s victories.

“Your analysis of Bureau registration coercion tactics was quite impressive.”

Pride flickers through the nausea. They’ve read my work. They’ve noticed.

She opens a door to a small conference room where two other attorneys wait—an older Alpha man and a middle-aged omega woman, both in impeccable suits, both with expressions of polite interest.

“Charles Brennan and Eliza Wallace,”

Ms. Sharpe introduces.

“Our founding partners.”

My stomach drops. The founders themselves. This isn’t just a courtesy interview. They’re genuinely interested.

“Mr. Torres.”

Brennan gestures to the empty chair.

“We’ve been following your recent experiences with the Bureau with great interest.”

“As well as your advocacy work,”

Wallace adds, her tone warmer.

“Not many law students would have the courage to challenge a prime match assignment so publicly.”

I take the offered seat, swallowing against the intensifying nausea.

“There’s no point to a system that doesn’t work.”

Wallace nods approvingly.

“A position our firm has long supported. In fact, we’ve been developing a class action case against the Bureau’s forced registration practices. Your experience could be valuable.”

The room suddenly feels too warm, too small. I tug at my collar, trying to focus on her words. A class action case. That would be amazing.

“I’d be very interested in contributing to that effort,”

I manage, though my voice sounds distant to my own ears.

Ms. Sharpe smiles.

“That’s why we invited you. You’d be great for our internship program.”

They’re offering me the position. It’s every I’ve worked for, fought for, sacrificed for.

“I—thank you,”

I begin, then stop as a wave of dizziness washes over me. The nausea intensifies sharply, bile rising in my throat.

“I’m sorry, could you excuse me for just a moment?”

I don’t wait for an answer, bolting from the room with as much dignity as I can muster. The restroom is just down the hall, thankfully empty as I crash into a stall and vomit violently into the toilet.

Wave after wave of nausea claims me, leaving me trembling and sweating as I cling to the porcelain. When it finally subsides, I rest my forehead on my hands trying to gather my scattered thoughts.

This isn’t stress. This isn’t a stomach bug. This isn’t normal.

I’ve known what this is. I’ve just not wanted to face it.

With shaking hands, I remove my phone from my pocket, opening the calendar app I use to track my heat cycles. I stare at the screen, counting backward, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Six weeks since I left the cottage. Six weeks since my heat with Nash. And now, the resulting nausea, exhaustion, and strange sensitivity to smells.

Six weeks. No sign of my next heat cycle, which should have started last week.

“No,”

I whisper, the word inadequate against the reality crashing down around me.

“No fucking way.”

I’ve known all along really. I’ve just not wanted to admit it to myself. I know I’m a stubborn bastard. I guess I lie to myself as much as anyone else. I’m also an idiot.

I press a trembling hand against my still-flat abdomen. I’m pregnant with Nash Thorndike’s child.

It’s not fair. Either way, I find myself laughing.

“Mr. Torres?”

A concerned voice filters through.

“Are you alright?”

I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the partition. The internship. The class action case. My future as an omega rights attorney. All of it is going to disappear because of this. I’m not going to let that happen. No one can know about this.

“I’ll be right out,”

I call, my voice steadier than I feel.

“Just give me a minute.”

I pull myself to my feet, moving to the sink to rinse my mouth and splash cold water on my face. Then I go back out there and finish the interview.