Page 69 of Omega's Formula
Another pause. Longer this time. I can almost hear her choosing her words carefully, constructing sentences that reveal nothing.
“The original agreement included language regarding housing accommodations,” she says finally. “The specific phrasing was that appropriate housing ‘may be provided’ during the course of the marital arrangement. It was not, technically speaking, a guaranteed term.”
“May be provided.” I repeat the words back to her, tasting the legal escape clause in them. “So he’s using a technicality to throw me out.”
“Mr. Nilsson is exercising his rights under the existing agreement. You have thirty days to make alternative arrangements. If you need assistance locating—”
“I don’t need his assistance.” My free hand is clenched so tight my nails are cutting into my palm. “I don’t need anything from him.”
“I understand this is upsetting. If there’s anything I can—”
“Why now?” The question cuts through whatever diplomatic platitude she was about to offer. “He was fine with me staying here before the cohabitation.”
Silence on the other end. Silence that stretches and stretches until I want to scream.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of Mr. Nilsson’s personal arrangements,” Sara says finally. “I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. You have thirty days. Please let us know if you have any questions about the process.”
She’s not going to tell me anything. Whatever happened, whatever Erik is thinking, it’s locked behind attorney-client privilege and corporate walls I’ll never be able to breach.
“You can both go to hell,” I say, and hang up before she can respond.
The nausea hits without warning.
One second I’m standing in the hallway clutching the eviction notice, the next my stomach is lurching and I’m fumbling with the door, barely getting it open in time to sprint for the bathroom.
I make it to the toilet with seconds to spare. Everything comes up—the muffin from this morning, the coffee I had during my shift, bile that burns my throat and makes my eyes water. I heave until there’s nothing left, then keep heaving anyway, my body convulsing with the effort of expelling something that isn’t there.
When it finally stops, I collapse against the bathroom wall. The tile is cold against my back, grounding me in the present moment, keeping me from floating away entirely. I’m shaking. My whole body is trembling like I’ve run a marathon, and my throat feels raw and scraped.
Stress. It must be stress. The eviction notice, the confrontation with Sara, all of it piling up until my body couldn’t handle it anymore.
Except.
The thought surfaces slowly, pushing up through layers of denial I didn’t even know I’d constructed.
Except I’ve been nauseous for days. Weeks, maybe. Chalked it up to poor eating, to lack of sleep, to the general misery of existing in Erik Nilsson’s orbit. But the timing—
No. I was on contraception during the heat. I’m always careful about that, have been ever since I first presented. The last thing I’ve ever wanted is to be tied to an alpha through an unplanned pregnancy.
But prime matches are different. Everyone knows that. The chemistry overrides suppressants, overwhelms contraceptives, makes biology behave in ways it isn’t supposed to. The statisticsare right there in the Bureau’s own literature: ninety-three percent effective birth control drops to somewhere around sixty for prime-matched couples during heat.
Sixty percent. A forty percent failure rate.
I close my eyes and count backward. Three weeks since the cohabitation ended. Five days of heat before that. Another three days before that when he took me after that shower. It’s been thirty-six days since Erik Nilsson first touched me, first pushed inside me, first—
Stop. Stop thinking about it.
I pull out my phone and text Mrs. Kay.I’ll take the room please. I need to move out of my current place.
It’s after midnight. She won’t answer until morning. But I can’t stay here. I won’t stay here, not thirty days, not even one more night. I’ll sleep in a chair at the hospital if I have to. I’ll figure something out.
I force myself off the bathroom floor and start packing. There isn’t much—I never really unpacked properly, kept most of my things in the duffel bag like some part of me always knew this was temporary. Twenty minutes and everything I own is stuffed into two bags.
I’m done with anything to do with Erik Nilsson.
The all-night pharmacy is a ten-minute detour on the way to the hospital.
I tell myself I’m just putting the fear to rest so I can move on with my life without this particular anxiety hanging over me. The test is probably unnecessary. I’m probably overreacting, letting stress and exhaustion and Erik’s systematic destruction of my life convince me that something is wrong when everything is actually fine.