Page 132 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

The door opens.

I close the folder immediately.

Sophie is standing in the doorway.

Her face is pale. Her eyes are bright with fury, or maybe tears.

She closes the door behind her and locks it.

“Max, we need to talk.”

“Sophie,” I say carefully. “What’s⁠—”

“Clinical trials.” The words come out like bullets. “On omegas. Phase two. Participants hospitalized. A seventy-year-old woman who had a seizure and spent four days in a hospital.”

My stomach drops.

She found the files. She found the adverse event logs. She knows about Marcia.

“Sophie—”

“What the hell are you doing to those women?” Her voice cracks on the question. “How could you test on vulnerable omegas like this? On a seventy-year-old woman? She could have died. And you just—you just kept going. Kept running the trials. Kept recruiting more women to pump full of whatever experimental⁠—”

“Sophie, stop.” I stand. Hold up my hands. “You don’t have the full picture.”

“Then give it to me.” She’s shaking. I can see the tremor in her hands, the way she’s barely holding herself together. Her voice drops, and what comes out next is worse than the shouting—quiet, wounded, the voice of a woman who trusted someone and thinks she shouldn’t have. “Explain to me how the man who told me his mother deserved a bigger life can sign off on hurting omegas like this.”

The words land like a blade between my ribs.

“Come with me,” I say.

She stares at me. “What?”

“Come with me. I want you to meet someone.”

“Meet someone?” A harsh laugh escapes her. “What difference will that make? You think introducing me to someone is going to change the fact that you’re experimenting on⁠—”

“Her name is Marcia.” I keep my voice steady, even though my heart is pounding. “She’s the seventy-year-old woman in the file. Participant 03. The one who had the seizure.”

Sophie stops.

“You don’t understand what we’re doing here, Sophie. And I could explain it—I could tell you everything right now, in this room, and maybe you’d believe me. But I don’t think words are going to be enough.” I meet her eyes. “I think you need to hear it from her.”

“Why would I⁠—”

“If you still think we’re the bad guys after you talk to her, I’ll step back. I won’t try to explain or defend myself. You can go to Griffin, tell him everything you found, burn Synthera to the ground.” I swallow. “But just meet her first. Please, Sophie.”

The please costs me something. I don’t say please. I don’t ask—I decide, I direct, I command. Asking makes you vulnerable, gives someone else the power.

But I’m asking now. Because the look in her eyes is unbearable, and I need her to understand.

She doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me with that furious, wounded expression, her arms crossed tight over her chest.

“I’ll be in the car,” I say, reaching for my jacket. “Back drive, like before. If you decide to come.”

“And if I don’t?”

I meet her eyes. “Then you don’t. And we both live with that.”