Page 13 of Knot So Slick (Select-A-Mate #1)

As I glide past the tables, the waiter nearest to me pauses mid-stride, his tray balanced precariously with plates of steaming meals.

His eyes flicker with recognition, but it's the pity pooling in his gaze that catches me off guard. It's subtle, softened by his polite demeanor, but I see it. Pity for the omega who’s been turned away, pity for the one whose scent match mates couldn’t find it within themselves to choose her.

I don’t know how word got around so fast, but it feels as if all the eyes in the room understand what just happened.

Maybe they do. Gossip has a way of traveling at the speed of light, and it’s only natural that everyone in this restaurant knows what happened.

I’d say the waiter that took over for the maitre-d' heard everything and then told the next one, then the next one told another one, and so on. I’d say the whole restaurant knows exactly what happened in that room, and I’m going to be the butt of their jokes for a long time to come, especially being that the future Mayor of Cedar Hill turned me away as if I am nothing.

I don’t give the room a second glance as I stride toward the exit, my shoulders squared, my movements as steady as I can manage despite the churning inside me.

Each step feels both too fast and too slow, too heavy and too light, as though I am untethered from my surroundings.

The door swings open under my hand, the warm night air rushing to greet me as I leave the murmurs and covert stares behind.

The street is quiet in comparison, the muted hum of distant cars and the faint chirping of crickets wrapping around me like an uneasy solace.

I stop just beyond the threshold of the restaurant, my heels clicking against the pavement one last time before I let myself pause.

The air smells of damp concrete and faintly of blossoms from some unseen garden.

It’s grounding in its simplicity, grounding in its utter indifference to my existence.

I close my eyes for a moment, tilting my head back slightly as I draw in a deep breath.

The inhale is shaky at first, faltering as the ache in my chest tightens, but I force myself to hold it, to feel it fill the hollow space where my confidence should be.

The coolness of the air settles on my skin and spreads through me, its touch bracing, its rhythm steadying.

And then, as I exhale, slow and deliberate, I imagine letting go of the weight pressing against my ribs, the sting of humiliation, the rawness of rejection.

The ache doesn’t disappear, not entirely.

But in this single breath, I claim a piece of myself back, a fragment of the strength I know lies buried beneath the hurt.

My eyes flutter open, and the streetlights blur for a moment before sharpening once more.

I take another breath, then another, each one less jagged, less strained, until I feel steady enough to take a step forward into the night.

The city stretches out before me, indifferent and vast, and for the first time since Knox’s rejection, I feel a flicker of something I can only describe as defiance.

If the world expects me to crumble, to disappear into that cold, dark void, it’s in for a surprise. I am still here. And I am still worthy.

As I wander down the street, my thoughts drift to Windy.

The one person who might understand me, who might offer words that could stitch the ragged edges of my unraveling heart.

I long to hear her voice, to feel the comfort of her presence, like a lighthouse cutting through a storm, guiding me back to myself.

But the thought of telling her everything, of laying bare the truth of my humiliation, freezes my steps.

How could I? How could I possibly explain how it feels to be discarded so publicly, so thoroughly, by someone who was destined to choose me?

The weight of Knox’s rejection is unbearable enough without inviting someone, even Windy, to see me in this raw and vulnerable state.

The shame churns in my stomach, a gnawing ache that whispers, Don’t tell her. Don’t let her see you like this.

Yet, despite the embarrassment twisting my gut, a small, insistent part of me knows that she would never judge me.

Windy’s kindness has always been steadfast, her loyalty unshakable.

But even that knowledge doesn’t ease my hesitation.

For admitting the truth to her would mean admitting it to myself, and right now, I am not sure I am ready to confront the reality of what has happened, to hear the words spoken aloud and feel their sting anew.

I can almost picture Windy’s face, the way her brow would furrow with concern, her voice gentle and soothing as she tells me that I am more than Knox’s decision, more than the rejection that feels like it has defined me.

But imagining her pity, imagining the way she might look at me as though I am fragile, makes the thought unbearable. I am not fragile. I refuse to be.

So I keep walking, my phone heavy in my purse, my thumb itching to send her a message, but never quite moving to do so.

The night stretches on, the city’s lights flickering around me like tiny stars, and I find myself caught between the pull to reach out and the push to remain wrapped in my silence. For now, it seems, the latter wins.

I eventually stop in front of my car, the familiar curve of its frame glinting faintly under the streetlights.

My hand hesitates on the handle for a moment as though the simple act of opening the door might tether me to a reality I’m still trying to escape.

With a quiet sigh, I pull the door open and slide into the driver’s seat, the leather cool against my skin, the faint scent of lavender lingering from an air freshener long past its prime.

The car feels almost too quiet, the silence pressing down like a heavy blanket.

I fumble for the keys in my bag, the sharp jingle breaking the stillness as I insert them into the ignition.

The engine hums to life, a low, comforting sound that fills the void.

For a moment, I sit there, gripping the steering wheel, staring at the empty road ahead.

The drive home is a blur of streetlights and shadows, the city passing by in fleeting glimpses.

I keep the windows rolled down, letting the night air rush in, its coolness brushing against my face and playing with the loose strands of my hair.

It’s grounding in its own way, the rhythmic hum of the tires against the pavement acting as a steady backdrop to my swirling thoughts.

When I pull into the driveway, the house looms quietly, its windows glowing faintly against the darkness.

I turn off the engine, the sudden absence of sound leaving me momentarily disoriented.

For a few beats, I remain in the car, the weight of the night pressing heavily on my shoulders, reluctant to face the stillness within those walls.

But as the minutes stretch on, I gather myself, one breath at a time, and step out into the hushed embrace of the night.

Locking the car behind me, I make my way to the door, the familiar creak of the hinges greeting me as I step inside.

The house smells faintly of wood polish and laundry detergent, a comforting, unchanging scent that wraps around me like a worn blanket.

I drop my bag onto the side table and kick off my heels, the cool floor against my feet anchoring me back to the here and now.

I glance around the quiet rooms, the shadows soft and unassuming, and despite the weight of the evening, a small part of me feels just a little bit lighter. Home, at least, is indifferent to my hurt, offering no judgment, no pity—only solace in its silence.

As I sink into the quiet embrace of my home, the faint buzz of my phone in my purse jolts me from my thoughts. For a moment, I hesitate, the sound acting as a distant tether to the world outside these walls. With a sigh, I pick up the device, its screen glowing softly in the dim light.

A message from Windy. Her name, familiar and warm, sits at the top of the screen.

Windy: What are you up to?

Simple, yet charged with an unspoken concern that radiates from her, even in text form.

I stare at the message for a moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as if caught in a silent debate.

The temptation to respond, to let her in, tugs at me gently.

But the lingering weight of the evening holds me back, as though replying would unravel the fragile bubble of solitude I’ve wrapped around myself.

Still, her words stay with me, filling the quiet air like a whisper I can’t quite ignore. I place the phone on the table, the screen dimming into darkness, her question hanging in the silence as I try to summon the courage to face it.

I know Windy wouldn’t judge me for signing up for Select-A-Mate, but she would want to know the specifics of the date I was just on. I’m too embarrassed to tell her I was rejected.

Not many people in the program are rejected by the individuals they are matched with.

According to testimonies, they usually get it right on the first try.

They did with my situation, but Knox, Boone, and Tripp don’t see it the same way.

They don’t want a ‘plain’ omega. They want someone who will sparkle on Knox’s arm.

Anyone can be anything they want to be with the right incentive. My incentive would be having those males as mine.

I may not be your average omega. I may not like nesting, dressing up, or being the cuddly type, but I am still an omega with thoughts and feelings. I’m still one who can make someone very happy.

When they come to their senses, I’ll show them. They’ll never find a better omega than the one that fate made strictly for them.