57. Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Seven
T he bell's jingle fades into silence, but my mother's presence lingers like the aftermath of a toxic perfume, seeping into everything it touched. Mrs. Chen stands awkwardly near the door, her kind face creased with concern, her hands fidgeting with the jade bracelet she always wears. I want to reassure her, to slip into the professional mask I've perfected over the past year, but my usual defenses feel shattered, leaving me exposed in ways I haven't been since I fled my family's house in the middle of the night, Avery's car idling at the end of the drive like a getaway vehicle.
The shop door swings open again before Mrs. Chen can speak, the bell's cheerful tone an absurd counterpoint to the ice that floods my veins. My mother stands in the doorway, her figure outlined by the morning sun, throwing her face into shadow. But I don't need to see her expression to know it's perfectly composed again, the brief flash of genuine emotion tucked away beneath her immaculate veneer.
"One more thing, Lydia," she says, her voice honey-smooth yet carrying barbs beneath its surface. Her eyes flick meaningfully to my neck, where my unblocked scent glands pulse with anxiety and anger. "If you insist on this... independent lifestyle, you might at least consider wearing your blockers again. A respectable Omega doesn't flaunt her scent in public like some common stray."
The words hit with precision accuracy, finding the tender spot of my newest vulnerability. Not wearing blockers—letting my true scent emerge after a year of chemical suppression—had been a conscious choice, a declaration of trust in the four men who've somehow become central to my world. A step toward authenticity I'm still learning to navigate.
My mother's gaze slides to Mrs. Chen, taking in her sensible shoes and hand-knit cardigan with a single, dismissive sweep. "It's hardly appropriate," she continues, her voice pitched to carry just enough for the Beta to hear. "Though I suppose standards are... different in small towns."
Mrs. Chen draws herself up, her normally gentle expression hardening around the edges. "We value authenticity here," she says, her voice carrying the quiet dignity that's always made me admire her. "Lydia is a respected business owner and a valued member of our community."
My mother's smile could freeze flowing water. "How quaint. Well, I won't keep you from your... charming little establishment any longer, Lydia. Do think about what I've said. Your father and I will be at the Grand Haven Hotel until Sunday. I trust you'll come to your senses before then."
With that parting shot, she turns and walks away, her heels clicking a precise rhythm on the sidewalk outside. Through the window, I watch her slip into a sleek black car I hadn't noticed before—expensive, understated, with the tinted windows that speak of wealth that prefers not to announce itself too loudly.
Mrs. Chen mutters something under her breath in Mandarin that doesn't sound like a compliment.
"Are you alright, dear?" she asks, turning to me with eyes full of gentle concern. "That woman... she's your mother? I couldn't help overhearing a bit before I came in."
I nod, not trusting my voice as a low whin left my throat. My hand rises unconsciously to my neck, fingers brushing against the scent gland that now feels exposed, vulnerable, wrong. Should I have kept using blockers? Was my decision to stop—to let myself be truly seen and scented—a mistake? The doubts multiply like shadows at dusk, stretching and distorting my newfound confidence into something unrecognizable.
"Family can be the heaviest burden to carry," Mrs. Chen says softly, moving to stand beside me at the counter. "Sometimes the people who should love us the most are the ones who hurt us the deepest."
I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the lump forming in my throat. "I thought I was done with all that," I manage, my voice embarrassingly unsteady. "It's been a year. I thought I was... free."
"Ah," Mrs. Chen sighs, settling her small, work-worn hand over mine. "The past has long fingers, yes? It reaches for us when we least expect it." A single tear escapes before I can stop it, streaking down my cheek in a hot trail of betrayal. I brush it away quickly, but not before Mrs. Chen notices.
"You should not listen to her about the blockers," she says firmly, squeezing my hand. "My nephew is an Omega, you know. For years he hid himself behind those chemical masks, ashamed of his true nature. Now he lives freely, proud of who he is. He is the happiest I've ever seen him."
Her words are meant to comfort, but they tangle with my mother's accusations in my mind, creating a confused knot of uncertainty. Is my decision to stop using blockers a step toward self-acceptance or a naive mistake that leaves me vulnerable? Is my mother right that I need the protection of a traditional pack, or is Mrs. Chen's nephew's path the healthier one?
"Thank you," I say automatically, falling back on the polite responses ingrained since childhood. "I appreciate your concern."
Mrs. Chen studies me with eyes too perceptive for comfort. "You should close early today, I think. Go home. Rest. Whatever she wanted from you, it has stirred up old pain, yes?"
Old pain. The phrase is so inadequate it would be laughable if I weren't so close to crying. Not just old pain but old fear, old doubt, old patterns I've fought so hard to break free from. My mother's brief visit has left fault lines in the foundation I've been carefully building—cracks in my certainty that I can define my own life, choose my own path.
"I might do that," I murmur, though the thought of being alone with my turbulent emotions feels almost as daunting as facing my mother again.
Mrs. Chen nods decisively. "Good. I will tell anyone who comes looking for you that there was a family emergency." Her nose wrinkles slightly. "Not entirely untrue, that one."
Despite everything, a small smile tugs at my lips. "Thank you, Mrs. Chen. You're very kind."
She waves away my gratitude with a dismissive gesture. "Kindness costs nothing. Now, will you be alright? Or should I stay a while?"
I shake my head, suddenly desperate for solitude despite my fears. "I'll be fine. I just need some time to... process."
Mrs. Chen looks unconvinced, but she respects my boundaries. "If you need anything, I am just next door. Even just tea and someone to listen."
I nod, throat tight with unshed tears. Mrs. Chen gives my hand one final squeeze before heading toward the door, her movements unhurried but purposeful. At the threshold, she turns back.
"Lydia," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "The scent blockers. That is your choice, not hers. Remember this."
The bell chimes as she leaves, the sound hollow in the empty shop. I stand motionless behind the counter, feeling strangely disembodied, as if I'm watching myself from a distance. My phone buzzes again on the counter, the screen lighting up with another message from the group chat. I can't bring myself to look at it.
Instead, I move through the shop on autopilot, flipping the sign to "Closed," drawing the blinds, shutting down the register. Each action feels mechanical, divorced from conscious thought. The colorful displays of paints and canvases that usually bring me joy now seem garish and too bright, hurting my eyes with their intensity.
My mother's words echo in my head, a poisonous mantra that drowns out reason: "An unmated Omega without pack protection—do you have any idea how vulnerable you are?"
I do know. I've always known. It's why I spent a year hiding behind blockers, keeping everyone at arm's length, building walls so high no one could scale them. Until Elias, with his warm smile and patient persistence. Until Finn, with his quiet strength and gentle hands. Until Soren, with his boundless energy and unexpected wisdom. Until Lucian, with his protective instincts and perceptive eyes. But what if they're not enough? What if my mother is right, and my "fantasy" of independence is just setting me up for eventual failure? What if the Greene pack is my only real option for long-term security?
A sob builds in my chest, pressing against my ribs like a living thing trying to escape. I swallow it back, not willing to break down in my shop where anyone passing by might see. Home. I need to get home, where I can fall apart in private, away from curious eyes and well-meaning neighbors.
I gather my things with trembling hands—purse, keys, the sketchbook with my seasonal gift box designs that had seemed so important just hours ago. Now they feel trivial, childish even. Playing at being an artist when my biological reality as an Omega might demand harder choices.
As I lock the shop door behind me, the lavender scent of my own distress swirls around me, no longer a declaration of trust and openness but a vulnerability I can't believe I willingly exposed. The short walk to my apartment stretches before me like an endless gauntlet, each step an effort against the growing weight in my chest.
All I want is to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and cry until this hollowed-out feeling subsides. To hide from a world that suddenly seems full of threats and complications I'd foolishly thought I'd escaped. To retreat from the terrifying freedom I'd been so proud of just this morning.
I want to disappear until I can figure out if the life I've been building is real and sustainable, or just a temporary refuge before reality—as my mother so coldly put it—catches up to me.