Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
SIMONA
I wasn’t the cause of Lawson’s heart attack but my family—and the others—certainly didn’t hide the fact they placed much of the blame for his slow recovery on me.
I had a choice: become a pariah or accept the path laid out for me. And the guilt, because they weren’t entirely wrong—I was, in part, responsible for Lawson’s drawn-out recovery since I hadn’t been there when he needed me most—made the decision for me.
Each interaction—large or small—with any of the families after his heart-attack reinforced the truth: the world I was a part of was manufactured evil. Yet every day, I was faced with damning evidence of what happened to those who dared to speak up.
Snide, barbed comments were often said just loud enough for me to hear—remarks about how expensive his treatment was, how lucky the families were to have each other to rely on .
No one took the time to ask if I was okay. They spoke at me, not to me. Their lack of inclusion made me more alone than ever. But on the periphery, in my quietness, I started to see the truth in Wren’s words—finding an uneasy peace within myself.
Decisions were made without me, and they were made on my behalf because it was how it has always been done. Days like today, where representatives of the founding families gathered and strategized, happened regularly enough growing up for me to get used to them, although once upon a time I had an ally.
With Lawson’s memories still missing, I felt more alone than ever. Especially at events like this. I sat in the corner, more content being by myself than being involved in what was happening around me.
Brody was in fine form, playing the golden boy. It was the only way they saw him. I guess though everyone saw me as the complacent, very reserved, well-mannered and shy Omega, so there is that. I was happy living in the shadows. I just wish they weren’t his.
For as long as written history dates back, the four families—Vanderling, Henderson, Benton, and Armitage—have been immersed in each other’s lives and successes. The entanglement is intentional. I wouldn’t say I was part of a cult, but the families certainly operated with the coercive influence of a hive mindset.
It infected each and every person born into one of the families. Collectively and purposefully—almost maliciously in my mind—they focused their energy into becoming perceived pillars of society, while also expanding their businesses and empires in almost predatory ways.
The choice if you didn’t support one of the founding businesses was yours, but who would challenge them when they controlled everything? If you didn’t graduate from an Ivy League, you were second class. Musicians, actors, and influencers were mocked for their immoral choices—even though some of them had more wealth than the families themselves.
God help you if you were tattooed, swore like a sailor or didn’t have a degree, because the founding families wouldn’t lift a finger to help. And if you identified outside of traditions, or had relations with people of the same sex, in the mind of the founding families, you weren’t worthy of anything from God, or them.
It made my heart sad.
The shift in our family dynamics after Lawson’s heart-attack was palpable. You could literally feel the tension in the air that filled our home. Lawson’s office, once doused in sunshine and his massive presence, became nothing but an empty room—very symbolic really. Days were spent learning to cope with the changes to who he was as a person but also the rest of our family unit having to adjust to fit in with the void his amnesia brought.
I was taught a brutal lesson about asking questions by the Alpha of the Henderson family one Thanksgiving celebration. I’m sure the public humiliation made my inquisitive nature become a silent venture which is what all the families wanted.
Brody got better at his manipulativeness, and his infatuation with taunting me continued. What was interesting, though, was when it was just us, he no longer hid why he wasn’t my biggest fan—he felt like his choices were taken from him, and in his mind, I was to blame.
“I still can’t find anything about you that I like. Now do what you do best and act like the icy bitch you are,” he hissed, the noise barely escaping the lift of his perfect smile aimed directly at the room.
It’s strange how opposite we are. Times like today highlight it. While I preferred my own company, Brody is a charismatic showman through and through. He is gregarious with the men but not disrespectfully so, and with the ladies in our circle he is charming, witty, and so damn polite.
“Shoulders back and put a fucking expression on your face while I say goodbye,” he says, leaning to sweep my hair behind my ears to the style he insists upon. I have to clench my teeth so as not to recoil from his touch.
A soft press of his hand against my back is gentle, done for appearances’ sake because everyone is watching, swooning at the way we fit so well together. Knowing we have an audience, he leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. My skin burns, and I have to blink back the tears from the sting of his bitter scent. For an Omega, and Alphas too, scent compatibility is as important as a soft nest. I have no hope for either.
For the time being, it really was easier accepting the inevitable and playing the part expected. Rather than wasting time hoping for a different ending. I withdrew as much as I could without being obnoxiously rude.
Everyone noticed. I hear more compliments from my parents and all the other founding families about how ‘demure’ and ‘gracious’ I’ve become, how wonderful it has been for no one to have to stress about me letting everyone pivot their attention to Lawson. Being a good girl is easy in this circle: don’t think.
Now, all I had to do is survive Brody. When we’re alone, he regularly tells me exactly how he feels about me and the prospect of having to pack with me. It mirrors how I feel about him; our method of coping is vastly different. Instead of accepting it and finding a way to fool our families together, he takes it upon himself to torment me at every opportunity. Every night I hope and pray today is the day he mans up and either admits he wants out, or he finds something or someone else to provide a distraction and keep him entertained so he leaves me alone.
The bitterest pill since Lawson’s heart attack is that even my father is once more besotted by Brody and encouraging our future together.
The drive home is quiet. We have more freedom because of our upcoming packing, but it is wrong.
Pulling up at the front of my house, we didn’t need to check if anyone was home, they were all at his parents’, but I thought Brody was only dropping me off.
Prickles of unease skate up and down my arms when instead of driving away, he turns the car off and gets out without saying a word. That’s not the issue; my fear is brought on with the mask of silent rage on his face. I think I’m the only one to see it, but I’ve also come to associate this version of him with his other side.
My anxiety continues to climb when he walks around my side of the car.
“Don’t you fucking lock that door,” he snarls. The force of his words rips through my sensitivities. I’m nearly powerless to move.
He wrenches the door open, and instinctively I shy away from him. Right action for me but wrong too because it enrages him.
“I saw you looking at Daniel and watched you making plans trying to trip me up. You’re going to tell anyone who will listen about him, aren’t you? You’d love the attention of being the one to spread rumours that I’m into him. You’d twist what you think you saw, and what you think you know, into making me out queer.”
I fumble with my seat belt, moving to crab crawl out of his reach, but I am way too slow, and he is too fast, and strong .
“I don’t know who Daniel is, Brody. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
My words stop when he catches me. His fingers wrap around my throat.
He squeezes tighter and the light in his eyes blazes to a roaring flame. His scent thickens, adding to the terror weaving through my veins.
“Don’t you say his name. Stop!” Barked inches from my face, with a ferocity that shocks me to my core, the dance we’ve been enduring changes forever.
“Brody, please,” I manage. It is a whine. I have no shame in that. I’m completely shocked by this flip in his switch and I’m trying to push him away.
“Stop!” he screams.
His command spears like a dart shredding my natural survival instincts and handing him the reins of power. He towers above me, his brown eyes dancing maliciously, and I’m powerless to do anything but get lost in them as he continues to press his fingers harder around my throat.
The darkness swallows me whole.
I come to on my bed, naked, with him looming above me. I wish he would choke me out again.
Brody doesn’t even look like himself. His eyes have shifted to a strange muted brown and any pretence of warmth in them is long gone.
I am useless against his strength.
“Stop fucking fighting!” There’s no room for misinterpretation in his tone. It is power ravaged and full of hate.
His influence rewires my brain function. It’s like he somehow manages to reach inside the safety of the very essence of me and constructs a wall alienating me from my free-will, derailing me entirely.
“You need a reminder of who owns you.”
I try to distract myself. I try to stay locked far, far away in my thoughts. I focus not on what he is doing, but instead, I torment myself with self-doubt; I’ll never be a match for his strength or determination to destroy me. And I’ll never understand his reasons.
Another gust of his scent in my face and my eyes slam shut. It is better not to watch anyway.
Except of course, Brody being Brody, barks another command. “Open your eyes, Simmy.”
The bark is so loud it hurts my ears, the patronising hate in his voice hurts my soul.
Every time I have to breathe, I have no choice but to let his scent fill my lungs, effectively choking myself from the inside out. But I manage to drift inside my thoughts for as long as I can.
Brody moves, making it impossible for me not to see his hand and fingers. It takes me a minute to realise the movement is purposeful and done maliciously. Another reminder of the new power he wields.
“Look at that,” he says. There’s no request, his words are powerful. Without looking, I know his eyes are on my face, and not what he wants me to look at.
I know it’s going to be a vile reminder, and I must struggle or make a noise because he uses a firmer push of his designation, making it impossible for me not to do what he wants. “Look at that.”
He pulls his rust-coloured fingers apart and turns them. I know what I’m looking at, but at the same time I’m not processing what I’m seeing.
“I did that,” he gloats.
And as bad as it is to watch him rub his fingers together, I’d prefer that than being forced to look into his eyes.
He manhandles me around, keeping his fingers in the light so I can see the discolouration on them. He drops his body down on me, talking into my face .
“You see that, Simona? I did that because I could. You know why?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer him. He just ramps up his abuse, ruining me some more.
“What I do and who I am with is my business and has nothing to do with you. I can do whatever I want and no one will stop me. Even when you’re hiding at that posh school, I’ll own you. And I’m finding out, Simmy, maybe you do have a use after all,” he whispers angrily as he drops his body and crushes me.
Numbness floods my mind, taking my pain far, far away. I’m not stupid. I know exactly what he’s doing. In some alternate place I feel the brutality of him taking my innocence. I might not be making a noise or telling him to stop, but I desperately wish I could.
“Let me in,” he yells, scaring me and dragging me out of my safe space I’d managed to find in my mind.
I whimper. The sound feeds his mood. And he intentionally worsens the pain of his intrusion in response.
“You could have made this easier, Simona, but you’re always so fucking icy. Stop fighting!”
He grips my face, and I have no choice but to look at him. He’s smiling like an asp; his eyes are slitted, full of triumph. He doesn’t let go of my face, forcing me to watch him right to the bitter end.
But then he moves on to ruination.
“You will not tell a living soul,” he barks, as a callous smile grows brighter by the second, as he finds the words to use. “I forbid you from speaking about me. I forbid you for thinking you can leave. I forbid you acting against me. I forbid you thinking of Daniel. I forbid you trying to stop me. I forbid you. You’re so fucking weak. I forbid you.” Repeating, again and again. It’s like hammering nails into a piece of wood, forever holding it in place .
“I forbid you. Every time I see you, all I’ll have to do is whisper in your ear—I forbid you—and I’ll turn you as useless as you are now. Even if you somehow manage to defy me, no one will ever believe you. I mean, why would they? You’re nothing, Simona.”
Of course he is smiling, like a crocodile.
His scent drowns me into unconsciousness.