Chapter 229

Chapter 229
Elsa

Once inside my room, I kicked off my shoes with enough force to send one flying under the coffee table and collapsed onto the couch with a groan. My body felt like lead, every muscle screaming from the tension I'd been carrying. Olivia settled in the armchair across from me, crossing her legs and smoothing her skirt in that precise way she always did when preparing to deliver difficult news.

"Bruce mentioned the Watsons made an offer," she said, her tone carefully neutral.

I snorted, running a hand roughly through my hair. "A million dollars and a condo to forget their precious Emma tried to destroy my life. Oh, and a vague threat about my mother's medication if I don't play along. Just another fucking day in omega paradise."

Olivia's brow furrowed slightly. "And you turned it down?"

"Of course I turned it down," I said, sitting up straighter, my fists clenching in my lap. "Are you suggesting I shouldn't have? Jesus Christ, Olivia, whose side are you on?"

She sighed, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against her knee. "Bruce called me after you left. He mentioned you wanted a formal admission of guilt and an apology instead."

"I want justice," I insisted, a familiar heat rising in my chest as I slammed my palm on the couch cushion. "Is that so much to ask? Or is that some crazy luxury omegas don't deserve?"

Olivia met my gaze, her expression softening with what looked disturbingly like pity. "Elsa, I need to be honest with you about something. About the case."

My stomach clenched, bile rising in my throat. "What about it?" I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.

"Even if we win—and we would win—Emma would likely be sentenced to one to three years. And with her family connections and first-time offender status..."

"She wouldn't serve a day," I finished, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. I dug my nails into my palms so hard I was sure I'd drawn blood. "They'd give her probation or some bullshit community service. Un-fucking-believable."

Olivia nodded grimly. "The Watsons know this. That's why they're offering money instead of fighting—it's about saving face for them, not keeping Emma out of prison."

I stood up abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal, my hands tugging at my hair in frustration as anger coursed through me. "So what you're saying is, even with all the evidence, even with what she did to me, the system would just... let her walk? That's such bullshit!"

"The system isn't designed for justice, Elsa. It's designed for order." Olivia's voice was gentle but firm. "Emma comes from a powerful family. You're an omega. The math isn't complicated."

"So I should just take the money and shut up?" My voice cracked with emotion as I spun to face her, tears threatening to spill. "Let them win? Again? Fuck that!"

"I think you should consider what victory really looks like for you," Olivia said carefully. "Is it watching Emma get a slap on the wrist while you spend years in court battles? Or is it securing your future and your mother's care?"

I stopped pacing, staring out the window at the moonlit mountains, my reflection a pale ghost against the darkness. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, my breath fogging the pane. "I just..." I swallowed hard past the lump in my throat, my voice barely audible. "I just can't stomach it. Why do people like us always have to be the ones who bend? Who compromise? Just once, I'd like to see someone like Emma face real consequences."

Olivia stood, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I understand. Think about it overnight. We can talk more tomorrow."

After Olivia left, I collapsed back onto the couch, exhaustion and frustration overwhelming me. I grabbed a throw pillow and screamed into it, the sound muffled but satisfying. "I'm so fucking tired of being powerless," I whispered to the empty room, curling into myself, knees drawn up to my chest.

Why was everyone telling me to let this go? Drake had stepped in at the restaurant, but even he hadn't suggested pursuing justice to the fullest extent. Was everyone in on some secret pact to protect the status quo? To keep omegas in their place? My jaw ached from clenching it so hard, teeth grinding together in silent rage.

My eyelids grew heavy as these bitter thoughts swirled in my mind. I didn't mean to fall asleep there on the couch, still fully dressed, but the emotional toll of the day had drained me completely.

I'm not sure how long I slept, but I woke to the sensation of gentle pressure on my forehead—a soft brush of lips, a familiar scent that made my wolf stir instinctively. My eyes fluttered open to find Drake's face hovering inches from mine, his features softened in the dim light of the single lamp I'd left on.

I bolted upright, nearly colliding with him. "What the fuck are you doing here?" I demanded, scrambling to put distance between us, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs.

"You're angry," he observed, his voice unusually raspy. "Did you change your mind about Emma? Are you going to let her off the hook too?"

Something was wrong. Drake's normally sharp eyes were glassy, his face flushed. As he straightened up, he swayed slightly, one hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. My breath caught in my throat.

"Are you drunk?" I asked incredulously, my fingers nervously twisting a strand of hair.

He attempted his usual arrogant smirk, but it faltered. "Not drunk. Just..." He didn't finish the sentence, instead lowering himself to sit on the floor, his back against the wall. "Fuck."

I moved closer cautiously, my anger momentarily forgotten. My teeth worried my bottom lip as I knelt beside him. Up close, I could see beads of sweat on his forehead, his breathing shallow and labored. When I pressed my palm to his cheek, his skin burned against mine like a brand.

"Jesus Christ, you're sick," I stated, alarm replacing my initial irritation as my stomach twisted with worry. "Really sick. You need a doctor, Drake. Like, now."

Drake closed his eyes, leaning into my touch with a vulnerability I rarely saw in him. "No doctors. Just you." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I only need you."

A memory flashed through my mind—Drake, a month after we'd met, collapsed with a high fever in his apartment. I'd found him there, barely conscious, too proud to call for help. I'd stayed with him for days, nursing him back to health, watching as the fearsome alpha became almost childlike in his need for care and comfort.

Those days had changed something between us. In his fevered state, Drake had clung to me in his sleep, whispering things I'd tried to forget. The hospital staff had assumed I was his wife, and he hadn't corrected them. He'd seemed to enjoy it, actually—the doctors addressing me as "Mrs. Stone," asking me about his medical history as if I'd known him forever.