Page 22 of Inside the Sun

After spending the evening bingeingThe Truth Only I Knowblog and learning everything there is to know about the Ferros, I feel somewhat ready. Sort of.

Every year, Beta Empowerment leaders host a series of events meant to ‘raise awareness’ about betas’ place in society. Realistically, it’s about attracting sponsors, donors, and people looking for a nice tax write-off.

This one’s being held at a seaside spa just outside the city, luxury wrapped in a bow. Hot tubs, signature cocktails, sweeping ocean views. The kind of place where you bump elbows with mayors, local politicians, and crime bosses, and half the time, you can’t tell who’s who.

Martin agrees to come. Like always, his urge to dump me cools off a little after he fucks me.

That’s his rhythm. On the days we don’t have sex, he talks about how done he is, how sick of me he’s become. Then, afterward, he sticks around a few more days like he’s fighting with himself, like he’s giving me one more shot. It’s a game. Cat and mouse. And we both know how it ends: the cat chases the mouse into the hole… with pink petals.

Just getting in here costs a small fortune, but Martin doesn’t mind. It’s good for optics. He wants to be a lawyer for the elites, and this place is crawling with them. Real top-shelf types.

The banquet’s split between the hotel’s interior and an outdoor patio where they’ve set up a stage by the pool. Betas perform: singing, dancing, showcasing art, pouring their hearts into it. Most of them are students. Beta-only bands play soft, moody sets while servers glide between guests with trays of champagne and tiny, overpriced bites.

The whole event is meant to celebrate ambitious beta youth. Alphas and omegas? Not exactly welcome.

The place is packed. Crowds of people talk over each other, block the servers, and shovel downhors d’oeuvreslike it’s their last meal.

A chubby emcee, lacking in professionalism but making up for it with volume, is loudly auctioning off paintings by young beta students, starting the bids at outrageous sums.

I scan the room and almost immediately spot someone I’d call a frenemy.

Jared Ferguson.

Model, like me, but he’s an omega.

We’ve got the exact same number of Instagram followers: eleven million. We’ve DMed a few times, kept it friendly on the surface, but underneath, it’s a subtle competition. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like me. He’s older, around twenty-five, and ittook him years to build the kind of following I gained in a fraction of the time.

He’s very tall for an omega, blond, strikingly beautiful, but I’ve got something he doesn’t. My subgender. I’m the famous ‘pretty alpha’. It gives me an edge, and agencies love it. Jared’s just one of thousands of attractive omega models.

But he at least tries to be nice. Always leaves polite comments—You look lovely—under my pics. But then again, in some interviews, he complains about the army of ‘new, desperate models’ who use shortcuts to fame and try to sell their mediocre music using half-naked lingerie photos for famous brands. A not-so-subtle jab at me.

So here we are. Frenemies, like I said.

This year’s been especially good to me and bad for him. I’ve landed major campaigns, the kind that put your face on billboards and your name in people’s mouths. And I know that eats at him.

He’s barely in the game anymore. If it weren’t for his husband, at his age, he’d be irrelevant.

Funny thing is, my brother Rain ended up dating one of Jared’s close friends, Kay, another model. Kay used to walk runways, but even with his stunning looks, he couldn’t always lock down work. It’s a brutal scene, photographers trying to sleep with you, younger influencers waiting to knock you out of the spotlight. Talent barely matters anymore. But if you’re good at sucking off the right famous photographers or agents, you might have a shot. Happily, that’s not what I have to do for now. I’m unique enough that agents still seek contracts with me.

Jared’s eyes find me instantly.

I tug Martin along and head toward him. Jared greets me with a smile that almost looks genuine, eyebrows arched in mock delight.

"Well, well, look who it is—Sun!" he says, all fake excitement.

"Jared. What a surprise. You look stunning," I reply smoothly.

"And so do you, darling," he purrs, leaning in to air-kiss both my cheeks.

His husband, Mark Ferguson, a guy with a weird vibe and obvious political ambitions, looks me over with that familiar expression: interest… and surprise at his own interest. Like,wait, am I into another alpha?

Turns out Martin knows him. They shake hands like old pals. Of course they do. Everyone in this world is tied together by a thousand invisible strings.

Me? I only entered the scene a year and a half ago, not long after I started my Instagram just before my seventeenth birthday.

At first, I just posted a few clips of me playing harp in skimpy briefs. Then I paid for some pro shots, still just for fun. I wanted a good pic of my youth. Maybe secretly hoping Dogger would see it?

And then… things started rolling quickly. When the money hit my account for the first time, I realized what wealth could do. Spoil you. Make you greedy. Make you heartless.

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