Chapter 131 – Harry
"Look here! Look here! Look here!"
The paparazzi scream in unison, their voices colliding with the violent crackle of camera shutters. Flashbulbs pop like fireworks, blinding, dizzying, relentless. I turn toward them, the only thing anchoring me to reality being Mason's hand resting solid and warm against the small of my back.
A major red carpet event. The kind of night kids dream about when they first set foot into the acting world. Glitz, gowns, tuxedos, cameras—all the spectacle that says you've "made it."
And I'm here. Me.
My therapist's voice flits through my head: You deserve to be here. Stop treating your accomplishments like accidents.
I try to believe it. I'm trying.
Mason gives my waist one last reassuring squeeze before stepping aside for his own solo shots. My heart races as the handlers motion me forward. Alone.
The red carpet stretches before me like a stage, and for once, I don't stumble. I stand beneath the harsh strobe of cameras, chin up, expression calm, trying to look like I belong.
I was nominated tonight. Best Supporting Role. I probably won't win—hell, I'd bet against myself if I could—but being nominated? That's magic. A year ago, I couldn't imagine even surviving, much less thriving.
It's been a year since I left Dorian.
The further I get from him, the angrier I become. I thought freedom would heal everything instantly. It didn't. Healing has been slower, jagged. But I'm here now. My life is mine again.
And Dorian? He's still playing his games.
He tried replacing me—hunting for other unsuspecting omegas. Each time the tabloids catch him on the arm of some beautiful blonde, the story fizzles out in days. Why? Because Ivan has made it his personal mission to interfere.
Operation Cockblock Dorian Black. That's what he calls it.
Officially, it's a charity foundation that helps omegas pursue their artistic ambitions—funding acting classes, scholarships, grants, even mentorships. But unofficially? Every single "protégé" who receives help is suspiciously blonde, beautiful, and omega. The media is starting to put two and two together.
It's petty. It's ridiculous. It's brilliant.
And honestly? It's hilarious.
Whenever Ivan isn't busy sabotaging Dorian's conquests, he's in a public spat with his in-laws.
That thought makes me laugh now as I'm ushered further down the carpet, Mason's turn taking center stage. His smile is dazzling, practiced, but when his eyes dart toward me they soften—genuine, warm.
I drift toward the sidelines, breathing easier out of the spotlight. But I don't get far.
A reporter blocks my path. Microphone in hand, recorder already running.
"Harry! Harry! How was it, performing as Noah Blue? Your performance was tear-jerking—you have no idea how much I cried every time you were on screen."
The words strike me deeper than she knows. Noah Blue wasn't just a role. He was a mirror. A supporting lead trapped in a poisonous marriage, resigned to hopelessness yet desperate to see the monster he lived with fall. Playing him felt like exorcising ghosts I hadn't even realized were still in my bones.
I don't say that, of course.
Instead, I give the safe smile, the award-season smile.
"I'm thankful I was able to bring the character to life. It was my most challenging role yet. I worked hard, the staff worked hard—we all poured ourselves into it."
She nods enthusiastically, peppering me with a few more questions about the film, the set, the experience. Then her eyes sharpen, predator-like, and I know where this is headed before she even says it.
"Now, you arrived tonight with another nominee—Actor of the Year Mason Greene." She tilts her head.
"You two have been spotted quite a few times together. Restaurants. Courtside at games. Cozy, some might say."
My stomach flips.
The reporter leans in, relentless. "So… any romance budding there? Alpha and omega, both hot, both young—sounds like a perfect headline to me."
Before I can form a denial, a hand slides confidently around my waist.
"Unfortunately," Mason's voice purrs, smooth as silk, "there is no budding romance. Not for my lack of trying."
And before I can shove him away, he plants a kiss—soft, sure—against my cheek.
The reporter squeals, "Ahhhhhh!" Microphones swing, cameras flash, the frenzy doubles in an instant.
"Mason!" I hiss the second we're out of range, my face flaming hot. "Why would you do that?!"
He only chuckles, maddeningly calm. "What? It's the truth."
I groan, already imagining tomorrow's headlines.He's infuriating.
But his hand doesn't leave my waist as he steers me down the hall, away from the chaos. And despite myself, despite the embarrassment and the impending media circus, I don't pull away.
I would never pull away from Mason.