Page 49 of Omega's Faith
The kitchen is ridiculous. That's the only word for it. Industrial-grade everything—six-burner stoves, two of them, side by side. Three ovens. A warming station that could keep food hot for a hundred people. Through the glass doors, I can see into walk-in refrigerators bigger than my childhood bedroom.
This isn't a kitchen. It's a catering facility. Cold, sterile, impersonal. Nothing like Mom's kitchen with its scarred wooden table where we did homework, where Dad read the approved newspapers while Mom cooked, where the whole family gathered every morning and evening like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
This kitchen has probably never seen a family meal that wasn't staged for photographers.
Movement in my peripheral vision makes me look up. Twostaff members hover in the doorway: a young woman in a pristine uniform and an older man who might be some kind of under-butler or whatever ridiculous title this place requires.
"Mr. Colborne," the woman starts hesitantly. "We can handle the washing up—"
"I've got it." The words come out sharper than intended. I force my voice softer. "Thank you, but I need something to do."
They exchange glances, clearly uncertain whether to insist. The omega of the house doing servant work probably breaks a million different protocols. But something in my expression must warn them off because they retreat, leaving me alone with my anger.
I attack the plate next, then the pots, then the pristine counters that don't need cleaning. When I run out of things to wash, I reorganize the dish towels. Then the spice rack. By the time I'm alphabetizing tea in the pantry, even I know I'm being ridiculous.
Music starts thundering through the walls. Heavy, aggressive, the bass line vibrating through the floorboards. It's coming from upstairs—fromhisroom—and it's loud enough that he clearly wants the entire estate to know he's upset.
Like a teenager, I think, slamming the pantry door.A spoiled, selfish teenager who's never been told no in his entire life.
The music gets louder. Drums crash. Someone screams lyrics I can't quite make out but that sound furious about something. Perfect. We're both furious. What a wonderful foundation for a marriage.
I could go to my room, but that would mean walking past his, and I'm not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me flee. Instead, I head for the library.
The library, at least, feels like something from a different era. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound books, their spines gleaming with gold lettering. The smell should becomforting.
But even here, everything is too perfect. The books are perfectly aligned, not a single spine cracked from reading. The dust that should accumulate in any proper library is absent, every surface gleaming. These aren't books that anyone reads. They're decorations.
A mahogany side table near the window catches my eye. Someone—staff, obviously—has laid out the day's newspapers in a perfect fan, each folded at a precise angle so the masthead is visible. The New York Times. The Washington Post. The Wall Street Journal. The Financial Times. Even some tabloids.
I stare at the display, another small reminder of how different this world is. Every possible whim Alex might have is anticipated, catered to before he even knows he wants it.
Does he read newspapers? Somehow I doubt it. But they're here anyway, just in case the prince decides he wants to know what's happening in the world beyond his estate walls.
At the Fellowship, we had newspapers too, but carefully selected. Pastor David reviewed them first, ensuring we weren't exposed to unnecessary corruption. The local paper, yes. The Christian Science Monitor. A few others that reported news without the bias and sensationalism of mainstream media.
Control, a voice whispers in my head. It sounds suspiciously like Alex.
I push the thought away and approach the papers. What harm can it do to look? I'm a married man now, living in the world. I should know what that world is saying.
The Times has something about trade negotiations. The Post is covering a political scandal I don't understand. But the third paper—a major daily I recognize but have never read—makes my blood run cold.
The headline screams across the front page:INSIDE THE CULT: The Secretive Religious Sect That Shaped America'sNewest Billionaire Bride
Bride. Because of course they can't even get that right.
My hands shake as I pick up the paper, sinking into one of the leather chairs. The article is worse than the headline.
The Faith Heritage Fellowship, the insular religious community that produced Jonah Colborne (née Wells), operates on principles that would seem alien to most modern Americans. Sources familiar with the organization describe a world where omegas have no rights, cannot work outside the home, and must submit entirely to their alphas' will...
No rights? I think of my mother, who runs the church's entire charitable operations. My sister Corinne, who homeschools not just her own children but teaches for half the neighborhood. We choose to follow traditional roles because they work, because we've seen the happiness they bring. That's not the same as having no rights.
Members rarely leave the Fellowship, raising questions about what level of coercion keeps them there. Former members, speaking on condition of anonymity, describe intense social pressure and the threat of being cut off from family and community for those who stray...
Former members? Who? The Richardsons left three years ago for Vermont, and we still exchange Christmas cards. The Owens family moved to care for aging parents, and Pastor David himself drove them to the airport, blessing their journey.
Education within the Fellowship is strictly controlled, with members having limited access to outside literature, media, or educational resources. This intellectual isolation ensures that members, particularly omegas, lack the knowledge or skills to survive in the outside world...
I think of our library at home, smaller than this one but well-loved, books worn from reading. Yes, Pastor David recommended certain books over others, but—