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Mellie

Are you ready for date night?

Shit. I forgot they already knew about date night. Knowing she’ll go nuclear if she hears a peep of what happened earlier, I drop my bag on the bed with a sigh.

Me

Absolutely. I’m going to blow their minds.

By being a failure of an omega, that is.

I don’t read their responses, frustration and that well-worn guilt combining.

My friends think I’ve given them the truth, but they know the tip of my personal iceberg. They don’t know about theweeks spent alone with no company, alphas abandoning me in the middle of my heat to deal with one work fire or another, months without a single touch other than my friends or my own. Pleading to start a family, only to hear excuse after excuse.

Doctors. So many doctors quietly telling me what I already know. What I can’t change.

Really, the only thing I’ve gained from packing up is learning to be an excellent liar.

Knowing I have to stay in or risk Mellie’s wrath, I head into my sewing room and curl into my favorite reading chair, pulling a sketchbook into my lap. If I’m not getting laid and I can’t leave, the least I can do is work.

With everything my pack’s done—or rather, all the things they refuse to do—I needed a space that could be just mine. A place to breathe and enjoy and be creative. To their credit, the sewing room is incredible. Split into sections, I have a cutting space that takes one entire wall, multiple custom mannequins and a slew of fabric options. The sewing machine is one I bought myself, a pre-bonding gift I didn’t know I’d use this much and certainly not to design lingerie.

After a particularly nasty fight with Jacob and Corey a few months ago, I spent the evening locked in my studio, fingers aching as I drew and sewed and cried. When dawn broke, the light brought with it a sense of clarity. Of purpose.

An inclusive lingerie brand custom designed and sewed by me. Slow fashion made as sustainable as possible while taking into consideration a plethora of needs from alternative closures to sensory friendly fabrics. As Nymph grew in my head, so did my happiness, joy blossoming at the chance to put my all into something I care about.

I’ve always loved wearing it, but didn’t know designing my own would be so cathartic. A way to work out my feelings sothey make sense. I always come out of this room feeling like everything’s under control. For a little while, at least.

I’m halfway through a new test design when the phone rings. My heart leaps, hoping it’s one of my alphas deciding to come back for dinner. Instead, it’s my mother. Every part of me knows there’s no comfort to be had here. No warmth. Yet I move to my bedroom and answer anyway.

Maybe it’s the masochistic streak in me, the desire to have someone tell me to my face how terrible I’m doing instead of the offhand comments that sting and grate.

“Why did it take you so long to answer? Are you with your alphas?”

Mother’s obsession with Pack Parker has only grown. If she’s not texting them to check in, she’s sending gifts and offering to fly out from my hometown three states away. It’s embarrassing how far she bends over to make them like her, but I’ve given up trying to tell her how much they hate it. She never listens anyway.

“The pack has an event today. They left me at home.” The moment it comes out, I know I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Mother’s tone hardens, her frustration as evident as always. “It’s not their job to cater to you, Daphne. It’s your job to entice them enough to come home or, god forbid, be invited along. A perfect omega would be at their sides all the time.”

There’s that word again.Perfect.As if it’s even possible for a human to be as flawless as they want me to be.

The barb lands regardless, stinging across my skin like a whip.

I’ve tried so hard. Learned what my alphas like and what they hate. How to speak and eat and breathe so they’re happy. I wear my hair straight to please them and I follow a strict fifteen step skincare regime, so I don’t get wrinkles. I learned to cook andclean and manage this house of cards until my fingers bled, but it never mattered. Not to my alphas and not to Mother.

Maybe it’s because she’s a beta. She doesn’t have the intrinsic knowledge of how I fight my instincts every day to give my men exactly what they want, even when my needs are never met. The casual touches an omega requires are nonexistent and the scent marks from the early days faded without reapplication. Hell, I barely ever get a kiss anymore and sex… Well, sex is a topic I can’t think about without wanting to scream.

“I understand your desire to make this work, Mother, but you don’t know what it’s like to be an omega.”

She scoffs. “Maybe not, but my husband is home with me right now while all three of your alphas are gone. You know, maybe that’s why you haven’t gotten pregnant yet. They aren’t interested in procreating because they’re still looking for something better.”

I’ve never smelled anyone else on them, never seen even a hint of deceit like that, so it’s unlikely she’s right, but the fear is my dirty little secret. The thing that keeps me awake in my empty nest longer than it should.

Steeling myself for what I know will be a fight, I finally let myself say it. “We need to revisit the contract, Mother. They’re neglecting me.”

The silence is deafening. Eventually, she comes back, tone quiet and concerned. “Tell me what’s going on.”