2. Charlotte
CHAPTER 2
CHARLOTTE
I woke up in a darkness so complete, I thought I'd gone blind. My mind swam through a soup of half-formed thoughts, fragments that wouldn't connect. There was a sweet chemical taste coating my tongue, something medicinal that made me want to gag. Rohypnol, ketamine, GHB. I'd educated enough Omegas about date rape drugs to recognize when I'd been dosed.
I tried to reach up to touch my face, but my wrists wouldn't move. Cold metal bit into my skin. Not handcuffs, something wider, medical restraints maybe. The same around my ankles. My body was spread-eagled on what felt like a thin mattress, the kind they use in hospitals. My clothes were gone and I was dressed in a short shift-like gown that left my bare legs exposed. My teeth chattered, the need to wrap my arms around my body to warm myself against the cold damp room had me pulling against my restraints to no avail. At least I wasn’t naked. Pain shot up my arm making me whimper and I knew the only thing I could do was wait until someone released me. Someone would come and check on me, right? Proof of life. I mean, they wouldn’t take me to let me wither away and die? I don’t know how long I lay on my back, listening for something beside the slow drip of water from somewhere in the room. I found myself counting the drips to keep myself from screaming. I wanted out. I wanted to stand, pace, anything but lay here in this vulnerable position.
"Hello?" My voice came out as a croak. No one answered.
A thin sliver of light suddenly appeared under what had to be a door, the interruption to absolute darkness briefly filled me with hope. It wasn't enough to see by, just enough to confirm I wasn't completely blind. Small mercies. The sound of footsteps outside the room must have activated it. If someone heard me, they didn’t acknowledge it. Whoever it was continued to walk past, the sound of their footsteps fading as they moved into the distance. When they had finally receded completely, the lights went out and complete darkness returned.
The next day—at least I think it was a day, time had become a slippery, unreliable thing—I heard the others. Soft whimpers, muffled crying. Prayers whispered in languages I didn't understand. Other Omegas, trapped like me. I called out to them once, but a sharp bang against my door silenced me. A warning.
They were smart, whoever ‘they’ were. No water, no food. Just darkness, restraints, and the crushing weight of not knowing.
By the third day, my lips had cracked and split. My throat felt like I'd swallowed broken glass. I'd pissed myself more than once, the acrid smell a constant reminder of my helplessness.
I knew what they were doing. I'd lectured on this at the Foundation; psychological breakdown is the first phase of Omega trafficking. Break the will before breaking the body. Dehydration makes you compliant. Darkness makes you desperate for any face, even your captor's. Isolation makes you crave any touch, even a violent one.
"Standard grooming protocol," I'd told a roomful of law enforcement officers just last month. "They're not just trying to control the body; they're rewiring the brain. Creating dependence."
Now I was living my own Goddamn PowerPoint presentation. The irony wasn't lost on me, even as my mind began to fray at the edges. I’m not proud of what I had to do to survive. But I cried and begged with the little voice I had left and someone finally came. Two men arrived, presumably guards. They brought me water and food. They untied my straps, let me sit up, easing the ache in my back. They didn’t speak to me, only observed, making sure I ate and drank the little they gave me. It’s as if they had been watching me and I guess maybe they had been. It was so dark in here all the time, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were cameras.
By the fourth day—or maybe the fifth—I found myself waiting for the sound of footsteps, praying for the door to open. Not for escape, just for water and food. It became a routine, I got used to the guards’ daily visits. They never spoke, I assumed they were given orders not to. Can’t have them getting attached to the ‘animal’ in captivity. Days passed, maybe weeks, time here all blended together, and I went without a fight as they dragged me from my cell for various medical test. Always with a blindfold or sedation. I never got to see the other Omegas I knew were locked up alongside me, but I could hear them. Every bit of freedom, even the invasive examinations was a reprieve. A break in the sensory void they’d trapped me in.
And that's when I knew their strategy was working.
"—remarkable resilience for an Omega of her stature. Most would have begged within forty-eight hours. She lasted an extra day her first week here before we intervened."
The voice yanks me from my memories, as sharp as a slap to the face. Clinical. Cold. Female. I blink against harsh fluorescent lighting, so different from the suffocating darkness I'd been trapped in for days. My eyes water painfully as they adjust, the world slowly coming into focus around me. The guards had sedated me when they arrived to retrieve me. I was lifted off one bed, placed on a gurney and wheeled through a long corridor before I finally lost consciousness. As I blink away the last dregs of fog from my brain, I realize I am about to be subjected to another round of tests.
I'm strapped to an examination table now, the restraints identical to the ones from my cell but somehow more terrifying under these sterile lights. A cold shiver racks my body as I realize that my gown is gone and I’m naked. They’ve never stripped me before, so whatever’s about to happen today. . .no, I don’t want to think about what’s about to happen. So, I take note of everything in the room once more to take my mind off the inevitable. The room is blindingly white—white tiles, white counters, white cabinets. Medical equipment lines the walls and the distant beeping of monitors creates a steady, ominous rhythm.
Standing over me is a woman I have hated from the moment I met her. Dr. Locke. The guards mention her name in passing, and with deference, like she’s one of their leaders. She’s tall and lanky, with skin so pale it's almost translucent, like straight up vampire white. Her eyes are the most unsettling part—shards of green glass that don't reflect light so much as absorb it. Her black hair is pulled back in a severe bun so tight it must give her headaches. Good. I hope it fucking hurts.
"She's awake," she says, not to me but to someone else in the room who I can't see from my position. "Vitals are not as stable as I would like. She’s in need of more fluids. Nothing an IV drip won’t cure. We'll need to address that before the procedure. I know you want them pliable but practically starving and barely giving them water is not good for an Omega’s health." She tsks.
I try to speak, but my throat closes around the words, dry as sandpaper. All that comes out is a ragged croak.
"Water," Dr. Locke says, snapping her fingers. "Small sips only."
A straw is placed between my cracked lips. I should refuse it, some stubborn part of me knows I should, but my body betrays me. I suck greedily, the lukewarm water like heaven on my ravaged throat. It's removed too quickly.
"That's enough for now,” she snaps. “I have an examination to conduct and yours is not the only one I need to perform today.”
Examination. The word sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the room's temperature.
"Why?" I manage to ask, my voice barely a whisper. "What do you want? What is the end game?"
Dr. Locke's mouth curves into something that resembles a smile but lacks any warmth. "Ah, the inevitable questions. So predictable." She picks up a tablet from a nearby tray, her long fingers scrolling through what I assume is my information. "Charlotte Matthews. Twenty-nine. Unmated Omega. Quite the little celebrity in those progressive circles of yours."
I stare at her in shock. This is the first time I’ve asked questions and she’s actually answered me, all the other times she worked in silence. I wonder what’s changed as my stomach churns with fear and anxiety. Whatever has her speaking finally can’t be good.
Her opinion of me is clear though, she says ‘progressive’ like it's a disease.
"You won't get away with this," I say, hating how weak I sound. Yep, I’ve said it before, but now that she’s talking. . . "People will notice I'm missing. They'll look for me."
A soft chuckle escapes her lips. "They already have noticed, Ms. Matthews. Your face has been all over the news for weeks now. 'Prominent Omega Rights Activist Mysteriously Disappears'. It's caused quite the stir."
My heart sinks. Weeks. I've been here for weeks. Somehow, I’ve known that, but to hear it out loud is gut wrenching.
"Then they'll find me," I say with more conviction than I feel. If they are looking, then where the hell is my rescue?
"No," she replies, "they won't." She sets down the tablet and pulls on latex gloves with methodical precision. The snap against her wrists makes me flinch. "You see, Charlotte. . .may I call you Charlotte? You're quite valuable to us. An Omega with your particular qualities is rare."
"What qualities?" I ask, fear clawing at my insides.
"Your resilience, for one. Your intelligence. Your public profile." She leans closer, those green eyes drilling into mine. "But most importantly, your fertility. Natural-born Omegas from Beta parents are exceedingly rare. Your genetic makeup is exceptional."
My blood turns to ice. "I'm not breeding stock," I spit out.
"Actually," she says, reaching for something on a metal tray I can't see, "that's exactly what you are. Your advocacy work was quite inspirational, truly. But now you'll serve a higher purpose."
The whir of a machine starts up somewhere to my right, and Dr. Locke's face is illuminated by a blue glow from a monitor.
"We're going to start with a comprehensive fertility assessment," she explains, as if discussing the weather. "The Alpha clients who've bid on your profile are very particular about their investment. "
Clients. Bids. Investments. My stomach heaves, but there's nothing to bring up.
"Don't worry," she adds, mistaking my horror for fear of pain. "This part won't hurt. Much."
As she moves away to adjust something on the machine, I test my restraints again. Nothing. Not even a millimeter of give.
I close my eyes briefly, gathering what's left of my strength as cold gloved hands touch bare skin. The pinch of the speculum shoved inside me without care. The poking and prodding of Dr. Locke’s fingers as she talks about me like I’m nothing but a specimen to be observed. It goes on and on, but I bite back my screams for her to stop. But I can help the stray tears as they fall down the sides of my face. I can get through this. I have to. I won't break. I won't become what they want.
But a treacherous voice whispers in the back of my mind: You already started to.
A noise reaches me, pulling me out of my panic—a motorized hum piercing the sterile quiet. My gaze wanders to the source, spotting a pulsing crimson indicator mounted where the walls meet overhead. I turn my head as much as the restraints allow, only to see the small camera pivot to follow my movement. Not just one camera. Several. They're mounted in each corner of the room, their glass eyes unblinking, watching.
"Why?" The question tears from my throat before I can stop it, raw and desperate. "Why are there cameras?"
Dr. Locke doesn't even look up from her tablet. "You have an audience, Charlotte."
"Who's watching?" I demand.
Dr. Locke finally looks up, those cold green eyes regarding me with clinical detachment. "Interested parties. Potential investors. Those who need to verify the quality of our process."
I swallow hard, bile rising. The thought of unknown gazes watching me, stripped and helpless, force more tears from my eyes.
"This is illegal," I rasp. "Unethical. Barbaric."
Dr. Locke smirks and closes the distance between us. She leans down over me and with lightning quick reflexes she presses a syringe into my neck and smiles. "Ethics are subjective. One person's atrocity is another's necessity."
With a press of a button, two men enter the room, dressed in all black, faces covered. The sight of the men sends me tail spinning back to the alley and all I want to do is escape. My head begins to spin from whatever she’s shot into my veins. I panic .
"Take her to the house and bring in another one," Dr. Locke orders impassively.
I scream and buck against the bindings, but I'm slowly losing consciousness as they drag me from the examination room and into my worst nightmare.