Page 23

I’m sorting through baby clothes when the phone rings. Mom had them delivered yesterday. They’re soft organic cotton and impossibly tiny.

“ Torres,”

I answer, setting aside a yellow sleeper with ducks on it.

“Mr. Torres? This is Jennifer Walsh from Point of Contention. David Glass would like to invite you on Thursday’s show to discuss your advocacy work and experiences with the Bureau’s matching system.”

I straighten in my chair, suddenly alert. David Glass. He’s one of the biggest talk show hosts in the country. It feels like a bolt of lightning.

I’ve been hiding in this house for weeks, and while I needed the rest, I’m starting to feel restless.

“What would the format be?”

I ask, already mentally cataloging what still fits in my wardrobe.

“David would like to have an in-depth conversation with you about your case and where you see the omega rights movement heading,”

she says.

“He’s particularly interested in your perspective as someone who successfully challenged the system.”

“I’m interested,”

I say, folding a tiny pair of socks with one hand.

“What time Thursday?”

“We tape at four PM. If you could arrive by three for makeup and prep?”

“I’ll be there.”

After she sends the details, I hang up and stare at the pile of baby clothes.

I find Mom in the kitchen, making salad. She glances up as I enter.

“Good news?”

she asks, noting my expression.

“David Glass wants me on Point of Contention Thursday,”

I say, stealing a cherry tomato from her cutting board.

Mom sets down her knife, a smile spreading across her face.

“That’s wonderful. It’s about time you started putting yourself back out there.”

“Think I’m ready?”

“I think you’ve been ready for weeks,”

she says.

“You just needed a reason to realize it.”

She’s probably right. The fatigue is still there, the bone-deep exhaustion that comes with growing another person, but underneath it, I can feel something else stirring. Purpose, maybe. Or just the simple desire to be useful again.

“I’ll need to figure out what to wear,”

I muse.

“Nothing fits quite right anymore.”

“We’ll go shopping tomorrow,”

Mom says decisively.

“Get you something that makes you feel confident.”

Thursday arrives with unseasonable warmth. I spend extra time getting ready, grateful for the new suit Mom helped me find—charcoal gray with subtle stretch. I look professional, put-together.

The drive to the studio is smooth, Mom chatting about innocuous things to keep my nerves at bay. She’s gotten good at reading my moods these past weeks, knowing when to push and when to provide distraction.

“You’ll be brilliant,”

she says as we pull up to the building.

“Call me when you’re done, and we’ll get dinner somewhere nice to celebrate.”

Inside, a production assistant guides me through the maze of corridors. The makeup room is soothing—soft lighting, comfortable chairs, someone fussing over my appearance with gentle hands.

“You have great bone structure,”

the makeup artist comments, dusting powder across my cheeks.

“The camera’s going to love you.”

I doubt that, but I appreciate the boost to my confidence. By the time she’s done, I look like a polished version of myself—the dark circles hidden, skin glowing with something that might actually be that elusive pregnancy radiance everyone talks about.

“Ready?”

Jennifer appears at the door.

“David’s on set whenever you are.”

The studio is smaller than I expected, intimate almost. Just two chairs angled toward each other, warm lighting that’s less harsh than I’d anticipated. David Glass rises as I enter, extending his hand with a genuine smile.

“ Torres,”

he says warmly.

“Thank you for joining us. I’ve been following you with great interest.”

“Thank you for having me,”

I reply, settling into the offered chair. The leather is soft, comfortable. I can do this.

“We’ll keep things conversational,”

Glass explains.

“I want our viewers to understand your experience, your perspective. Nothing gotcha, just honest discussion.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Excellent. We’re live in five minutes.”

I take a breath, centering myself. The baby chooses this moment to shift. I place a hand briefly on my belly, then fold both in my lap as the red light illuminates.

“Good evening. I’m David Glass, and welcome to Point of Contention. Tonight, I’m joined by Torres, whose challenge to the Bureau’s prime matching system has sparked national dialogue about omega rights. , thank you for being here.”

“Thank you for having me.”

The audience applauds politely, and I’m suddenly aware of all those eyes on me. But this is what I wanted—a chance to get there again.

“Let’s start with your case. You were designated to a ninety-eight percent compatibility match—extraordinarily rare. And not just any match, but with Dr. Nash Thorndike himself. What was your reaction when you learned who your match was?”

I pause, then answer honestly.

“Shock. Fury. I thought it was a set up.”

“But the compatibility score was undeniable,”

Glass presses.

“Ninety-eight percent. Did that give you any pause?”

“I didn’t believe it,”

I say firmly.

“It seemed so unlikely. And even if it was true, it didn’t matter anyway. I want to choose who I marry.”

“Yet Dr. Thorndike is, by all accounts, highly accomplished. Attractive, successful, at the top of his field. Some would say you won the match lottery.”

I feel heat rise in my cheeks.

“That’s exactly the problem. It doesn’t matter how accomplished or attractive someone is if you’re forced to be with them.”

The audience murmurs approval, and I feel myself gaining confidence.

Glass nods thoughtfully.

“You spent two weeks in Bureau-mandated cohabitation with Dr. Thorndike before leaving. Can you tell us about that experience?”

I pause, choosing my words carefully.

“It was dehumanizing,”

I say.

“You’ll have seen the video online. I was taken away in cuffs. That should never be the treatment for someone who simply doesn’t want to get married.”

The audience reacts immediately with loud applause and I hear a couple of people shouting their agreement. It takes a little while for the noise to die down.

“And Dr Thorndike? How did you get on with him?”

I hesitate. I have no idea how to answer that. My feelings about Nash are so complicated. Finally, I say.

“It could have been worse.”

Glass nods toward my stomach.

“Is it his baby?”

I tense. I should have expected the question. “Yes.”

The audience erupts again and Glass waits for the noise to die down again.

I should have asked to talk to Glass before we started. I should have set some no go zones in place. I don’t want to discuss the pregnancy.

But then there’s no way he’d have agreed to that. This is what David Glass is famous for. He asks the questions that his audience wants to hear.

To my surprise, he doesn’t push any further. Instead, he says.

“The voiding of the match was done at federal level, but there is a possibility that its legality could still be challenged by the Bureau. This puts all prime matches on shaky legal ground.”

A sense of relief washes over me. This is where I am more comfortable. I don’t want to talk about Nash.

“Unfortunately not,”

I say.

“The match was void only because my registration was void. Normal prime matches, sadly, are still enforceable by the Bureau.”

The conversation flows naturally from there. Glass is a skilled interviewer, pushing when appropriate but never crossing into antagonism. We discuss the legal precedent my case set, the growing omega rights movement, legislation making its way through Congress.

Twenty minutes in, just as I’m finding my stride, Glass pauses with a slight smile that makes me suddenly wary.

“, we actually have a surprise for you,”

he says, and my stomach drops.

“The one person who is as close to the legal case as you are. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Dr. Nash Thorndike.”

My head snaps to the wings and I see Nash walk through a stage door, escorted by Jennifer Walsh.

The audience gasps collectively.

The first hit of his scent nearly knocks me out of my chair. It’s been months since I’ve smelled him, and my body responds instantly, viscerally. Heat floods through me, my body recognizing him with an intensity that makes my hands tremble.

Nash looks equally stunned, his steps faltering slightly as our eyes meet. He was clearly expecting to walk into a standard interview setup, not to find me already on stage. His nostrils flare, catching my scent, and I see his pupils dilate even from here. For a moment, he actually stops walking, frozen in the wing entrance.

“Dr. Thorndike?”

Glass prompts, and Nash seems to shake himself, continuing toward the empty chair they’re hastily placing next to mine.

The last time we saw each other, I’d kissed him in his office. Pushed him against his desk. Felt him inside me while I tried to pretend it meant nothing. Now he’s here, walking toward me and I can barely breathe through the wall of pheromones between us.

“I—”

Nash starts, then stops, clearly trying to process the ambush.

“. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Neither did I,”

I manage, my voice coming out rougher than intended.

“About you, I mean.”

Glass looks delighted by our obvious discomfort.

“Please, Dr. Thorndike, have a seat. We were just discussing Mr. Torres’s experiences.”

Nash sits carefully, maintaining as much distance as the chair placement allows, but it’s not enough. His scent wraps around me like a blanket.

“Dr. Thorndike,”

Glass says smoothly as Nash sits, the picture of a host in control.

“Mr. Torres was just explaining his objections to the Bureau’s system. How do you respond?”

My skin is prickling with awareness, every cell in my body screaming that my mate is near.

Nash seems to be struggling too. His jaw is tight, hands carefully folded. He looks at the audience, then at Glass and finally at me for the longest time. When he finally looks away and speaks, his voice is rougher than usual.

“ is right,”

he says simply.

“I made a mistake.”

The audience reacts with surprise, whispers rippling through the room. Glass’s eyebrows rise slightly. This clearly wasn’t the response he expected.

“That’s quite a departure from your previous positions.”

“It is,”

Nash agrees. His scent spikes with something like regret.

“Sometimes it takes seeing the harm firsthand to recognize what should have been obvious all along.”

I shift in my seat, trying to angle away from him, but it’s useless. His pheromones have filled the stage area, mixing with mine in a combination that makes my head swim. The baby moves restlessly, responding to the hormone surge.

“And what harm would that be?”

Glass presses.

Nash looks at me then, really looks at me, and the intensity in his dark eyes makes my breath catch. This close, I can see the shadows beneath them, the sharp angles of his face that speak of weight loss. He looks like I feel: worn down, exhausted, haunted.

Glass interjects smoothly.

“Dr. Thorndike, are you saying you were wrong?”

Nash doesn’t seem to notice Glass has asked him a question. His eyes are on me, only me.

The studio suddenly feels suffocatingly small. This close, I can see the pulse jumping in his throat.

“I owe you an apology, . A public one. None of this should have happened. You should never have been arrested. Never have been subjected to cohabitation against your will. I’m sorry. Genuinely, deeply sorry. And I should never have let this happen to you.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning. The audience has gone completely silent. I can hear the sincerity in his voice, see it in the way he holds himself. There’s none of his usual confident certainty, just genuine regret.

I want to forgive him immediately, to close the distance between us, to accept the apology and fall into his arms. His scent is making it hard to think, hard to remember why I need to maintain boundaries.

“Thank you,”

I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.

The audience applauds, long and sustained, and Glass lets the moment breathe before continuing. My skin feels too hot, awareness of Nash beside me making it hard to concentrate on anything else.

Glass lets the moment breathe before continuing.

“Mr. Torres, where do you see the omega rights movement going from here?”

I force myself to focus on the question, not on Nash sitting six feet away.

“Legislative change is crucial,” I say.

The interview continues, Glass steering us deftly though policy questions and the finer points of the judgment in my case.

Throughout it all, I’m hyperaware of Nash’s presence, his scent mixing with mine in the enclosed space, making my skin feel too tight.

When Glass finally wraps, thanking us for .

“fascinating and important discussion,”

I feel completely wrung out. The lights dim, the cameras stop rolling, and the audience begins to file out, their chatter filling the space.

“,”

Nash says quietly as we both stand.

“Not now”

I say quickly. I need to process this first and whatever we are going to say to each other, I don’t want to do it with an audience.

There is no one left in the rows of chairs beyond the stage but David Glass is still there, sitting back in his chair and looking at us like we are two animals on nature documentary.

“Excuse me,”

I say, then I just nod and head for the exit. In the hallway, I lean against the wall for a moment, trying to process what just happened.

Nash apologized. Publicly. It doesn’t erase what happened, doesn’t magically fix everything between us, but it’s... something.

Mom is waiting in the lobby, having watched on the monitors in the green room. She studies my face carefully.

“How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,”

I admit as we walk to the car.

The drive home is quiet, and at home, I retreat to my room to decompress. The baby is active, responding to the stress hormones that are finally starting to fade. I lie on my bed, hand on my belly, replaying the interview in my mind.

My phone sits on the nightstand, Nash’s number still blocked. I pick it up, staring at the contact screen. He apologized. I didn’t think I would ever hear an apology from the man I once called Nash Fucking Thorndike.

I unblock the number.

I stare at the screen for a long moment, then type: Thank you for the apology today. It mattered.

The response comes quickly: You deserved to hear it. I’m sorry it took so long. Take care of yourself. If you need anything at all, let me know.

Simple. Respectful. Not pushing for more than I’m ready to give.

I set the phone aside and close my eyes, emotionally drained but somehow lighter than I’ve felt in weeks. The baby settles too, her movements slowing to gentle shifts.

“Your papa’s trying,”

I tell her softly.

“Maybe that’s worth something.”