Page 31 of Omega in Love
I barely finish reading when my phone starts ringing, the vibration harsh against my palm. The screen lights up, casting shadows across the hardwood floor beneath my bare feet.
Private number. But I know who it is. The timing is too perfect to be coincidence.
I sigh and accept, pressing the cool glass to my ear. "Elijah Delaire." My voice comes out rougher than intended, gravelly from disuse and exhaustion.
"Finally," a familiar voice exhales, the relief palpable even through the digital connection. Gregory. Brookes’ agent. "I've been trying to reach him for days. Hourly calls. Texts. Emails. Nothing."
"He's been. . .indisposed," I say carefully, heading into the kitchen for coffee I'm not even sure I'll drink. My fingers trail along the cool marble countertop as I move. "I'm just now getting a breather. First time I've checked messages in days."
"Indisposed," Gregory repeats, and I hear the sound of him flipping through papers, the crisp rustle of expensive stationery. "Well, I'm glad the commercial was at least done before you pulled him. But this, Hero, I mean, Elijah, this is important. We've got something big. Time-sensitive. Career-defining potentially."
I brace myself against the kitchen island, feeling the cool surface press into my forearms. The house is quiet except for the distant hum of the air conditioning. "Go on." My tone is neutral, measured, revealing nothing of the protective instinct already flaring inside me.
"There's a designer, Mathéo Delvecchi. He's launching his next couture line at New York Fashion Week. It's a closed-door show, with limited press access. The exclusive guest list is tighter than the White House's security protocols. He wants Brookes." Gregory's voice drops to a reverent whisper on the last sentence, as if speaking of something sacred.
My brows lift, interest piqued despite my reservations. "Wants?"
"Wants him. As the centerpiece. The show-opener and the closer. Specifically requested. Delvecchi doesn't do repeat models, Elijah. This is it. A second chance. A reintroduction to the global scene. The kind of opportunity that comes once in a career, if ever." His words tumble out faster now, excitement barely contained. "After everything that happened here in NewYork, this could be Brookes’ comeback. His redemption in the industry eyes. Not saying he has anything to redeem, but you know what I mean."
I glance toward the hallway, toward the bedroom I just left. "He's not ready." My voice drops to a near-whisper, protective instinct hardening into something like steel in my chest.
"I know what happened," Gregory says, his voice softening with genuine concern. "And I know he's still recovering. But if he passes on this, there won't be another chance like it. Not with Delvecchi, not at this level." He pauses, and I can almost see him running his hand through his thinning hair, a trade marked nervous habit. "I don't want him fading into obscurity, doing fragrance shoots and second-tier campaigns forever. Brookes Daniels deserves the world. And you know that better than anyone, don't you, Elijah?"
My jaw tightens until I feel the pressure in my temples. The muscles in my forearms flex against the counter. "If he says no, it's no. No persuasion. No guilt. No second-guessing. We respect his boundaries now more than ever."
"I'm not asking you to push," Gregory insists, a note of desperation creeping into his tone. "Just. . .tell him. Let him make the choice with all the information. He has to be in New York in two weeks for fittings if he says yes. Everything else, security, accommodations, travel, we'll let you handle with absolute discretion."
I hang up with a reluctant promise to relay the message, even though every instinct in my body screams to shield Brookes from the pressure of it all. The lights. The eyes. The whispers. The risk. New York holds ghosts for him, memories etched into his skin as surely as my tattoos are etched into mine.
When I return to the room, I stop in the doorway, breath catching silently in my throat.
Brookes is half-curled between Dante and Levi, tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets, the morning light filtering through half-drawn curtains and catching the sheen of sweat on his temple. His usually perfect hair is mussed against the pillow, lips slightly parted. He's awake, barely. Bleary-eyed and blinking slowly, like his mind hasn't quite returned from wherever his body just took him.
He sees me and smiles. It's soft, fragile, every defense stripped away, like seeing him for the first time all over again. The carefully constructed veneer he shows the world has given way to something pure and honest, no walls, no performance, no careful calculation of how to appear. Just Brookes, exposed and beautiful in the aftermath.
"Come on, Heart," I murmur, crossing the room with measured steps. "Let's get you cleaned up."
I help him rise, movements deliberate and gentle. His body accepts my support without resistance, without the momentary stiffening I'd grown accustomed to months ago. He melts against my side, trusting his weight to me completely.
We move into the bathroom together, a slow procession. The marble is cold beneath our feet. I reach over and turn on the water, adjusting the temperature with practiced precision, not too hot, just the way he prefers it. Steam begins to billow upward, transforming the space into something otherworldly and intimate.
In silence, I strip off my sweats and guide him under the spray with me, one hand braced against the small of his back. I let the water soak his skin first, washing away the surface evidence of the night, before I even consider reaching for the soap. He's quiet, eyes half-lidded, tension melting from his shoulders with each passing second.
I wash him with reverence, my palms gliding over the slopes of his shoulders, down the elegant lines of his chest, across theflat plane of his stomach. I navigate around the constellation of our claiming bites scattered across his golden skin. I eye them all with satisfaction, mapping every mark with pride. I take my time, allowing him to lean into each touch, giving him space to breathe and exist without expectation.
His voice breaks the silence, low and slightly hoarse. "You okay?" The question catches me off guard, his concern for me in this moment speaks volumes.
I smile faintly, thumb tracing a small circle against his shoulder blade. "I should be asking you that."
He shrugs, cheek pressed against my chest, water cascading down his back. "I don't regret it. I think things happened as they should have." There's a certainty in his tone that wasn't there before, a calm acceptance that feels like growth.
"I didn't think you would." I hesitate, weighing the timing of what I need to say next. The water continues to fall between us. " Something came through this morning. From your agency."
I feel him tense against me, muscles going taut beneath my fingertips.
I stroke a hand through his damp curls, cradling the back of his head. "They want you for New York Fashion Week. Headlining for Mathéo Delvecchi."
He pulls back slightly, wide eyes locking onto mine, disbelief and something like wonder crossing his features. "No. Really?"
