Chapter 12 Jonah
The cast iron skillet hits the water with enough force to send soap suds flying.
I don't care. I scrub at the already-clean surface like it personally offended me, channeling all my fury into the bristles of the brush. The remains of our breakfast—his breakfast, since I lost my appetite the moment he opened his mouth—have already been scraped away, but I keep scrubbing anyway.
His words echo in my head, each repetition making my chest tighten further. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have let three days of heat-driven sex convince me that maybe, just maybe, we could make this work?
The kitchen is ridiculous. That's the only word for it.
Industrial-grade everything—six-burner stoves, two of them, side by side.
Three ovens. A warming station that could keep food hot for a hundred people.
Through the glass doors, I can see into walk-in refrigerators bigger than my childhood bedroom.
This isn't a kitchen. It's a catering facility.
Cold, sterile, impersonal. Nothing like Mom's kitchen with its scarred wooden table where we did homework, where Dad read the approved newspapers while Mom cooked, where the whole family gathered every morning and evening like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
This kitchen has probably never seen a family meal that wasn't staged for photographers.
Movement in my peripheral vision makes me look up. Two staff members hover in the doorway: a young woman in a pristine uniform and an older man who might be some kind of under-butler or whatever ridiculous title this place requires.
"Mr. Colborne," the woman starts hesitantly. "We can handle the washing up—"
"I've got it." The words come out sharper than intended. I force my voice softer. "Thank you, but I need something to do."
They exchange glances, clearly uncertain whether to insist. The omega of the house doing servant work probably breaks a million different protocols. But something in my expression must warn them off because they retreat, leaving me alone with my anger.
I attack the plate next, then the pots, then the pristine counters that don't need cleaning. When I run out of things to wash, I reorganize the dish towels. Then the spice rack. By the time I'm alphabetizing tea in the pantry, even I know I'm being ridiculous.
Music starts thundering through the walls. Heavy, aggressive, the bass line vibrating through the floorboards. It's coming from upstairs—from his room—and it's loud enough that he clearly wants the entire estate to know he's upset.
Like a teenager, I think, slamming the pantry door. A spoiled, selfish teenager who's never been told no in his entire life.
The music gets louder. Drums crash. Someone screams lyrics I can't quite make out but that sound furious about something. Perfect. We're both furious. What a wonderful foundation for a marriage.
I could go to my room, but that would mean walking past his, and I'm not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me flee. Instead, I head for the library.
The library, at least, feels like something from a different era. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound books, their spines gleaming with gold lettering. The smell should be comforting.
But even here, everything is too perfect. The books are perfectly aligned, not a single spine cracked from reading. The dust that should accumulate in any proper library is absent, every surface gleaming. These aren't books that anyone reads. They're decorations.
A mahogany side table near the window catches my eye. Someone—staff, obviously—has laid out the day's newspapers in a perfect fan, each folded at a precise angle so the masthead is visible. The New York Times. The Washington Post. The Wall Street Journal. The Financial Times. Even some tabloids.
I stare at the display, another small reminder of how different this world is. Every possible whim Alex might have is anticipated, catered to before he even knows he wants it.
Does he read newspapers? Somehow I doubt it. But they're here anyway, just in case the prince decides he wants to know what's happening in the world beyond his estate walls.
At the Fellowship, we had newspapers too, but carefully selected. Pastor David reviewed them first, ensuring we weren't exposed to unnecessary corruption. The local paper, yes. The Christian Science Monitor. A few others that reported news without the bias and sensationalism of mainstream media.
Control, a voice whispers in my head. It sounds suspiciously like Alex.
I push the thought away and approach the papers. What harm can it do to look? I'm a married man now, living in the world. I should know what that world is saying.
The Times has something about trade negotiations. The Post is covering a political scandal I don't understand. But the third paper—a major daily I recognize but have never read—makes my blood run cold.
The headline screams across the front page: INSIDE THE CULT: The Secretive Religious Sect That Shaped America's Newest Billionaire Bride
Bride. Because of course they can't even get that right.
My hands shake as I pick up the paper, sinking into one of the leather chairs. The article is worse than the headline.
The Faith Heritage Fellowship, the insular religious community that produced Jonah Colborne (née Wells), operates on principles that would seem alien to most modern Americans.
Sources familiar with the organization describe a world where omegas have no rights, cannot work outside the home, and must submit entirely to their alphas' will. ..
No rights? I think of my mother, who runs the church's entire charitable operations.
My sister Corinne, who homeschools not just her own children but teaches for half the neighborhood.
We choose to follow traditional roles because they work, because we've seen the happiness they bring.
That's not the same as having no rights.
Members rarely leave the Fellowship, raising questions about what level of coercion keeps them there. Former members, speaking on condition of anonymity, describe intense social pressure and the threat of being cut off from family and community for those who stray...
Former members? Who? The Richardsons left three years ago for Vermont, and we still exchange Christmas cards. The Owens family moved to care for aging parents, and Pastor David himself drove them to the airport, blessing their journey.
Education within the Fellowship is strictly controlled, with members having limited access to outside literature, media, or educational resources. This intellectual isolation ensures that members, particularly omegas, lack the knowledge or skills to survive in the outside world...
I think of our library at home, smaller than this one but well-loved, books worn from reading. Yes, Pastor David recommended certain books over others, but—
Control.
The word comes again, harder to push away this time.
Financial resources are pooled and distributed according to need, a system critics call 'financial control designed to prevent independence.' Members are discouraged from maintaining personal savings or assets...
We share because that's what families do. When the Parkers' house burned down, the entire community rebuilt it. When Mom needed surgery, everyone contributed. That's not control, it's—
But I remember saying I wanted to save money for college, because I wanted to know what college might be like, and Pastor David explaining that self-sufficiency was a form of pride, that trusting God meant trusting the community He provided.
Perhaps most concerning is the role of Pastor David White, the Fellowship's aging leader, whose fire-and-brimstone sermons about sin and damnation have been described as 'psychological manipulation' by religious scholars.
Former members report an environment of constant judgment, where normal human desires are labeled as sinful and members live in fear of eternal damnation. ..
My chest tightens. Pastor David can be... intense. I think of his sermon at our wedding, the way he'd called Alex a sinner in need of salvation in front of a thousand guests. The way he talks about the outside world as a pit of corruption waiting to swallow us whole.
But he does it because he feels strongly. That's not manipulation, it's—
Control?
I'm so absorbed in the article that I don't hear the door open. Don't notice another presence until Alex clears his throat.
I look up to find him standing in the doorway, hair mussed, still in his running gear. The music from upstairs has stopped. He looks uncertain, maybe even apologetic—
"Finally over your tantrum?" The words come out before I can stop them, sharp and cutting. "That music was so loud they probably heard it in town. Very mature."
His expression shutters, any softness vanishing. "I came to talk, actually. But if you want to be a little bitch—"
"Talk?" I stand, the newspaper crumpling in my grip. "Like we talked at breakfast? Where you informed me that children—the one thing I've always wanted, the one thing I thought every alpha wanted—are too expensive and time-consuming for your busy schedule of doing absolutely nothing?"
"What? I didn’t say that."
"Do you think I grew up in a cult?"
The question stops him cold. His eyes flick to the newspaper in my hand, and I see understanding dawn on his face.
I hold it up, my hand shaking with fury. "This. This garbage. Is this what you think? That my family, my entire life, is some kind of cult?"
He shifts his weight, and I wait for it. For the denial, the explanation, the diplomatic dodge that means he really does think it but doesn't want to say so.
Instead, he meets my eyes directly and says, "Yes?"
Like it's obvious. Like it's not even a question worth asking. Like saying water is wet or the sky is blue.
"You—" I can't even form words. The casualness of it, the matter-of-fact certainty. "You think I’m a cult member?"
"Jonah—"
"Pastor David married every couple in my family. He baptized all us kids. He held my hand when my grandmother died. But sure, he's a cult leader. And I'm what, exactly? A brainwashed victim? Or just damaged goods?"
"I didn't say—"
"You didn't have to." The hurt is morphing into rage, hot and clean and so much easier to handle.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Look, I'm not saying you're brainwashed, but you have to admit, some of it is pretty controlling—"
"Controlling?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it.
"You want to talk about control? Your entire life is controlled!
You don't cook your own meals, wash your own clothes, make your own appointments.
Every single thing is done for you, decided for you.
Diana controls your money, your image, your entire life. But my family is the controlling one?"
His jaw tightens. "That's different."
"Is it? At least my family's control comes from love. What's your excuse for letting Diana run your life like you're still a child?"
"I don't let her—"
"You married me because she told you to!" The words explode out of me. "You show up where she tells you, wear what she tells you, say what she tells you to say. You're thirty-four years old and you've never had to make a real decision in your entire life, but my faith is the problem?"
He steps forward, eyes flashing. "At least I can leave whenever I want. Can you say the same? What would happen if you went back right now and told them you're getting divorced?"
The question hits too close to something I don't want to examine. "I don't believe in divorce."
"Because you chose not to, or because you were told not to?"
"Because marriage means something to me! Because I take vows seriously! Because I actually believe in commitment and family and—" My voice cracks. "And children. Which you apparently think are too much trouble."
Something flickers across his face. But I'm already moving, pushing past him toward the door.
"Jonah, wait—"
"What's the point?" I don't turn around. I can't look at him. "We both know what this is. So let's just—let's just stay out of each other's way, keep it looking good for the cameras until we work out what we’re going to do"
I leave him standing there in his perfect library with his perfect newspapers sharing everything about our perfectly wrong marriage.
In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my phone.
Mom answers on the second ring. "Sweetheart! I’ve been wondering how are you? How is everything?"
The lie comes automatically. Another lie to my mother. I’m already corrupted. "It's fine, Mom. Everything's fine."
"You sound tired. Are you getting enough rest?"
Rest. If she only knew what the last three days had been like. The heat, the desperate coupling, the way we'd torn into each other like animals.
"I'm okay. How is everyone?"
She launches into family news—Emma lost a tooth, the Parkers’ new baby is colicky, Dad's now leading the men's prayer group. Normal things. Home things. Things that happen in a cult, apparently.
"Mom," I interrupt. "Do you think... are we too controlling? The Fellowship, I mean?"
Silence. Then, carefully, "What brought this on?"
"Just... thinking."
"Oh, sweetheart." Her voice is gentle. "Every community has rules. Ways of doing things. We choose ours based on scripture and love. That's not control, that's structure. There's a difference."
Is there? I want to ask. But I can hear Dad in the background, asking if everything's alright, and I can't bring myself to worry them.
"I should go," I say instead. "Give everyone my love."
"We love you too. And Jonah? God doesn't give us more than we can handle."
After she hangs up, I lie back on the bed that doesn't smell like Alex, in a room that doesn't feel like mine, in a house that will never be home.
Maybe God doesn't give us more than we can handle. But apparently, He has a pretty high opinion of what I can take.