Page 28 of Omega's Faith
He brought this on himself.
If he wanted a sweet, submissive omega who would worship the ground he walks on, he should have treated me with basic respect. Instead, he made it clear from the first meeting that he finds me amusing at best, irritating at worst.
Let him mock my faith. Let him sneer at my values and treat me like an amusing pet. I'll be the perfect traditional omega—submissive, deferential, everything the Bureau handbook says I should be.
I might not be able to get out of the wedding but I have everything I need to make him miserable if he keeps messing with me.
7. Alex
I'm about to marry a man who hates me, and somehow that's not the weirdest part of my day.
The weirdest part is that I'm stone-cold sober.
Diana's orders. No champagne breakfast. No liquid courage. Not even a fucking mint julep, and it's my wedding day.
Instead, I'm standing in the groom's preparation suite at the Bellmont, adjusting platinum cufflinks, while my stomach churns like a washing machine.
"Your bow tie is crooked," Ricky says, appearing at my elbow.
I let him fuss with the silk, watching myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The reflection shows a man who looks like he stepped out of a magazine spread. Custom Armani tuxedo in midnight black, perfectly pressed shirt.
I look like a groom. I feel like a fraud.
"How many photographers are out there?" I ask.
"Seventeen," Ricky says without missing a beat. "Plus videographers from three major networks."
The door swings open and Diana sweeps in wearing cream silk, her steel-gray hair sculpted into submission. She’s had herself freshly Botoxed and her face doesn’t move when she speaks.
"Alexander." Her gaze rakes over me, checking for flaws. "You'll do."
High praise from Diana Norris.
"Feeling sentimental about seeing me off into marital bliss?"
"I'm feeling relieved that you haven't fled the country." She adjusts an invisible wrinkle on my lapel. "Remember—smile. Look besotted."
"Got it. Be charming, not myself."
"Exactly."
A knock at the door interrupts us. Ricky opens it to reveal a young man in an identical tuxedo, all floppy brown hair and nervous energy. He's maybe twenty-five, with the kind of face that suggests he's never had a serious problem in his life.
"Mr. Colborne?" He extends a manicured hand. "I’m Bradley. I'm your best man."
Right. Diana mentioned him. Son of one of the board members, selected because he looks good in photos and apparently his father is owed a favor. I've met him exactly once, at a charity auction where he bid seventeen thousand dollars on a weekend at some ski resort.
"Bradley. Thanks for stepping in." I shake his hand, noting the slight dampness of his palm. At least one of us is nervous.
"It's an honor, sir. My father speaks very highly of you."
That's a lie. His father thinks I'm a liability, same as the rest of the board. But Bradley's been trained in the art of polite fiction since birth.
"Time," Diana announces, consulting her platinum watch.
We file out like soldiers heading to battle into a hallway buzzing with activity.
The grand ballroom of the Bellmont could house a small aircraft. Someone—Diana, obviously—has transformed it into a winter wonderland. White roses cascade from every surface, their petals scattered down the aisle like snow. The altar sits beneath an archway of more roses, so elaborate it looks like something from a fairy tale.