Chapter 7 Emery
Emery
My old bedroom is smaller than I remember as Eloise and I struggle to pack my things.
The pastel walls have faded since I left for finishing school—some trick of sunlight and time that turns the pinks into a sullen, tired gray.
All my trophies and childhood art projects have been swept from the shelves and packed into boxes, except for one.
A framed print of my first art show, age eight.
The figure is a horse, or maybe a wolf. I used too much glitter.
The glass is cracked in the corner from when I slammed my door senior year.
It’s the only thing my mother left hanging.
Right now, the room is war zone: duffels, open suitcases, shoe piles, hair care products, three bags of last-ditch thrift scores, half of which have the tags still on.
Eloise stands in the center like a traffic controller, sorting everything into “take,” “donate,” and “regret.” She’s wearing my old prom dress for no reason except that it makes her look like an insane bride.
I want to laugh, but the nerves have finally settled low and cold in my stomach.
“You can’t bring all of your straighteners and curling irons,” Eloise says, holding one in each hand. “You’re not going to have counter space. Do you want the alphas to think you’re high maintenance?”
“They already think that, which is better than thinking I’m a completely broke and useless commoner.
” Unlike Royals Anonymous, the owner of which has already decided I’m a worthless embarrassment.
I toss a fistful of scarves on top of the pile.
My voice is steady, but my hands are sweating.
“Besides, maybe they’ll judge me less if I have perfect hair while I ruin their lives. ”
“That’s the spirit.” Eloise drops the straightener and begins to braid her own hair, then frowns when she notices the blue streak I put in last night. “You know they’re going to make you dye it out, right? Royal packs only want natural shades.”
“I’ll let them try to hold me down.” I pick at my thumbnail.
Eloise’s face softens. “Are you okay?”
I could lie, but Eloise doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. “Not really,” I admit. “It felt good at first, but now it just feels… scary. What if they hate me for real this time?”
“You can’t possibly mess it up worse than Selection,” Eloise says, but her eyes are soft. “They need you. Even if they don’t know it yet.”
I want to believe that, so I do.
The door creaks behind us, and my mother’s perfume arrives before she does—roses and soap and a faint undertone of anxiety.
She’s holding a garment bag and a clipboard, as if this is a pre-flight check-in and not what she assumes is the end of her only child’s entire life.
My dad’s behind her, lugging a box labeled “EMERY—PRIVATE,” which is exactly the kind of label that makes people want to open it.
“Is that everything?” Mom says, scanning the chaos with a practiced eye. “The limo will be here in twenty.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “We’re almost done.” Which is technically true if you don’t count my dignity, which is still sprawled on the carpet under my old bean bag.
Dad drops the box by the door and wipes his hands on his jeans. “You sure you want to go through with this, Emery?”
I stand up straight, even though my knees ache from packing. “I’m sure. The Council sealed it. If I back out now, they’ll blacklist me. And you guys did not spend years’ worth of tuition for nothing.”
Mom gives a brittle laugh. “We don’t care about the money, honey.”
“Yes, you do.”
Dad’s jaw flexes. He looks at Mom, then back at me. “We care about you not being a punchline in someone else’s story. What they did to you at the Hall was…” He trails off, not finishing the sentence. But we all know the word. Humiliation.
I meet his gaze, which is harder than anything I’ve done since the ceremony. “I survived it. I turned it around. It’s going to be okay.”
Eloise tries to help. “She’s a legend. Did you see Royals Anonymous? There are already three memes.”
“Memes.” Mom says the word like it’s an insect she found in the flour. “I just want you to be happy, Emery. That’s all.”
“I will be.” I cross my arms, defensive even now. “It’s what I want. I’ve wanted it since… always.”
Mom shakes her head. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, sweetie. Least of all us.”
“I do.” This time my voice cracks. “I do. You never believed in the omega stuff. You always made fun of people who leaned into it. But you sent me anyway, and you bought all the stupid extra lessons, and you paid for everything I needed even when I was a pain. I want this. I want to be the best omega ever. For you. For me. Even for them.” I don’t say the alphas’ names. I can’t.
The room is a vacuum. No one moves. Eloise is a statue. Even the dust motes hold their breath.
Mom puts down the garment bag and slowly walks to me with tears still wet on her cheeks. She hugs me tight. “You never have to be anything but yourself,” she whispers, low enough that Dad won’t hear.
“I don’t even know what that is,” I whisper back.
“Neither does anyone. But you’ll figure it out.” She lets go and smooths my hair, tucks a stray strand behind my ear. “You always do.”
Dad clears his throat. He looks like he’s about to cry, and I can’t handle that, so I hug him first. He squeezes so tight my spine pops, then lets go fast and claps me on the shoulder like he’s jumpstarting my confidence.
“I’ll call every Sunday,” he says. “Or text. Whatever you want.”
“Sunday’s good.” I blink fast to keep the tears in. It feels so formal. So unlike our conversations in the past to the point where I wonder if they think I’ll simply never return home now that I have a pack.
That’s not the case at all, I want to scream, but I don’t.
Mom steps back and straightens her skirt. “Let me take a photo.” She digs out her phone.
I stand with Eloise and we both try to smile, but it comes out as two grimaces. Mom doesn’t care. She snaps three photos, then one more, then another, just in case.
“Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do,” Dad says, then laughs, like he remembers what he used to get up to in college. Somehow I can’t quite picture either of my parents as anything other than they are now.
The house goes quiet after they leave, shutting the door with an almost apologetic click. I stare at the wall for a minute. This still feels like some final moment and I’m not sure how to process it.
Eloise plops on to the bed. Her dress balloons around her like a ridiculous cloud. “They love you so much it hurts.”
“I know.” It does.
Eloise pats the spot next to her. “Do you want to talk about what happens next?”
“No.” I sit anyway. My eyes drift to the ceiling, where a dozen glow-in-the-dark stars still linger from middle school. “Do you think they’ll hate me?”
Eloise is quiet for a beat. “No. But I think they’ll try.”
I snort. “Good. At least we’re all on the same page.”
We finish packing in a kind of mutual trance, methodically rolling clothes, taping boxes, and tossing the “regret” pile into trash bags. The suitcase zipper catches and I nearly rip my thumbnail off, but I don’t scream. I just press my lips together and breathe through it.
At 2:58 on the dot, a long black car pulls up in front of the house. It’s the kind of car they use for foreign dignitaries or funeral processions. The windows are tinted so deep you can’t tell if there’s even a driver inside.
“Showtime,” Eloise says, grabbing her own duffel and swinging it over her shoulder.
We drag everything to the porch in three trips. The driver is tall, dressed in a suit so flawless it looks like he ironed it on his body. He doesn’t make small talk. He doesn’t look at me, not even when I nearly tip a box onto the sidewalk.
Eloise jumps in first, then helps me with my bags. The inside is mostly cold leather seats, all empty, and it smells like money and disinfectant. The doors thump shut with coffin-finality.
I look out the window. My parents are standing in the driveway, arms around each other. Mom is crying for real now. Dad is waving, eyes screwed up against the sun.
The car pulls away. I stare until the house vanishes, then I sit back and let myself feel nothing for a while.
Eloise leans over and bumps my shoulder. “Ready to go ruin some alphas?”
I give her a weak smile. “Ready to go win.”
The city blurs past. We head toward the manor, toward the rest of my life, toward whatever disaster waits next.
And I don’t look back, not once.