58. Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Eight
M y apartment door clicks shut behind me, the sound like a vault sealing. I slide down against it until I'm sitting on the floor, my legs suddenly unable to support the weight of my mother's words. My bag slips from nerveless fingers, keys jangling as they hit the hardwood. The silence of my living room presses against my skin, the familiar furniture and artwork frozen in place like witnesses to my unraveling. I've kept myself together by threads all the way home, hyperaware of my unblocked scent trailing behind me like a neon sign, announcing my distress to anyone with a sensitive enough nose. Now, in the privacy of my sanctuary, those threads begin to snap one by one.
The first sob catches me by surprise, tearing from my throat with such force it feels like it brings some essential part of me with it. Then another follows, and another, until I'm curled into myself on the floor, arms wrapped around my middle as if I might physically fall apart without holding myself together. My tears fall unchecked, hot against my cheeks, blurring the familiar contours of my apartment into impressionistic smudges of color and light.
"I was doing so well," I whisper to the empty room, my voice ragged around the edges. "I was finally finding my way."
My chest aches with the force of my crying, each breath a struggle against the constriction of my lungs. I haven't cried like this since the night I fled my parents' house, since I sat in Avery's car and watched the looming silhouette of my childhood prison disappear in the rearview mirror. I thought I was past this—past feeling like I might shatter into a thousand irretrievable pieces at the sound of my mother's voice, at the weight of her expectations.
Eventually, the storm subsides enough that I can push myself up from the floor on trembling arms. I make my way to the couch, movements sluggish as if I'm wading through waist-deep water. My phone is still clutched in my hand, knuckles white around its edges. The screen lights up with another notification—the twentieth? thirtieth? I've lost count of how many times it's buzzed since my mother appeared in my shop.
With numb fingers, I swipe it open, the brightness making my swollen eyes sting. Messages flood the screen—all from the group chat, their concern evident even in the preview snippets I can see without opening the full conversation.
Elias: Lydia? Is everything okay?
Soren: Has anyone heard from Lavender girl? It's not like her to disappear mid-convo.
Finn: Maybe she got busy with customers?
Lucian: I don't like this. She's usually very responsive.
Their worry should warm me, should remind me that I have people who care now. Instead, it feels like another weight pressing down, another expectation I have to navigate. I have told them some things about my past, but not everything. I can't face their questions right now, can't bear to explain the tangled mess of my past and the uncertain terrain of my future. But I need to talk to someone who understands, who was there from the beginning.
I open a new message thread to Avery, my fingers hovering over the keyboard before I manage to type:
My mother found me. She's in town. Wants me to go back for arranged mating with Greene pack. I don't know what to do.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then watch as the message status changes from "Delivered" to "Read." The typing indicator appears immediately, three dots bouncing as Avery composes her response. I hold my breath, as if the physical act of breathing might somehow interfere with the transmission of her words.
Avery: WHAT??? Are you okay? Do you need me to come there? I can be on the road in fifteen minutes.
A fresh wave of tears blurs my vision at her immediate offer. Avery has been my rock for so long, the one person who truly understands what I escaped and why I had to run. But I can't ask her to drop everything and drive for hours just because I'm having an emotional crisis.
Me: No, don't come. I'm just... really shaken. She showed up at the shop this morning. It was awful.
Avery: What exactly did she say? Are your parents staying in town? How did they find you?
The questions come rapid-fire, Avery's protective instincts in full force. I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to formulate a response that captures the essence of the confrontation without needing to relive every painful moment.
Me: Dad has connections. She said it was "just a matter of time." They're at the Grand Haven Hotel until Sunday. Expecting me to "come to my senses" and agree to the Greene alliance.
Avery: That's NOT happening. We didn't get you out of there just for you to get dragged back a year later. What about your friends there? The ones you've been telling me about? Can they help?
My throat tightens at the mention of Elias, Lucian, Finn, and Soren. The group chat continues to ping with new messages, their worry growing more evident with each unanswered text.
Me: I can't tell them about this. Not yet. I don't even know what I'm going to do.
Avery: Lydia, I think you should. From everything you've told me, they would stand with you. But if you really don't want to involve them, what's your plan?
That's the question, isn't it? What is my plan? Do I hide in my apartment until Sunday, hoping my mother leaves without further confrontation? Do I go to the hotel and try to reason with her one more time? Do I pick up everything and run again, abandoning the life I've been building in Haven's Rest?
Me: I don't have one. I just need to think. I'm sorry. Can we talk later? I just wanted you to know what was happening.
Avery: Of course. But I'm keeping my phone on me at all times. Call ANYTIME, day or night. Promise me.
Me: I promise. Thank you.
Avery: I love you, Lydia. We'll figure this out together.
I set the phone down on the coffee table, screen-side down so I don't have to see the continued notifications from the group chat. The simple act of reaching out to Avery has depleted what little emotional energy I had left. My body feels heavy, limbs weighted with a bone-deep exhaustion that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the emotional marathon of the morning.
I curl onto my side on the couch, drawing my knees to my chest in a position that feels like surrender. My mother's words echo in my head, each one striking against my newfound confidence like hammers on glass:
"An unmated Omega without pack protection—do you have any idea how vulnerable you are?"
"How long before the novelty wears off? Before you realize the security and status you've thrown away?"
"A respectable Omega doesn't flaunt her scent in public like some common stray."
I press my hands over my ears as if I could physically block out the memories, but they persist, seeping through my fingers like smoke. Behind them lurk older memories—of my childhood home with its formal sitting rooms where I was expected to be seen but not heard, of etiquette lessons that emphasized proper Omega behavior, of conversations about my future that never included my own desires or dreams.
My art had been tolerated only as a suitable "hobby" for a well-bred Omega, never as a genuine passion or potential career. My tendency toward independence had been viewed as a flaw to be corrected, not a strength to be nurtured. Every aspect of my personality that didn't fit the traditional Omega mold had been systematically discouraged, until I'd learned to hide those parts of myself away, presenting only the docile, compliant facade they wanted to see.
Until I couldn't anymore. Until the prospect of being mated off to the Greene pack—known for their rigid adherence to traditional pack structures and Omega subjugation—became a reality I couldn't face.
I'd thought I was free of all that. I'd thought I'd escaped.
But what if freedom is just an illusion? What if my mother is right, and the protection of a traditional pack is the only real security an Omega can hope for? The world can be dangerous for unmated Omegas—I've always known that. It's why I spent so long hiding behind blockers, keeping to myself, avoiding connections that might lead to complications.
The irony of my mother's timing cuts deep. Just as I've begun to let my guard down, to trust others, to imagine a future where I might belong without sacrificing who I am—she appears to remind me of all the reasons I kept those walls up in the first place.
And the most painful part? A tiny, insidious voice in the back of my mind whispers that maybe she's right. Maybe I am being naive. Maybe this tentative happiness I've found will shatter at the first real test, leaving me more vulnerable than before.
I stare at the ceiling, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes and soaking into my hair. My limbs feel too heavy to move, my thoughts too tangled to unravel. Exhaustion pulls at me, the emotional toll of the morning a weight I can't fight anymore.
So I surrender to it, letting my eyes drift closed as silent tears continue to track down my temples. Maybe when I wake up, I'll have some clarity. Maybe I'll know what to do, what to say to my mother, how to protect the fragile new life I've been building.
Or maybe I'll just have to start running again.