My Celebrity Boss Was Supposed to Be an Omega

Julian Reed is dead. I know because I read the headline—and broke my couch celebrating. Before you judge me, try spending eight years with a man who criticizes your groceries, meddles in your life, and once paid your roommates to soak your bedding so you’d have to share his bed. I thought I’d finally have some peace. Then my apartment started going dark at eleven every night. My mattress dipped beside me. And a voice I knew far too well asked whether I was really that happy he was gone. Apparently, even death can’t make Julian leave me alone. But somewhere between hiding under the covers and arguing with empty rooms, I start wondering what I actually want: for him to stop coming back—or for him to stay.