35. Hailey
Chapter 35
Hailey
J im’s Diner squats at the intersection of two streets, a grimy establishment that’s seen better decades. The neon sign flickers intermittently, several letters permanently dark, creating an unintentionally ominous “J_m’s D_n_r” effect against the twilight sky.
“Charming locale,” Ren observes dryly as we look at the establishment from our parked car across the street. “Very on-brand for your parents.”
I say nothing, but silently agree with his assessment. This diner represents exactly the kind of place my parents frequented—cheap, anonymous, slightly disreputable. Fuck, Ma even worked there for a bit.
The choice to meet here feels deliberate. A reminder of where I came from.
It won’t work. I’m not that frightened girl anymore.
“Remember the plan,” Jax says, turning in the driver’s seat to meet my eyes. “We go in first, take a booth on the far side. You wait five minutes, then enter and sit where they can see you but not us. If anything feels wrong—anything at all—you use the signal and we’re there immediately.”
The signal—a simple tug on my left earlobe—feels melodramatic, like something from a spy movie rather than a family confrontation. But I appreciate the structure, the contingency planning, the certainty that I’m not truly alone in this moment.
“I remember,” I assure him. “It’s going to be fine. They’re just people. Unpleasant, selfish people who happen to share my DNA. Nothing more.”
Ren lets out a breath. “Trust me, I know exactly how that feels.”
Stone reaches from the back seat to squeeze my shoulder. Finn has been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the drive, his usual cheerfulness replaced by concerned focus.
“Time to move,” Ren announces, checking his watch. “It’s 6:45. We should get positioned before they arrive.”
The alphas exit the car calmly, heading across the street and into the diner as planned. Finn lingers a moment longer, his hand finding mine in a tight squeeze.
“You’re the strongest person I know,” he says simply. “And we’re right there with you, even if they can’t see us.”
His words fortify me more than he could know. “Thank you. Now go before we mess up the careful timeline.”
He flashes a quick smile, the brief reemergence of his usual brightness like a glimpse of sun through clouds, then slips from the car to join the others inside. I watch him go, using the five-minute wait to center myself, to organize my thoughts, to prepare for whatever emotional manipulation or demands my parents might present.
By the time I cross the street and push open the diner’s door, I’m calm. Not the false calm of suppressed panic, but the genuine steadiness that comes from knowing exactly who I am and what I want. The bell above the door jingles, drawing a few glances from the sparse evening crowd, but no one pays particular attention as I scan the room.
They’re already here, seated at a booth near the windows. They look…smaller, somehow. Older and more worn than I remember. But it’s been almost seven years since I saw them last. My mother’s dyed blonde hair shows graying roots, my father’s perpetual five o’clock shadow now more unkempt than rakish.
The moment they look up and realize I’m approaching them, the look in their eyes would have broken me. But that was before. Not now. The cold detachment in their gazes does nothing to me.
“You look expensive now,” Ma observes as I slide into the booth across from them, her gaze moving critically over my outfit—the designer jacket Finn gifted me, the silk scarf from our shopping trip, the subtle makeup. “Guess they trained you well after all.”
The comment washes over me without finding purchase. I’ve anticipated this.
“Why am I here?” I ask directly, ignoring her attempt to bait me.
Pa leans forward, his voice dropping. “We’ve been following the news. That whole business with the trafficking ring, your…testimony.” He manages to make the word sound vaguely dirty, as if public speaking were somehow shameful. “Quite the story you’ve been telling.”
“Not a story,” I correct him. “The truth.”
“Sure, sure,” he agrees easily, though his expression suggests otherwise. “Point is, you’ve landed on your feet. Better than on your feet—looks like you found yourself a real cushy situation with those alphas of yours.”
Across the diner, too far to hear but close enough to observe, my pack maintains their vigilance, pretending to focus on menus while keeping us in peripheral vision. Their presence steadies me against the subtle nausea my father’s insinuation provokes.
“What do you want?” I ask again, voice flat and uninviting. “Your note mentioned debts. What debts do you imagine I owe you?”
Ma’s lips thin in displeasure at my directness. “We raised you,” she points out, as if this basic parental responsibility represented some extraordinary sacrifice. “Fed you, clothed you, kept a roof over your head for sixteen years. That counts for something.”
“And then sold me to traffickers,” I finish for her. “Does that count for something too?”
My bluntness clearly surprises them. They exchange glances, a familiar silent communication that once signaled approaching trouble in our household. Pa recovers first, leaning back with forced casualness.
“That was a misunderstanding,” he claims. “We were told it was a special designation program. For omegas with your…particular makeup. How were we supposed to know what it really was?”
The lie is so transparent, so pathetically inadequate, that a laugh escapes me before I can suppress it. “Really? That’s the story you’re going with? You didn’t know what you were doing when you accepted five thousand dollars in cash and signed paperwork giving strangers complete custody of your daughter?”
Ma shifts uncomfortably, avoiding my direct gaze. “It wasn’t like that. They said you’d have opportunities. Education. Training.”
“Training,” I repeat flatly. “Yes, I received plenty of that. Would you like the details? The forced nudity while I crawled on my knees? The ‘behavior modification’ sessions? The preparation for ‘service’ to whatever alpha purchased me?”
Pa pales slightly, though whether from genuine remorse or fear of where this conversation is heading, I can’t tell. “Look, we made a mistake, okay? We admit that. But you’re fine now, aren’t you? Better than fine, from the looks of things. All we’re asking for is a little help, a little compensation for the trouble this has all caused us.”
“The trouble this has caused you ,” I echo, disbelief coloring my tone despite my attempt at detachment. “Do you hear yourself?”
“People are asking questions,” Ma hisses, dropping any pretense of pleasantries. “Old friends. The authorities. Our names were never supposed to be connected to any of this, but since your little public confession, we’ve been under scrutiny. Your father lost his job. We’ve lost the house. All because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut .”
The naked self-interest, the complete absence of concern for what I endured, should hurt. In some distant way, perhaps it does—the final confirmation that I never had parents in any meaningful sense of the word, only caretakers motivated by convenience and financial gain. But mostly I feel a strange, calm clarity, as if the last piece of a long-puzzling picture has finally clicked into place.
I reach into my bag, removing the envelope I prepared before leaving home. Money I’ve earned from working with the omegas at the rehab center. Without speaking, I slide it across the table toward them.
“What’s this?” Pa asks suspiciously, making no move to take it.
“Open it.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he picks up the envelope and withdraws its contents—five thousand dollars in cash, crisp new bills arranged in neat stacks, along with a printed document. His eyes widen at the money, then narrow as he scans the accompanying paper.
“What the hell is this?” he demands, voice rising enough to draw glances from nearby diners.
“That,” I explain calmly, “is exactly what you sold me for. Five thousand dollars. The going rate for a healthy young omega, apparently. And that document is a copy of the police report from the raid on the facility where I was held, which includes detailed transaction records—including your names, signatures, and bank account information where the payment was deposited.”
My mother snatches the paper from my father’s suddenly nerveless fingers, her face draining of color as she reads. “This is—you can’t?—”
“I already did,” I interrupt. “That’s a copy. The originals are with the FBI task force investigating Heath’s network, including all accomplices and enablers. Which, as it happens, includes parents who knowingly sold their children into trafficking.”
My father’s expression shifts from shock to anger, his hand closing around the cash as if to prevent its escape. “You’d turn on your own blood? After everything we did for you?”
I stand, a strange sense of power flowing through me as I tower over them for the first time in my life. In this moment, I channel everything I’ve learned from my pack—Jax’s imposing posture, Stone’s implacable calm, Ren’s cutting precision, Finn’s unflinching authenticity.
“You stopped being my blood the moment you took that money,” I tell them, my voice steady and clear. “And to be honest, I haven’t thought about you since I left that horrid place. You have been irrelevant to my life, my healing, my happiness. The only reason I came today was to close this chapter completely.”
“You ungrateful little—” Pa begins, half-rising from his seat.
“I wouldn’t,” I advise quietly. “My pack is here, watching. And they’re considerably less restrained than I am.”
His gaze darts around the diner, finally locating the four men watching our interaction with focused intensity from their distant booth. The recognition of alpha presences—powerful, protective, and clearly aligned with me—deflates his momentary aggression.
“Keep the money,” I continue. “Consider it the last transaction we’ll ever have. I’ve repaid the exact amount you accepted for me, which means any supposed debt between us is settled. We’re done. Don’t contact me again. Don’t approach me in public if you see me. Don’t speak my name. As far as I’m concerned, I have no parents.”
“You think you’re better than us now,” Ma hisses, her voice tight with spite. “With your fancy clothes and rich alphas. But we know what you really are. Where you come from.”
“Yes,” I agree simply. “I do know where I come from. And I know where I’m going, which is far more important.” I rise, adjusting my scarf as I prepare to leave. “Goodbye. I hope you’re prepared for what comes next with the investigation. I’ve heard the penalties for omega trafficking conspiracy are quite severe these days.”
I walk away without looking back, my steps steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my system. The bell above the door chimes as I exit into the cool evening air, filling my lungs with deep breaths that taste of freedom and finality.
A few seconds later, my pack emerges from the diner, moving swiftly to surround me with their presence. Stone reaches for me, instinctively offering comfort, but I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Not yet,” I manage, my voice shaky now that the confrontation is over. “I need a minute. I need to just…process.”
He nods understanding, respecting my space but remaining close enough to offer security. The others form a loose circle around me, providing both protection and privacy from any curious passersby.
Finn breaks away briefly, returning moments later with a paper cup that steams in the evening chill. “You’re a badass,” he says simply, pressing the hot chocolate into my hands. “Drink your cocoa, badass.”
The unexpected comment, so perfectly Finn in its blend of support and irreverence, breaks through the last of my composed facade. A laugh escapes me, releasing the tension I’ve been carrying since the letter arrived. Once started, I can’t seem to stop. Laughter flows from me in waves that eventually transform into tears, the emotional release I couldn’t allow myself in front of my parents finally finding expression.
This time, when Stone reaches for me, I step willingly into his embrace, allowing the hot chocolate to be taken from my trembling hands as I’m surrounded by pack scent and warmth, by the genuine family I found after the false one failed me so completely.
“You were amazing,” Jax murmurs against my hair. “So strong, so clear.”
“Did you see their faces when she stood up to them?” Finn adds, his voice vibrating with vicarious triumph. “I thought her dad was going to swallow his tongue.”
“I was calculating how quickly I could reach them if he tried anything,” Stone admits, his hand a warm weight on my shoulder.
“I recorded the whole thing,” Ren contributes unexpectedly. At our surprised looks, he shrugs unapologetically. “Insurance. In case they try to spin a different version later.”
The practical gesture of protection, so quintessentially Ren in its efficiency, brings fresh tears to my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper, looking around at them. “All of you. For being there. For letting me handle it, but making sure I wasn’t alone.”
“Pack,” Stone says simply, the single word encompassing everything .
By the time we reach home, I feel lighter than I have in months, as if I’ve set down a burden I didn’t fully realize I was still carrying.
In the kitchen, I remove the letter from my bag, studying the cold demands one final time before making a decision. “I want to burn this,” I announce. “In the garden. Will you come with me?”
They follow without question as I move through the house and out the back door, crossing the lawn to where Finn’s new garden flourishes in the spring evening. Stone, understanding my intention without explanation, kneels to start digging a small hole. I rip the letter and drop it into it as Finn hands me a firelighter.
When the paper ignites, I watch as the edges begin to curl and blacken. “This is the last piece,” I say softly. “The final connection to who I was before. To what was done to me.”
I watch as the letter is consumed, transformed from threatening words to harmless ash, and my pack stands with me.
As the last fragments burn away, a new idea forms.
“I want to keep the ashes in the soil,” I say, looking to Finn then Stone for permission. “Something ugly to help grow something beautiful.”
Finn’s expression softens with understanding and approval. “The roses would welcome it.”
“They’re fighters.” Stone nods.
I swallow hard, kneeling as I cover the ashes with dirt. The path that brought me here was darker and more painful than anyone should have to travel, but where it’s led me is beyond anything I could have imagined for myself.
The evening air smells of turned earth and possibility.
I stand, brushing dirt from my knees, and find four pairs of eyes watching me with the same quiet certainty that I belong here, in this circle of warmth, in this garden that will bloom where ashes were buried.
Finn laces his fingers through mine. “Come on, sunshine,” he says, tugging me toward the house where golden light spills from the windows. “Tomorrow’s waiting.”
And…I realize I’m not afraid of what tomorrow might bring. Not with them beside me. Not with this pack that has become my home.
The back door clicks shut behind us, but I don’t look back.