55. Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Five
I looked at the woman who was my mother, looking me over, eyes flashing with disgust and another unknown emotion. I tighten my grip on the counter, knuckles whitening with the effort to remain composed.
"How did you find me?" I ask, the question emerging more breathless than I intend.
My mother's perfectly arched eyebrow rises a fraction. "Did you really think we wouldn't? Your father has connections, Lydia. It was simply a matter of time."
A matter of time. As if my discovery was inevitable, my independence merely a temporary inconvenience to be corrected. The thought sends a chill down my spine despite the warm morning sun filtering through the windows.
"I made my position clear." I say, though I know it's not what she wants to hear.
"Yes, your little.. . tantrum." She waves a dismissive hand, the diamond on her ring finger catching the light. "Very dramatic. Very unnecessary."
Tantrum. The word reduces my desperate bid for freedom, for self-determination, to a child's petulance. It's so perfectly, infuriatingly like her that I almost laugh, the sound trapped somewhere in my chest beside my frantically beating heart.
"I'm not coming back," I say, the words emerging with surprising firmness. "I have a life here now."
"A life?" She glances around my shop again, her gaze lingering on a display of watercolors with unveiled contempt. "You call this a life? Playing shopkeeper in some backwater town? Really, Lydia, I raised you for better things than this."
No, I think but don't say. You raised me to be a bargaining chip. A valuable Omega to be traded for pack alliances and social advancement. But the words stick in my throat, held back by years of conditioning to keep such thoughts to myself. She moves further into the shop, her heels clicking against the wooden floor with metronomic precision. Each step feels like an invasion, a desecration of the sanctuary I've built for myself. She picks up a paintbrush, holding it between her fingers like something faintly distasteful.
"You know," she says, setting the brush down with exaggerated care, "I almost admire your commitment to this... rebellion. But it's gone on long enough."
"It's not a rebellion," I say quietly. "It's my life. The one I chose."
She laughs, a sharp, brittle sound entirely devoid of humor. "Oh, Lydia. Such dramatic declarations. You always did have a flair for the theatrical, despite our best efforts to cure you of it."
My fingers itch to grab my phone, to call... who? Avery is hours away. And the others—Elias, Lucian, Finn, Soren—they don't know everything. I had told them small bits and pieces…and they don’t deserve to have drama like this in their lives.
"Why now?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady. "It's been a year. Why come looking for me now?"
My mother's expression shifts, a subtle tightening around her eyes that I recognize as calculation. She's deciding how much to reveal, how to frame whatever she's about to say for maximum impact.
"The Greene pack has been very patient," she says finally, watching me closely for my reaction. "Very understanding about your... temporary lapse in judgment. They're still interested in formalizing the alliance."
The Greene pack. The name hits me like a physical blow, conjuring memories of a sitting room filled with oppressive silence, of cold eyes appraising me like livestock at auction, of a hand reaching for me with proprietorial confidence. I'd sooner die than go back to that.
"Not interested," I say, the words clipped and final.
"Don't be hasty, Lydia." My mother's tone shifts to something almost reasonable, which immediately puts me on guard. "Alpha Greene has been remarkably forgiving. Most Alphas would take your rejection as a personal insult, but he sees it as... spiritedness. A challenge, rather than a dealbreaker."
The implication turns my stomach. That my resistance was somehow part of the appeal, a feisty Omega to be conquered rather than a person making a clear statement of refusal. I swallow hard against the bile rising in my throat.
"I said no a year ago. I'm saying no now. Nothing has changed."
"Everything has changed," my mother counters, her voice hardening. "You've had your little adventure, your taste of independence. But it's time to think about your future, Lydia. Your real future, not this..." she gestures around the shop, "...fantasy you've constructed."
"My future is here," I insist, though I hear the way my voice wavers slightly. "I'm not going back to a pack that sees me as nothing more than a broodmare or a status symbol."
She clicks her tongue, a sound of exaggerated patience that sets my teeth on edge. "Such melodrama. The Greene pack is one of the most respected traditional packs in the region. Alpha Greene could have any Omega he wanted, yet he's specifically requested you. Do you have any idea what an honor that is?"
"It's not an honor," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them. "It's a prison sentence."
My mother's eyes narrow dangerously. "Mind your tone, Lydia. I didn't raise you to be disrespectful." No, you raised me to be obedient. Compliant. The perfect Omega daughter to cement your social standing. The thoughts burn in my mind, but old habits die hard. I press my lips together, falling back into the familiar pattern of silent endurance that was my primary defense mechanism growing up.
My phone buzzes again on the counter, the screen lighting up with another message from the group chat. My mother's gaze flicks to it, a predatory sharpness entering her eyes.
"You've made friends here," she observes, the statement carrying an undercurrent of threat. "How nice for you."
I resist the urge to snatch the phone away, to hide this one precious link to the life I've been building. "Yes," I say simply, offering nothing more.
"Temporary attachments," she dismisses with a wave of her hand. "Nothing compared to the security and status a proper pack would provide."
The security of a cage. The status of a possession. But again, the retort remains unspoken. I've spent too many years learning that direct confrontation with my mother only leads to more cutting remarks, more emotional wounds that take weeks to heal.
"I'm not interested in the Greene pack," I repeat instead, my voice flat. "Or any pack arrangement you've made without my consent."
My mother sighs again, this one heavier, laden with performative regret. "Your father and I have only ever wanted what's best for you, Lydia. Sometimes that means making difficult decisions, steering you away from... unfortunate choices."
The familiar refrain—that they know better, that their control is for my own good—washes over me like an old, scratchy sweater I've long outgrown. Once, those words had the power to make me doubt myself, to question my own judgment. Now they just sound hollow.
"I'm twenty-four years old," I say quietly. "I'm capable of making my own choices."
"Are you?" Her gaze sweeps over me again, lingering pointedly on my neck where my scent gland is visible, unmasked by blockers. "Walking around with your Omega status on display like some common—"
She cuts herself off, but the implication hangs in the air between us. Some common whore. The unspoken slur stings more than it should, striking at insecurities I thought I'd begun to overcome.
"I suggest you reconsider your position," my mother continues, her voice cooling to that diplomatic tone she uses when delivering ultimatums dressed as advice. "The Greene pack won't wait forever, Lydia. And neither will your father and I."
The implied threat—that I could be cut off completely, declared no longer their daughter—should terrify me. A year ago, it might have. But standing here in my shop, with messages from people who care about the real me lighting up my phone, the prospect carries less weight than she intends.
"I'm not coming back," I say again, the words steadier this time. "You've wasted your time coming here."
My mother's eyes narrow, a flash of genuine anger breaking through her composed facade. "We'll see about that," she says, the words carrying a chill that settles in my bones despite the morning warmth. "This little... experiment of yours has gone on long enough, Lydia. It's time to grow up and accept your responsibilities."
Responsibilities. The word hangs between us, laden with all the expectations and limitations that drove me to flee in the first place. To be a dutiful Omega daughter. To mate with an Alpha of their choosing. To produce pups and enhance the family's standing. To erase myself in service to their ambitions.
"I have responsibilities," I say, thinking of my shop, my customers, the four men who are somehow becoming the center of my world. "Just not the ones you chose for me."
My phone buzzes one more time, the sound seeming to echo in the tense silence between us. My mother's gaze flicks to it again, calculation evident in the slight narrowing of her eyes.
I knew that this conversion was long from over and I could be stuck in my shop arguing with her all day.
I hoped it didn't’ come down to that. I don’t think I was mentally prepared. Not anymore.