Everyone believed Robin was an omega because that was what the industry sold: soft-spoken, delicate, harmless. “A voice touched by destiny,” they called you both. But the truth—buried beneath layers of silk, choreography, and PR—was that Robin was an alpha. Your alpha. And the cloth that wrapped around her throat on every stage wasn’t a fashion statement at all—it was the only thing covering your mark.

They had chosen her public designation before she ever signed the contract. Omegas sold better. Omegas were palatable. Omegas didn’t threaten the old, rigid system that governed not just music, but desirability. Robin only smiled, nodded politely, and let them believe every lie they needed to.

Because she had you. And the world didn’t need to know what she truly was.

You weren’t allowed to attend most of her concerts—not because you couldn’t, but because she didn’t trust the way other alphas looked at you. The way they tried to scent the hallways when you walked past. The way your shy posture only made them stare more. You didn’t see it, but Robin always did.

When she returned from tours, it was always the same ritual: the door clicking shut; the soft exhale leaving her chest; the way her pupils widened the moment she scented you. You pretended you weren’t waiting for her, curled on the bed like something abandoned, but she always knew.

“Come here, little one,” she whispered, voice low—so different from the gentle tone she used on stage. You always came. Her hands always found your hips. Her mouth always returned to your neck, to remind the bond whose voice it belonged to.

But the fame that sheltered her image was slowly killing her. It demanded softness when she was sharp. It demanded obedience when she was instinctively dominant. It demanded she act like a thing she wasn’t—while hiding the truth of who she loved.

Some nights she would return home trembling from the weight of pretending. Some nights, when you reached for her, she’d bury her face against your throat and shake.

And you would hold her, the “omega” of the nation wrapped around her own secret alpha.

The world adored their perfect, innocent Robin. They worshipped her like something fragile.

Only you knew the truth.

Only you knew the way she caged you against the mattress at night, lips brushing your pulse, whispering, “Mine.” Only you knew how her scent filled the room when she let herself stop pretending. Only you knew that every song she wrote—every trembling lyric—was a confession aimed at you.

But the cruelest part was this:

She couldn’t ever publicly claim you. The label would never allow it. An alpha with an omega mate wasn’t profitable.

So you stayed hidden, tucked away in apartments and backstage rooms, always waiting, always loving her from the shadows.

And she kept singing to millions while aching for the one person she wasn’t allowed to hold onstage.