CHAPTER 12- just because I'm a beta⁶

JADEN'S P.O.V.

JAMES: "How much were you paid to show up?"

I stared at him, my mind blank.

For a moment, I thought I had misheard him.

"What?" I finally managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

James leaned back, eyes cold and disinterested. He didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to.

I felt like the ground had just been pulled from beneath me.

I had waited hours for him, hoping—no, convincing myself—that he was just busy. That there had to be a reason. That maybe he was nervous, or uncertain, or something.

I had told myself a thousand excuses just to hold on to the belief that this could work.

But as I sat there, looking into the face of the man I had once imagined a future with, I realized something.

He didn't care.

Not about the date. Not about me.

Maybe he never had.

James reached into his coat and pulled out a check, sliding it across the table like it was nothing.

"Make sure I never see your face again."

I stared at the piece of paper between us, my vision blurring at the edges.

This wasn't just rejection. This was humiliation.

I picked up the check with trembling fingers, staring at the amount. It was enough to make someone disappear for good.

I scoffed.

Was this what he thought of me? That I was bought into this arrangement? That I was some desperate omega, grasping for a chance to marry into wealth?

The anger burned slow at first, simmering beneath my skin. Then, before I could stop myself, I ripped the check in half. Then again. And again.

Tiny fragments of paper fluttered onto the table.

I met his gaze, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"No wonder you assume I was paid to be here."

James's expression didn’t shift, but something flickered in his eyes.

"No one in their right mind would ever date you—not with that attitude."

I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, and turned to leave. But before I walked away, I looked over my shoulder.

"I don’t need to be paid to disappear from your life. I’d gladly do it."

And with that, I stormed out of the restaurant, the night air hitting my face like a slap.

This marriage? It was never going to happen.

I curled up on my bed, staring at my phone as it buzzed over and over. The caller ID flashed a name I didn’t want to see.

Mrs. Wilson

Maybe she already knew the date hadn’t gone well. Maybe she wanted an explanation. Maybe she wanted me to fix it.

The ringing stopped. Then started again.

A soft knock at my bedroom door.

"Why aren’t you picking up?" my mom’s voice came through, tired but gentle.

I sighed. My mother was a light sleeper—it was no surprise the ringing had woken her up.

"Sorry, Mom."

I sighed in defeat and finally mustered the will to grab my phone and answer.

"Jaden, you finally picked up!" Mrs. Wilson’s voice was warm, but I could hear the concern beneath it.

"Yeah… sorry, I was asleep," I lied.

"Oh, it's alright, sweetheart. I was just curious—how did the dinner go?"

I hesitated.

Sandra Wilson had been nothing but kind to me. She was the reason I had my dream job. The reason I had a chance in an industry where omegas were often overlooked.

A few years ago, I was just a struggling omega, working part-time at a coffee shop to keep myself afloat while chasing a dream that felt impossible.

Then she walked in.

At first, she was just another customer. But one day, she forgot her platinum credit card at the counter. I returned it the next day, thinking nothing of it. But to her, it must have meant something.

Because after that, she kept coming back. More and more often. Until one day, she offered me a job.

Not just any job. My job.

With her connections, I wasn’t just another rookie model. I was somebody. People in the industry treated me differently when they heard I was connected with, the name Wilson.

It made me wonder—who were the Wilsons, really?

They weren’t like the famous wealthy families everyone knew. There was an air of mystery around them, a quiet influence that went beyond just money.

"What was someone like that doing in a commoner’s coffee shop?"

I never found the answer. And honestly, I never questioned it, I could only thank my luck I crossed paths with such a person.

Then one day, Mrs. Wilson sat me down with a warm smile and told me she wanted me to be her son—not just in affection, but in name.

She wanted me to marry her son.

James.

I remember the moment clearly. The way she slid his photo across the table, her fingers gentle, almost reverent.

"This is my son," she had said, watching my expression closely.

I picked up the picture with careful hands, my pulse quickening.

And the moment I saw him—really saw him—I felt my breath hitch.

He was Handsome.

The kind of handsome that seemed almost unreal. Sharp, elegant features. Eyes that held something unreadable. A confidence in his stance, even in a still image.

I found myself staring at the photo far longer than I should have, my fingers brushing over the edges as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

A man like this—could he truly be my fiancé?

It felt too surreal. Too perfect.

That night, I tucked the photo away in my drawer, but I kept taking it out. Studying it. Imagining what he might be like.

I pictured a man as refined as his mother, as kind as Aunt Sanra was. Someone who would take my hand in his, whisper reassurances when I doubted myself.

A gentleman.

A prince.

And the more I imagined, the deeper I fell into the fantasy.

Meeting him was all I could think about.

But when the day finally came—when I walked into that restaurant, heart pounding, ready to meet the man behind the photograph—

I was met with someone completely different.

The James Wilson in front of me wasn’t the elegant figure I had dreamed up.

He was cold. Detached. His expression unreadable, except for the clear disdain in his eyes.

The handsome face I had admired for weeks now felt like a cruel joke.

Within moments, every fantasy, every hopeful thought, came crashing down.

I felt foolish. Used.

Because this wasn’t a love story waiting to unfold.

This was just another arrangement. And I was just another piece being moved.

A slow, sickening realization crept in....

What if everything—the kindness, the job, the opportunities—was leading up to this?

What if I wasn’t some lucky omega she wanted to help?

Did she help me because she saw potential in me? Or did she help me because she wanted to own me?

The thought made my stomach churn.

"Mrs. Wilson, I'm sorry," I said, my voice tight.

"I can’t tell you what happened at dinner."

"But what I can tell you is…" I clenched my jaw.

"This marriage is not happening."

***********

Meanwhile…

Presley smirked as he watched the scene unfold on the system’s screen, lounging back like a viewer enjoying his favorite drama.

PRESLEY: "Wait… doesn’t this mean mission complete? The marriage isn’t happening."

Von’s voice echoed, calm but firm.

VON: «I wouldn’t be so sure about that.»

Presley’s smirk faltered.

"What?"

The screen flickered, and suddenly, things didn’t seem so simple anymore.

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