Chapter 7
You know things are rough when a trip to the mailroom has your palms sweating and heart rate spiking.
Every stray look my way has me wanting to turn away, even from neighbors who I’ve seen around the building for years.
Every phone in someone’s hand is a chance for someone to record or photograph me.
I considered wearing sunglasses or a face mask to hide my features, but talked myself out of it.
For now, my oversized hoodie pulled over my hair will have to do.
It’s not rational at all. I’m featured in a handful of viral posts, but there are billions of people on the planet.
The odds of someone recognizing me are low, but my omega doesn’t get that.
She’s on high alert, waiting for the next threat to emerge and begging me to retreat to my nest where it’s safe.
Not that it’s much better in there. When I’m alone in my nest, my mind immediately goes to the influx of messages from Ambrose and Jackson.
The ones I got after Jackson’s impassioned visit and, like a fool, read.
I’m torturing myself with thoughts of them coming over and helping me like the messages offer.
Smiling at the dumb jokes and dog pics Jackson sends.
Crying at Ambrose’s gentle reminders to take care of myself.
Wondering if I’m being an idiot and I should welcome them back into my life, then reminding myself what happened the last time I tried letting them in.
By the time I’m back in the safety of my apartment, beads of sweat drip down my spine and I’m trembling.
Ripping off the hoodie, I have to stand in front of the open freezer to cool off.
When it takes longer than usual for my temperature to regulate, worry creeps into my thoughts.
It doesn’t help that my stomach was a little crampy this morning.
I have to reassure myself that I’m not going into heat by checking the sleeve of heat suppressants to make sure I haven’t missed a dose.
As it turns out, the symptoms of stress and anxiety overlap quite a bit with going into heat.
Which is just great, because not only am I stressed about the social media shitstorm I’m weathering, but I’m also freaking out every time my body reacts to said stress.
And what’s really fucked is that I can’t take my anti-anxiety meds because they can interfere with the heat suppressants.
Once I’ve stopped sweating, I go grab the strawberry cow from my nest and hug it, closing my eyes and focusing on the purr it emanates. I’ve given up on feeling embarrassed that I’m a forty-year-old woman who has to use a toy for babies to self-soothe, because Bessie is the only thing that helps.
Yes, I named her. We’re practically life partners at this point, so it felt rude not to give her a name.
My omega settles first, the instinctual parts of my brain going out of high alert mode as Bessie snuggled tight against me signals that I’m safe.
In the wake of the stress comes fatigue.
I slump down onto the couch, eyeing the boxes I retrieved from the mailroom, already exhausted at the prospect of trying on their contents.
My phone pings in quick succession with incoming messages, and I dig it out of my pocket with a weary groan.
Lauren: Did you get the dresses?
Lauren: Which one do you like the best? Send pics, I want to see!
Her enthusiasm pulls a weak snort of amusement from me, even as dread rises. The last thing I want to do is get up and try on a bunch of cocktail dresses for the launch party.
Well, no, the last thing I want to do is go to the launch party. But not attending isn’t an option. Lauren saved my ass and has kept me relatively sane, and not going to the launch party for the company she founded—and that I work for—would be beyond rude.
Even though I dread it with every fiber of my being.
Hauling myself up off the couch with a sigh, I set Bessie down and start opening boxes.
My omega lights up a little at the act of opening what she sees as presents, since Astrid is the one that picked out a bunch of options for me when I was having a meltdown over having nothing to wear.
She used my credit card, so I paid for everything, but haven’t seen any of the dresses.
Which I’m realizing now was a mistake as each box I open reveals another over-the-top, skimpy dress.
They’re far better suited for a much younger woman trying to seduce a pack of wealthy alphas than for attending a professional event as the subject of a not insignificant amount of internet ridicule. There’s no way to blend into the crowd in any of these dresses.
Dammit, what was Astrid thinking? What was I thinking? I should’ve sucked it up and ordered things for myself instead of relying on my well-meaning, but out of touch best friend.
With all the sparkly, clinging dresses laid out on my kitchen table, I snap a pic and reply to Lauren with it.
Camille: I just got them, but none of them will work. Astrid ordered them for me because I was struggling, but now I’m screwed. I don’t think any stores will have something decent available for overnight delivery.
I don’t mention that there are probably plenty of cute boutiques in the city where I could find something last minute, but I’m too terrified to go to them. I wish I could use money as an excuse, but Lauren is my boss and knows how much she’s paying me.
She replies a few minutes later.
Lauren: These are all hot! Why wouldn’t they work? What about the dark green one? That’d be so good with your hair.
I pick up the dress in question and take another picture that shows off the double thigh slits that go almost all the way up to the crotch.
Lauren: Oh. Okay, yeah, maybe not that one. You should absolutely keep it because that will look incredible on you, but maybe it’s a bit too sexy.
I silently retort that I have no need for a sexy dress because I plan on being a spinster omega for the rest of my life, but refrain from actually saying that to her. I know Lauren will try to reassure me that things aren’t that dire, and I don’t want to argue.
Lauren: What about the black one on the bottom right?
I pick up the dress, scowling a little at the low neckline. It’s the least revealing of the assortment, but black has never been my color.
Camille: It’s okay. Black ages me, but I guess that doesn’t matter when everyone already thinks of me as the old omega.
Lauren: No one at the party will give a shit about that nonsense. If they do, they’ll get kicked out. So at least go try it on and show me before you rule it out.
Lauren: Also, now they’re calling you the omega MILF a lot more than old omega.
Camille: They aren’t really, are they?
Lauren: Oh yes, they are. There are haters, but there are just as many people thirsting after you. Wanting to call you mommy and wishing they could find a hot older omega like you.
I gape down at my phone. In all the horrible scenarios that I’ve constructed in my head about what’s being said about me online now that I’m avoiding it like the plague, none of them involved me being considered attractive.
I’m not unhappy with my looks, but I’m also aware that I’m not anywhere close to a model or typical beauty standards.
Camille: Wow, okay. Not sure how to feel about that.
Lauren: Normally I’d say to ignore what random strangers say about you on the internet, whether it’s positive or negative, but as your friend, I love how people recognize that you’re a total babe.
It’s surreal, but that knowledge bolsters me as I wriggle into the tight dress, then head into my bathroom to check it out in the full-length mirror. I do my best to look at myself through a neutral lens as I scan over my body, pretending that it’s not me I’m looking at, but a stranger.
It’s… not bad. The boob situation isn’t as dire as I thought, so I won’t be threatening to have a nip slip the entire night, and the sleek fabric pleases my omega, skimming across my body to show off my curves.
Maybe it clings to my stomach and hips more than I’d normally be comfortable with, but objectively, it looks good.
And if I weren’t barefaced with a rat’s nest of frizzy hair, I don’t think it’d wash me out too much.
I turn to the side, looking at myself over my shoulder to make sure this angle isn’t a total disaster.
Huh. It makes my ass look pretty damn good, and that’s in my worn-out granny panties.
My soft stomach, which I spent so many years of my youth cramming into shapewear and trying to obscure, is on full display, and I don’t mind it.
I look mature and oddly powerful, which is a stark contrast to how I’ve felt recently.
If I put on stiletto heels and a red lip, someone might ask me to step on them.
It’s a welcome change from a bedraggled, pathetic lump.
I hold my hair up to see what the effect would be, and take a selfie in the mirror to share with Lauren to make sure I’m not being delusional.
Camille: It’s not bad.
Lauren replies right away.
Lauren: Quit playing. You know you look stunning.
A smile curves across my lips, all too rare these days. My omega preens at the compliment, and I have the ridiculous urge to take more photos to show off how good I look, and send them to…
And just like that, the excitement crashes back down to reality. I can’t send pictures when I haven’t even replied to their messages. What’s the point of looking good when the people I’d want to admire me in this dress aren’t in my life?
A nagging voice tells me they could be. That I could send them pics and use them to apologize for ignoring them. Then ask them to come with me to this party so I don’t have to go alone and face talking to strangers and clients about my sudden social media infamy.
It’d be so nice to let them back into my life and accept all the help they want to give, but I’m not about to get my heart broken twice.
That’s almost entirely certain if I head down that path.
It doesn’t matter that River isn’t living with them right now.
He’s part of their pack, and I refuse to be the reason they’re fractured.
I respect myself enough not to give another chance to the alpha who manipulated and bonded me, then fucked me over.
Mood thoroughly soured, I take off the dress and get back into the grubby shorts and oversized t-shirt that’ve become my uniform when I’m not forced to look human for client calls. I send Lauren a quick thanks, then grab Bessie and head toward my nest.
I don’t get more than a minute of wallowing time before my phone rings. I ignore it, but whoever it is calls again. With a groan, I look and see it’s Astrid. I’d ignore it, but what if it’s an emergency?
“Hey, what’s up? Is everything okay?” I answer, recognizing how exhausted I sound but unable to muster any energy.
“Were you sleeping?” There’s no sign of judgement in her question, but embarrassment still rises in me.
“No, just… in my nest.”
“Oh nice. How’s Bessie doing?”
I snort, looking at the strawberry cow plush sitting in my lap. “She’s good. Working overtime lately, though.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t mind.” I’m sure it’s weird as hell to Astrid that I have an emotional support cow, and I appreciate she doesn’t sound judgmental. “Did you get the dresses? They were supposed to be delivered today.”
Ah, that’s why she’s calling.
“Yeah. Thanks again for your help.” I don’t do a great job of hiding my feelings about her selection because she huffs.
“That’s it? Did you try them on? What did you think?”
I sigh, guilt making my stomach clench. “They’re… not exactly what I was looking for. But I still appreciate you so much for getting them.”
“Oh, come on, you've gotta give them a shot. Otherwise, I’m coming over and forcing you to give me a fashion show.”
“I tried one of them,” I protest.
“And?” Astrid asks impatiently.
“It looked fine. It’ll be fine. I’m sorry, I’m all in my head and dreading going to the event.”
“I knew it would look good! You never want to wear black, but when I saw it, I knew it was perfect.”
“Wait, how do you know it’s the black one? Did you install hidden cameras in my house to make sure I haven’t devolved into a total slug?”
Astrid laughs. “No hidden cameras. Just a bit of trickery. You fell right into my trap.”
“Are you saying you intentionally bought those other dresses to make me pick the one you wanted me to wear? Why? Now I have to return a bunch of things that you knew wouldn’t work,” I grumble, dreading another trip down to the mailroom, or worse, the post office.
“You wouldn’t have given the black dress a shot if you weren’t desperate,” Astrid says matter-of-factly. “Besides, those other dresses would look amazing on you, so you should keep them.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I sigh, refusing to acknowledge her suggestion of keeping the slutty dresses because I know it’s a trap to get me to talk about the pack.
“Part of my charm,” Astrid says with another laugh. “Okay, the dress is perfect, as predicted. So why are you in your nest crashing out with Bessie?”
“First of all, rude. I’m not crashing out. I’m… self-regulating.” I prop my chin on Bessie’s head and release a sigh as she purrs. “Besides, it’s not the dress that’s the problem. It’s the whole me having to go to a party alone and have people stare at me in it that’s tripping me up.”
“Well, there’s a simple solution to that. Why don’t—”
“I swear to God, if you say I should bring Jackson or Ambrose, I’m hanging up. You know I can’t do that.”
“I wasn’t going to say that!” Astrid protests with a huff. “I was going to say you could bring me.”
“Oh.” My agitation deflates, replaced quickly with guilt. Astrid’s trying to help, and I’m being rude. I hate how volatile I’ve been. I don’t want to snap at my best friend for no reason. “I’m sorry. I appreciate you so much, and if you could come, that’d be very helpful.”
“I know you do, Cami. And don’t be sorry. I like snippy Camille a lot better than detached from everything Camille. If my being your date will help you get out and have a little fun, then I’m there.”
“It will absolutely help.” I bite my tongue so I don’t say how I doubt it will be fun. It’s still going to be a nightmare, but at least I’ll have someone to help fend off the worst of it.