Unbreak Me (Fate’s Choice #3)

JAN. 2

On Saturday, Frank came to visit us. I wasn’t thrilled about the meeting because I knew how pushy, even nosy, he could be. He didn’t mean any harm; it’s just that, being over fifty, he had that lack of subtlety sometimes characteristic of his generation. The fact that as a beta, he couldn’t hear the heartbeats also played its part. He wasn’t that good at reading the mood in the room.

And… my concerns were quickly confirmed when, after being enthusiastically greeted by my dogs, he launched into a full-blown interrogation of Day as soon as we sat down for dinner.

He started with, "So, what made you decide to use Fate’s Choice?"

Day didn’t seem too fazed by the question. He replied in a fairly normal tone, "To be honest, it was their advertisement. They promised that anyone who signed up within 24 hours of its release had a chance to get a contract where they guaranteed finding a good pairing within six months."

Frank nodded as he ladled soup from the bowl I had placed on the table.

We were all sitting on the terrace around a cozy table with rattan chairs.

Uncle sighed. "Yeah, that must’ve sounded great in the ad. All the other companies offer way less favorable contracts. Mostly, they just try to squeeze money out of people without guaranteeing anything."

"Most of those companies are just matchmaking agencies," Day added. "But Fate’s Choice is also a marital contract auction- and-fair house, so they have a bigger budget and more resources. It seemed tempting."

"It’s amazing," Frank grumbled, wincing, "that even with the bad reputation these auction houses have, people still sign up. These places love to advertise single success stories where they match someone with a High Mate and conveniently leave out the less successful pairings. But, yes, their budgets make them more attractive than regular dating sites."

We ate in silence for a while. Unfortunately, Frank returned to his questions.

"So, why choose this method to find a partner? Most young people these days are pretty skeptical about marriage contracts." He tilted his head slightly, giving Day an inquisitive look.

Day lit a cigarette and directed his gaze toward the hills. "I didn’t want to do surrogacy contracts anymore. I’ve already given birth to eight children for strangers."

"That’s a huge toll on your health," Frank muttered.

Day didn’t look at him. His eyes remained stubbornly fixed on the hills.

"I handled pregnancy well, so it wasn’t an issue for me. But two months ago, I turned thirty-four. If I wanted my own family, I knew it was time to start seriously considering it."

Frank’s tone carried notes of approval. "Good to hear. I’d really like Jan to have his own kids; he’d make a great father. You should see him with his brothers’ kids—they flock to him."

"Uncle Frank, enough. Do I really need a character reference?" I muttered, pouring him more soup in an attempt to redirect his attention.

But Frank wasn’t done. "Why didn’t you start looking for someone right after college? That’s the best age for omegas to find a high-value alpha—no matchmaking agencies needed."

Day slowly turned toward him, and I could almost feel his irritation growing, his heart speeding up.

"I was in a relationship that ended miserably. My ex left me for his High Mate. I wasn’t exactly eager to jump into another relationship and risk more disappointment."

Frank pressed on, undeterred. "But why surrogacy? That doesn’t seem like the first choice for someone with a broken heart."

"Uncle, maybe we should back off a little? This isn’t an interrogation, and Day doesn’t have to explain his private decisions."

Day shook his head slightly. "It’s okay, I’ll answer," he said, though I could tell it wasn’t okay. "I just wanted to earn money. That’s what it boils down to. So, yes, I rented out my body for that purpose." He looked directly at Frank, almost challengingly.

Frank leaned over his plate, took a few spoonfuls of soup, and finally said, "That’s certainly… an unusual way to make a living. But who am I to judge? I chose such a boring path—computer science."

He chuckled, though I knew he didn’t think it was boring at all. Frank definitely considered it a more respectable career path, and I knew him well enough to catch the hint of pride in his voice when he added, "I’ve been the head of the IT department at City Hall for almost twenty years. Can’t complain; it pays well."

Neither Day nor I responded. Day smoked as usual, staring at the horizon, while I focused on carving the roast to serve.

"What do your parents do?" Frank asked next.

"My father is on disability, and my dad works as a teacher."

Thankfully, this gave Frank an opportunity to go off on a rant about the school system, something he’d always been critical of. I greeted the change of subject with relief, glad he’d shifted away from grilling Day.

For the next hour, I managed to steer the conversation toward tangential topics, mainly about work at the tree nursery and the poor quality of delivery services that had managed to destroy my packages with plants on more than one occasion. It took effort, but eventually, Day seemed to relax.

When Frank finally left two hours later, Day and I were alone again.

He was even quieter than usual, fiddling with his pendant, very stubbornly staring at the hills. It was like he was retreating into himself, sinking into melancholic energy, shutting out the world.

Eventually, I sat in a chair across from him and said, "Sorry about Frank. I know you’ve had enough of his questions, but that’s just how he is. And I’m afraid he’s not going to change at his age."

Day’s expression was unreadable. I couldn’t quite gauge his mood, but there was a heavy air of depression around him.

His tone was tired when he finally responded, "You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. I know my life choices raise eyebrows. I have to live with that. I can’t change the past. Sure, I don’t like discussing it, but those are the facts."

I remained silent while searching for something to say that might lift his spirits. Finally, I tried, "Honestly, I don’t think it was a bad plan to make money. It’s not an easy way to earn, but in a way, it’s kind of clever."

Day grimaced. "You don’t need to sugarcoat it, Jan. I appreciate the effort, but it wasn’t a great choice. And I know that now. Those eleven years weren’t a breeze."

I hesitated. It was clear his surrogate past weighed heavily on him—maybe even the reason for those silent sessions where he stared at the hills.

But at some point, we had to talk about it.

"How did it exactly work?" I asked softly.

His tone was flat when he answered. "It went like this: as my heat approached, I put up an ad through a matrimonial agency that also mediated surrogacy. A couple was found, and then there were meetings, arrangements, and contracts to sign. When my heat started, I had to go to the hospital for artificial insemination. They repeated the procedures over two days, just to be sure. In between, I’d lie alone in a small hospital room and deal with it all."

"Did you try… to live normally in the meantime? Go on dates?" I asked carefully.

He shook his head and lit another cigarette. "During my pregnancy, I had to give up sex—that was part of the contracts I signed. The couples didn’t want to risk STDs or anything happening to the baby because of some other alpha. So yeah, I was lonely."

"But omegas during pregnancy—" I hesitated, not sure how to phrase it. Everyone knew that time could be tough for them with their increased sexual needs due to the rise in hormones.

Day seemed to guess what I was struggling to say. "It wasn’t easy. Hormones definitely heighten… urges. But, since the child wasn’t genetically mine, my body kind of sensed it, in a way. I didn’t have as strong cravings as I probably would’ve if the child had shared my DNA. Doctors say surrogacy pregnancies kind of trick the omega’s hormonal and immune systems, making the process a little easier to handle—even without a partner. Sure, the lack of alpha pheromones increases the risk of miscarriage, but that didn’t happen to me."

"I didn’t know that," I murmured, unsure how else to respond. "How did you manage to deal with it all, mentally?"

Day shrugged, that same nonchalant move I was starting to recognize as his way of hiding what he really felt. His hand twitched toward his pendant but stopped halfway.

"It wasn’t easy," he admitted. "But I kept my mind on the financial side of it. The money let me focus on stuff I enjoyed. I read a lot, wrote books—most of them just for me. Posted stories on amateur writing sites, helped promote authors I liked, and ran a small publishing house, like you already know. That was my little world."

"Pregnancy can really limit physical activity. How did you handle that?"

"I managed pregnancy really well—no physical issues at all. That’s part of why I kept doing surrogacy. I had easy labors and felt good throughout the entire gestation," he said, then hesitated. "Only… the mental side was much harder." Day took a deep drag on the cigarette. "I really enjoyed prenatal yoga for omegas during that time. It helped me relax, even though I wasn’t comfortable making friends in the class. Most of the omegas there were waiting to meet their own babies, and I… I was just waiting for someone to come and take the child away." His voice quivered for a moment before he regained his composure. "It was such a stark difference. They could never understand that. Still, I kept going—it helped me stay fit."

I noticed that same bitter expression on his face—the one I’d seen when I first met him in the glass booth. It was like years of loneliness and pain had etched into him, leaving their mark.

For some reason, I felt like now might be the right moment to ask about Nico. If we were going to delve into heavy topics, it was better to do it all at once.

So I blurted out, "Can you tell me about your ex? What was your relationship like?"

His body tensed slightly, his pulse rising, and he grimaced before taking another long drag of his cigarette. "It’s not a happy story."

"I figured. But it sounds important."

He shrugged again, extinguished one cigarette, and lit another almost immediately. The constant smoking was proof enough of how much this conversation was taking out of him.

"Nico and I met in high school, before our glands matured. Back then, we didn’t know if we were compatible. We just… fell in love." He said it like he was telling a story he now considered foolish, his voice tinged with contempt and irritation.

"When we matured at the end of high school, we found out we were Half Mates. It was a good discovery—relationships like that are considered solid, even if they’re not High Mates. We went to college together, both majoring in English literature. Those were good years. We had shared goals, understood each other. By the end of college, we were planning to get married. But Nico had ambitions of becoming a journalist. He signed up for an extra course taught by a guest lecturer—an omega from a famous family of press moguls. This lecturer was seven years older and already a successful journalist. And, well… that’s when it all fell apart. The lecturer turned out to be Nico’s High Mate. It happened just a month before our wedding date."

He fell silent for a moment, blowing two smoke rings into the air.

"There’s not much more to say. It was the worst time of my life. Everything collapsed. I’m not going to bore you with the details of how I felt—you can probably imagine. After that, I didn’t see the point in trying for another relationship. Because, in the end, someone with a higher compatibility could always come along and leave you alone with a broken heart."

"There’s one exception to that: True Mates," I said with a wry smile. "You couldn’t do better than that."

He rolled his eyes. "Sure, but let’s be real—it’s rare to find a True Mate. So now I prefer to rely on suppressants. I don't want to risk the same situation again."

We sat in silence for a while. He kept smoking, as I watched him.

Day was leaning back in his chair, his brown hair tied up in its usual bun at the nape of his neck. For some reason, I started wondering how long it was. The thought just randomly popped into my head.

"How long is your hair?" The question slipped out before I could think about it.

He turned his gaze away from the hills and finally looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. We stared at each other for a beat longer than usual, and I realized I might’ve stepped on some kind of landmine.

"To mid-back. Why do you ask?"

I felt heat rising in my face. I didn’t have a proper reason—just outright curiosity, which felt borderline inappropriate. "I simply noticed you always keep it tied up. I get that it’s more practical, but… it’d be nice to see you with it down sometime. It can really transform how a person looks."

The expression on his face changed to one of barely contained anger, perhaps even a flash of aggression showing through. But it passed quickly and seemed to be only on the surface.

Then he turned his gaze back to the horizon without saying anything. The tension in his body melted away, but I made a mental note: this was clearly another topic to add to the growing list of things better left untouched.

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