Chapter 20 - Jonah
The new phone sits on my nightstand. I’ve set it up so that I get notifications on the screen, each delivered with a loud chime. I’ll know the moment anything arrives, but I can’t help picking it up and checking it over and over.
Each time, the screen shows the same thing: my message to Alex, delivered four days ago is still unread or perhaps read and ignored which is worse.
I'm pregnant. I don't expect anything from you. Thought you should know. Jonah.
Maybe I was too blunt. Maybe I should have called Diana first, let her break the news gently. Maybe I should have—
A wave of nausea cuts through my spiraling thoughts, sending me stumbling toward the bathroom where I barely make it in time.
I’m left gasping and shaking over the toilet. I rinse my mouth, splash cold water on my face, and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
I don't look pregnant. I look exhausted, maybe a little green around the edges, but not like someone carrying Alexander Colborne's child. Another wave of queasiness shudders through me, though this time I think it's more anxiety than morning sickness.
Through the window, I can see the photographers who've tripled in number since last week, lining the street outside our property with telephoto lenses and camping chairs. They’ve turned our quiet neighborhood into their personal stakeout.
Our neighbors on the left haven’t been able to walk their dog in days and the family on the right stopped letting their kids play in the front yard after one photographer tried to bribe their eight-year-old for information about me.
All because I couldn't make my marriage work for even a full week.
"Jonah?" Mom's voice drifts up the stairs. "Pastor David is here to see you."
My stomach drops. It feels sacrilegious to even think it but I am fed up with Pastor David. He’s been round every single day this week to offer his advice which consists of him telling me how badly I am failing as an omega.
I’m supposed to go back to Alex. Save Alex. Submit to Alex. Bring Alex to the light. I’m just one person. How am I supposed to do that if Alex isn’t interested? I’m starting to feel like I’m not interested either. If Alex and I ever were to reconcile, I’d want to be his omega, not his babysitter.
I find Pastor David in our living room, sitting in Dad's recliner with a newspaper spread across his lap.
I can see in one glance that it’s a glossy tabloid and not a local paper or anything that I grew up with.
My parents hover near the doorway, Mom wringing her hands in that way she does when she's trying not to cry, Dad's jaw is set.
"Sit down, Jonah.".
I perch on the edge of the sofa. "Pastor, I—"
"Explain this." He holds up the tabloid, and my heart stops.
The headline screams: COLBORNE'S OMEGA GONE WILD.
The photos are grainy but unmistakable. Me at the nightclub with Alex, champagne glass in hand, eyes half-closed in what looks like intoxication but was actually just me blinking at the wrong moment.
Another shows me pressed against Alex on the dance floor, his hands on my waist, both of us laughing.
Out of context, torn from the joy of that moment, they look. .. damning.
"It was non-alcoholic champagne," I say quickly.
"You expect me to believe that?" Pastor David's voice rises. "You're in a den of iniquity, pressed against your alpha like a—" He stops himself, but the word hangs in the air anyway.
"It's the truth!" Heat floods my face. "The champagne was non-alcoholic. Alex kept his promise about not drinking, and I—"
"You what? Decided to grind against him in public like some common whore."
"David." Dad's voice cuts through, quiet but firm. Even Pastor David stops at that tone.
But the damage is done. I'm shaking, hands clenched in my lap. "I was trying to reconnect with my husband. My alpha. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"
"Not like this." Pastor David stands, towering over me. "This is what comes of marrying outside the faith. He's corrupting you, Jonah. First the separation, now this... behavior."
"We were dancing. Just dancing."
"Just dancing?" He laughs, bitter and sharp. "Look at yourself in these photos. Is this the omega your parents raised? Is this who you want your future children to see?"
The mention of children makes my hand drift unconsciously to my stomach. Pastor David's eyes track the movement, narrow.
He opens his mouth and I know that he’s going to say something now about my baby. I can’t do this.
I have sat here every day for days, listening to him and praying with him and saying, “Yes, Pastor David. Sorry, Pastor David. Of course, Pastor David.”
I stand, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice. "I'm done with this conversation. I'm an adult. A married adult. And I won't be spoken to like I'm twelve years old."
Mom gasps softly. "Jonah—"
"No, Mom. I respect Pastor David, but I won't sit here and be called a liar or whore.
" I meet his eyes directly, something an omega in our community rarely does with an alpha who isn't family.
"That champagne was non-alcoholic. I was no drunk.
I was trying to save our marriage. If you choose not to believe me, that's your failing, not mine. "
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke. Pastor David's face has gone purple, the color creeping up from his collar.
Dad looks torn between pride and horror. Mom has her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.
"I'll pray for you, Jonah," Pastor David says finally. "Clearly, you need it."
He leaves without another word.
"Jonah—" Dad starts.
“Dad, I love you but I need some space. It’s too much. Everything is just too much.” I'm out the door before either of them can respond.
The photographers notice me immediately. They surge forward like a tide:
"Jonah! Any comment on the nightclub photos?"
"Were you drunk?"
"Is it true you've already filed for divorce?"
I keep walking, head down, trying to push through. But then one voice cuts through the rest:
"What about Alex and Saskia? Care to comment on their reconciliation?"
I freeze. "What?"
The photographer, a young woman with a smile that belongs on a shark, grins when I stop. "The photos from the wellness retreat. They're all over the internet. Saskia Scarmetto leaving his cabin at dawn, both of them looking very... comfortable."
The world tilts sideways. I can't breathe.
"Here, look." She holds up her phone, swiping to a photo that makes my knees weak.
It's Alex, standing in a doorway I don't recognize, shirtless, hair messed like he's just woken up. And there's Saskia, in a silk robe, standing close enough that they could be—they look like—
"No comment," I manage, the words scraping my throat raw.
"But surely you must feel—"
"No. Comment."
I turn and walk back to the house, their questions following me like arrows:
"Did you know about the affair?"
"Is that why you really left?"
"Will you fight for alimony?"
I make it inside, close the door, lean against it. Mom and Dad are still in the living room, both looking at me with matching expressions of concern.
"I'm going to bed," I say, and somehow my voice doesn't break.
"It's three in the afternoon," Mom points out gently.
"I know."
I climb the stairs feeling ancient. In my room, I pull out my phone one more time.
Still nothing from Alex. But now I understand why.
The thought makes me want to throw the phone against the wall. Instead, I set it carefully on the nightstand and curl up under my grandmother's quilt, trying not to think about Alex with her.
I don't cry. I want to, but the tears won't come. Maybe I'm just empty.
Either way, I lie there staring at the ceiling until exhaustion finally pulls me under.
Sunday arrives with the church bells that have called our community to worship for fifty years ringing out across the neighborhood.
I dress in my usual Sunday clothes and follow my parents as they walk across the park to the church.
The photographers are still there, of course. They've been there all night, taking shifts. One of them is actually sleeping in his car, mouth still open, camera still clutched in his lap.
A couple of them snap shots of us but they don’t follow. Pastor David has made it very clear that they are not welcome unless they wish to worship with us.
The Fellowship's building is simple white clapboard with a modest steeple, built by the founding families' own hands sixty years ago.
But the moment I walk in, I feel the shift in the air. Conversations pause mid-sentence. Eyes track my movement then quickly look away. The space around me widens like I'm contagious.
We take our usual pew—third from the front, left side—but the family who usually sit beside us have mysteriously decided to relocate to the back. Whispers follow in our wake.
Mom's spine gets straighter with each murmur. Dad's jaw could crack granite. But they sit with their heads high.
Pastor David's sermon is about commitment and about keeping vows even when they're difficult. He speaks about the sanctity of marriage and the weakness of those who run at the first sign of trouble. He doesn't look at me once, but he doesn't need to. Everyone knows who he's talking about.
I sit through it all, hands folded, eyes forward. After the service, in the social hall where everyone gathers for coffee and gossip disguised as fellowship, I stand alone by the punch bowl. People orbit around me but never quite approach, like I'm surrounded by an invisible fence.
This is my future if I stay here. It’ll be years of polite isolation. My family are already being affected. The longer I stay, the worse it will get for him. At least if I leave, the scandal will die down enough one day. It won’t if I am still here.
I don't believe in divorce. The thought makes something in my chest clench. Marriage is sacred and if Alex has already moved on, then I'm looking at a lifetime of celibacy. I’ll be an omega alone, raising a child whose alpha father preferred someone else.
The thought should devastate me. Instead, I feel oddly calm. It feels like I've already grieved his loss and now I'm just waiting for my heart to catch up with my head.
Pastor David approaches as I'm refilling my punch cup for the third time, more for something to do with my hands than actual thirst.
"Jonah." His voice is marginally warmer than yesterday, but not by much. "I hope you've had time to reflect on our conversation."
"I have."
"And?"
"And I stand by what I said. But I also—" I take a breath, choose my words carefully. "I understand your concern comes from love. You've guided this community for longer than I've been alive. Your wisdom has shaped all of us."
It's not quite an apology, but it's close enough. His expression softens fractionally.
"Your parents are good people, Jonah. Devout, faithful people. They deserve better than this."
He's right about that, at least. Mom and Dad have done nothing wrong except raise an omega who doesn't know how to submit properly, who speaks out of turn, who couldn't make his marriage work.
"I know," I say quietly.
He pats my shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle for a man who just spent an hour condemning me from the pulpit.
I just nod and let him walk away.
The family dinner after church is tradition. Every Sunday, all six of us kids gather at our parents' house with our spouses and children. The house fills with laughter and chaos, kids running through hallways, adults crammed around the dining room table that Dad built when Robert was born.
Today is no different, except for how it is.
I think this is going to be the last one because I have to leave. I don’t know where I am going to go and what I am going to do when I get there, but I can’t stay here. I decide to tell them after we have eaten. I’ll enjoy one last family dinner and then I will pack my things and I will go.
I watch quietly as everyone chats and the children play and occasionally misbehave as children do. My child won’t be joining them. That probably breaks my heart most of all. I catch Mom watching me in turn with a sad expression. She knows. I know she knows.
When we finish cooking and we’ve dished up to everyone at the table, I remain standing.
"I need to talk to you all," I begin, but the doorbell cuts me off.
We all freeze. No one rings the doorbell during family dinner. Everyone who would visit is already here.
"Probably reporters," Dad says, already moving toward the door with his Don't-Mess-With-My-Family face on.
But Mom gets there first. She opens the door, and I hear her make a small gasp.
"Mom?" I stand, something in my chest going tight.
She steps aside, and the world stops.
Alex stands on our doorstep.
"Jonah," he says, and his voice cracks on my name.
I can't move. I can't breathe. I can't do anything but stare at my alpha standing in my parents' doorway.
"Hi," I manage, and it's possibly the most inadequate greeting in the history of language.
Behind me, I hear Robert stand up. James sets down his fork. Even the kids have gone quiet, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
"May I come in?" he asks.