Page 64 of Omega's Faith

The funny thing is, I thought I could make his life worse. I’d sat in this exact same house the night before the wedding and decided that if he made my life difficult, I’d make him miserable.

But his life was already miserable. How was I going to do—make it worse? How? By cooking him breakfast he didn't want? Getting the tabloids even more focused on him?

What would be the point?

Voices drift up from downstairs. I don’t need to see them to know exactly what my parents are doing. They’ve had the same routine for decades. Mom is doing the washing up. Dad is at the kitchen table, drinking the chamomile tea she just made for him.

I don’t intend to eavesdrop but my bedroom door is open and we’ve never had secrets in our house anyway.

"The Henderson family isn't coming to prayer meeting anymore," Mom says quietly. I have to strain to hear. "Sarah told me they can't handle the photographers."

"It's not right," Dad responds. "They have no respect for privacy."

"Pastor David says he's going to issue another statement."

"Lot of good the last one did."

They're trying to be quiet, to not wake me, but I haven't been sleeping anyway. How can I when every time I close my eyes I see storm-gray ones looking at me.

Downstairs, I hear the phone start to ring. It's been ringing all week. Reporters, mostly. Some gossip blogger got the number somehow and posted it online. Now strangers call at all hours asking if it's true that Alex is already dating someone else, if I'm planning to sue for alimony, if the marriage was ever consummated.

That last one made me cry. Consummated. It’s such a dry word. It can’t contain everything that we did. That I did. I don’tknow where it came from, that dominance. It’s not natural in an omega, no matter what Alex claims. I know that. I know I can be too outspoken for an omega and not always as subservient as I should be. But that’s something I have to work on. It’s not natural.

The phone stops, then immediately starts again.

I want to go downstairs and tell whatever reporter to go to hell—language I never would have used before Alex—but Mom's already picked up downstairs.

"Wells residence," I hear her say, her voice carefully neutral. Then: "I see. Yes, he's here. May I ask what this concerns?"

There's a pause. I can picture her in the kitchen, trying to maintain composure.

"I'll see if he's available."

Not a reporter then. She’s been polite but I’ve heard the way her voice shakes when they ask questions that are well beyond the boundaries of proprietary.

Her footsteps on the stairs are careful, like she's approaching a wounded animal. Which maybe she is. A soft knock on my door.

"Sweetheart? Mrs Norris is on the phone."

She hands me the receiver. Diana. Of course. The puppet master can't leave well enough alone.

I take the phone from Mom, wait until she's back downstairs before speaking. "Hello, Diana."

"Jonah. I need to speak with you."

"Why?" I say, far too bluntly. There’s me being far too direct as always. The correct response for an omega in my position is “Yes, ma’am.” I don’t say it.

"To discuss terms. The separation has generated significant media attention, as I'm sure you're aware. We need to coordinate our response."

"What kind of terms?"

"Financial arrangements. Media strategy. The technical aspects of your separation."

"Divorce, you mean."

A pause. "If that's what you choose. Though I should mention that Alexander hasn't indicated—"

"I don't believe in divorce." The words come out flat. It's not even about faith anymore, not really. It's about the promise I made. The vow. Even if Alex treats marriage like a temporary inconvenience, I don't. I can't. It’s just not who I am. I may not be a perfect omega but I’m not a completely different person.