Page 52 of Omega's Faith

I am not supposed to leave them home alone while I go on vacation, even though that's what my parents did with me.

Sure, Mrs Atkins was here and various other nannies and staff members so I wasn't completely alone, but that's the one thing I actuallyknowthat I'm not supposed to do.

I reach the rose garden, my running shoes crunching over the gravel. A gardener I don't recognize stands aside with a 'Good morning, sir' as I pass. Yeah, I'm used to having people do things for me. So what?

I'm rich as fuck. Why shouldn't I? Why should I come out here and weed the bloody roses if someone else is willing to do it for me?

I skirt the roses and move out towards the woods and fields. My great-great-grandfather built this house. My grandfather added the east wing. My mother built the rose garden. I've... not done anything other than pay other people to keep it in good condition.

It's cooler out here in the woods, the air thick with the scent of leaves and mulch. I breath deep. I love this part of the estate and I remember something else from my childhood. I loved playing in these woods. Or at least I'd wanted to. I'd snuck out a few times intent on building a fort but then I was banned from it. I snuck out once again after that but then my father put the fear of god into me. I wasn't an ordinary kid. I was a wealthy kid, one of the wealthiest on the planet. I wasn't allowed out without a security detail, not even into the woods on the grounds of my own home.

It only occurs to me now that I'm an adult how messed up that was and I'm still not sure if my parents were being practical or paranoid.

The idea of Jonah being pregnant with my child is kind enticing, but even I'm not idiot enough to believe that a pregnancy is the same as having a real live human being that I'm responsible for.

No one in their right mind is going to put me in charge of anyone. The closest I have to being in charge of someone is Ricky and look at what happened to him.

Diana's sent him off on his own vacation while I enjoy an 'at home honeymoon'. I think the only reason Diana hasn't pushed us into some heavily photographed beachfront paradise is because she knows that there will be far too many paparazzi around to snap us at the 'wrong' moment. She's right about that, if nothing else. They'd have loved the two little love quarrels we've had this morning and it's not even lunch time.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do with him. Play house?Am I supposed to let him cook and clean for me even when we have staff to do that?

What are we supposed to do with each other? I have no intention of joining a damned prayer circle and he's not exactly going to come clubbing with me.

Boardgames? I think I may have Monopoly in the attic, but then maybe that's not allowed either. He'll probably tell me that even the accumulation of pretend money is sinful and what is that going to teach our imaginary children?

At least I acknowledge that I'm an arrogant asshole. He's as full of himself as I am. He just pretends he's better.

He's an uptight little bitch.

An uptight little bitch that I want to kiss.

I push myself harder, feet pounding against the dirt path that winds deeper into the estate. The woods open up onto rolling fields, the grass still wet with morning dew. My lungs burn but I keep going, trying to outrun the memory of his face when I said "yes" about the cult thing.

Maybe I shouldn't have been so blunt. But what was I supposed to say? Lie? Tell him that a religious community that controls what its members read, who they talk to, and pools all their money is totally normal?

The path curves around a small lake—man-made, my grandfather's addition—and I catch sight of something I haven't thought about in years. The summer house.

I slow to a jog, then stop entirely, hands on my knees as I catch my breath and stare at the structure. It sits about a hundred yards from the lake's edge, partially hidden by a grove of birch trees. Three stories of white clapboard and green shutters, wraparound porches on the first two floors, looking like something out of a Fitzgerald novel.

My great-grandmother had it built in 1923, supposedly because the main house was "too stuffy" in summer. The realreason, according to family gossip, was that she needed space from my great-grandfather, who was apparently a mean drunk. She'd retreat here from June to September, hosting elaborate garden parties and literary salons while he stayed in the main house nursing his bourbon and his grudges.

Smart woman.

I walk closer, noting the pristine condition. Of course it's pristine. Everything on this estate is pristine, maintained by an army of staff whether anyone uses it or not. The porch furniture is covered but I can see the outline of wicker chairs and a swing. The windows gleam in the morning sun.

When was the last time anyone stayed here? Not since my mother was alive, I think. She used to open it up for her charity committee meetings, said the light was better for planning events. After she died, Father never came near it. Neither did I.

But it's fully furnished. Fully functional. Electricity, water, even Wi-Fi because Diana insisted on updating all the properties a few years ago. It has its own kitchen, bedrooms, living spaces. Everything you'd need to live comfortably.

Everything you'd need to avoid your pregnant—maybe pregnant—husband who thinks you're going to hell and you think grew up in a cult.

The idea forms before I can stop it. Why not? Why should I stay in that mausoleum of a house, walking on eggshells, trying to avoid another fight that's inevitably coming? We can't leave—Diana would have my head if the press got wind of us living separately so soon after the wedding. But there's nothing that says we have to live in the same building on the estate.

I’ll just stay here until we can resume normal activities and I can go back to the city, back to my life. Three weeks of what? Fighting about children? Fighting about religion? Fighting about whose life is more fucked up?

I can't do it. I'll lose my mind. Or worse, I'll say somethingtruly unforgivable. Something worse than "yes, you grew up in a cult."

Or even worse than that—I'll kiss him again. I'll forget all the reasons this is impossible and I'll kiss that sanctimonious mouth until he shuts up about sin and salvation and starts making those little noises he made during his heat.