Page 17 of Knot So Lucky
I look like someone who's been running on four hours of sleep and spite for the better part of a week.
The elevator chimes softly as it reaches my floor—the entire floor, because the Lanes don't do anything by half measures, and my parents insisted that if I was going to "pursue this racing nonsense" I would at least do it from a secure location.
I shuffle down the hallway, each step feeling like I'm dragging weights. My fingers fumble with the key card, swipingit once, twice, before the lock finally disengages with a soft click and a green light.
The door swings open to reveal my sanctuary.
Calling it a "suite" is like calling the Pacific Ocean a puddle.
The entryway opens into a sprawling open-concept living space that probably costs more per month than most people make in a year. Floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall offer a view of the city that's absolutely magnificent if you ignore the fact that it screams penthouse luxury. The skyline glitters like scattered diamonds, still alive even at this ungodly hour.
Minimalist furniture in shades of cream and grey. Art on the walls that I've never bothered to learn the names of because my interior designer picked them, and I just signed off on whatever kept my mother from having opinions about my "living situation." A kitchen with appliances I barely use because cooking for one feels depressingly corporate when you grew up with family dinners at a table that sat twenty.
It's beautiful.
It's pristine.
It's everything I should want.
And some nights—most nights—I hate it with a passion that borders on violence.
I have another place.
A small apartment in the Warehouse District, in a building where the elevator breaks every other week and the neighbors blast music at 3 AM, and nobody gives a shit if you're a Lane or a garbage collector because everyone's just trying to survive. It's cramped and the heating's inconsistent, and there's a coffee shop on the corner that makes the best cappuccinos I've ever tasted.
It makes me feel normal.
Like I'm just Aurora, not Aurora Rory Lane of the Lane Industrial Dynasty.
Not the Omega pretending to be an Alpha pretending to be just another talented tech trying to make it in a brutal industry.
Just... me.
But tonight—this morning—I'm too exhausted to risk the drive across the city. Too wrung out to trust myself behind the wheel for another twenty minutes when I can barely keep my eyes open as it is.
And that little apartment doesn't have security.
This place won't let a soul past the lobby unless they're explicitly associated with me, vetted by a security team that probably knows more about my guests than I do.
I guess Cale counts in that category, though I'm not entirely sure when I added him to the approved list. Probably during one of those nights when we fell into bed together and I was too fucked-out and satisfied to care about maintaining boundaries.
When the suppressants wore off enough that my Omega instincts purred at having an Alpha in my space, and his scent soaked into my sheets in a way that made me feel claimed, even though we've never discussed anything close to an actual relationship.
Cale.
Who's probably the reason I'm even functioning right now after the day I've had.
I drop my bag by the door with a heavy thud, not caring that it's going to leave a grease stain on the pristine marble floor. The cleaning service will deal with it tomorrow. That's what I pay them for.
My fingers find the zipper of my hoodie—oversized, deliberately shapeless—and drag it down. The coveralls underneath are worse, stiff with dried sweat and chemicals. I peel them off piece by piece, leaving a trail of contaminated clothing from the entryway to the bathroom because I cannotbring this grease-covered disaster further into my serene paradise.
The bathroom is obscene.
Heated marble floors. A shower with six different heads and enough settings to qualify as a spa treatment. A soaking tub that could fit three people comfortably. A mirror that takes up an entire wall and probably costs more than a car.
I catch my reflection and pause.
Without the bulky clothes, I'm just me again. Curves that the binding does its best to flatten, but can never fully hide. Skin that's paler than it should be from spending all my time indoors or covered head to toe in protective gear. The faint marks on my hips where the coveralls' belt sat wrong all day.
