Page 57 of Omega's Formula
“Ready?” he asks, reaching for his jacket.
“Actually—” I set down my coffee mug with more care than necessary. “I have to go into the office. Something came up that can’t wait.”
His expression flickers with disappointment before he smooths it away. “Oh. Okay.”
“It shouldn’t take long. A few hours at most, probably less.” I’m already moving toward the table to grab my laptop. “You could visit Ellie while I’m gone. I’ll text you when I’m done and we can do lunch instead of breakfast. I won’t be gone long enough to break compliance and I don’t think they’ll be too upset if we do miss one. We’ve met every single check in so far.”
“Sure.” His voice is carefully neutral, giving nothing away. “Whatever works.”
I want to cross the room and kiss him. I want to explain where I’m going and why, to tell him about the doubts that have been growing in my mind since he first made his accusations, but I’m not doing anything until I’m sure.
I just nod and go to get dressed, leaving Nolan standing alone in the kitchen with his cooling coffee and his uncertain smile.
Alistair Wallace is already in the conference room when I arrive at Nilsson Industries.
He’s a tall man, silver-haired and distinguished, with the kind of patrician good looks that photograph well in annual reportsand investor presentations. I’ve met him perhaps a dozen times over the years—board meetings, acquisition negotiations, the occasional industry event where we made polite conversation over expensive drinks. He’s always struck me as smooth, polished, the kind of man who knows exactly how to work a room and make everyone in it feel like his particular friend.
Today he looks nervous, and that nervousness puts me on edge in a way I can’t quite explain.
“Erik.” He rises when I enter the glass-walled conference room, extending his hand with practiced warmth. “Thank you for making time on such short notice. I know the circumstances are unusual.”
I shake his hand briefly and take the chair across from him without returning the pleasantries. “Sara said you had documentation to share.”
“I do. Please, sit—oh, you already are.” He laughs, a small awkward sound, and lowers himself back into his own chair. “Straight to business, then. I’ve always appreciated that about you.”
Sara is already seated at the end of the table, tablet in hand, ready to take notes on whatever transpires. She gives me a small nod of acknowledgment, her expression professionally neutral.
Alistair opens his leather briefcase and removes a folder. It’s thick, stuffed with papers and what look like photographs of documents, and he handles it like it contains something precious or fragile.
“I understand there have been questions,” he says, choosing his words with obvious care. “About the provenance of the research I sold you. About whether proper protocols were followed during the original development phase.”
“There have been concerns raised, yes.” I keep my voice neutral, noncommittal. “Apologies for dredging this all up again. We’ve had reason to go into it again. Just a precaution, ofcourse.” I don’t mention Nolan. I don’t mention anything that might reveal how personal this has become.
“That’s fine. I understand.” Alistair shakes his head with what looks like genuine regret. “West has a brilliant mind, truly exceptional talent, but troubled in ways I didn’t recognize until it was too late. When things ended between us, he took it badly, poor thing. Omegas can be just as intelligent as alphas but they struggle with the emotional side of things. Ultimately, I just don’t think he was suited to the business world.”
I don’t react to the description. I don’t give him anything to read in my expression. It is strange though to sit across from this man and know that he used to be Nolan’s fiancé. Once Alistair was the one who helped Nolan through his heats. The thought makes me want to punch through my laptop screen.
Alistair pauses, and something shifts in his expression. “You already have most of the documentation. All the lab records and statements.”
He’s wasting my time. I don’t need an in-person meeting to be told about information that I already have.
“There’s a recording,” Alistair says, leaning back in the chair. “Of the researcher himself, admitting that his claims were fabricated.”
“A recording,” I repeat, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will.
“He was upset, drinking heavily. We were at a bar after an industry conference—this was perhaps six months after the court case. He apologized for everything he’d said and done. He admitted he’d made up the accusations because he was angry and that he’d let jealousy and wounded pride cloud his judgment.” Alistair’s voice is gentle now, almost pitying. “I recorded the conversation because I wanted proof, in case he ever tried to make trouble again. I never thought I’d actually need to use it.”
Sara is very still beside me. I can feel her tension, her uncertainty about where this is going and what it means.
“Play it,” I say.
Alistair pulls out his phone, scrolls through and taps something, then he sets it on the table between us. A moment later, audio fills the conference room, slightly tinny from the phone’s small speakers but perfectly clear.
“—shouldn’t have said those things. I know I shouldn’t have.”The voice is unmistakably Nolan’s, though younger-sounding, slightly slurred with what might be alcohol. “I was just so angry, you know? When you left me, I wanted to hurt you. Wanted to make you pay for what you did.”
“I understand.”Alistair’s voice on the recording, warm and soothing.“It was a difficult time for everyone involved.”
“I’m so sorry. I was just so angry. I shouldn’t have claimed it was mine. I guess I just wanted it to be.”