Chapter 4
Imogen
My parent's estate is large enough that sneaking in and out without running into them isn't a problem. Their staff on hand continue their work as though we're not here, and my parents do the same, the class lines alive and well between these walls.
I slip in through the nearest back door, through the kitchen and notice Gerald, the cook, giving him a friendly wave. We have an awkward relationship. He loves to cook, obviously, but ever since I was young, even before my designation came in, my mother watched what I ate. I've had a lot of practice walking past his scrumptious meals in various stages of preparation, the aroma of fresh herbs filling the air, but I maintain disinterest, ignoring the desire to shovel his duck fat confit into my mouth.
Gerald offers snacks as he prepares meals when my mother isn't around, and even though she can't see me and wouldn't know if I indulged, I usually say no. Today is one of those days. I'm still riding a high from dancing on stage at Queenie's, but as I step deeper into the house, my anxiety rises. Sneaking around the back stairwell, I creep upstairs and into my room without running into anyone else.
I dig out a suitcase and begin rifling through my belongings, trying my best not to grab everything my fingers touch. I enjoy dressing up and looking pretty, which means a lot of luggage. But it's not like I'm moving out, so I don't need to take everything. I'm just… staying away for a few days.
Long enough for my parents to come to their senses and cancel the engagement or for me to get this living out of my system and come back home to face my future, get married, and settle down. Whichever comes first.
I glance at the door that leads to my secluded nest in the rear of my bedroom, contemplating which toys to bring from the side table by the bed. Settling on an inflatable knotted vibrator, along with a couple of other toys, a blush creeps up my neck as I imagine using them later tonight. With my bag filled with vibrators, slick-wicks, lingerie, and nighties, I make my way into the bathroom.
Head buried in the cabinet beneath the sink, I didn't hear her come in until my mother's heady gardenia scent announces her presence.
I take a moment to pause, fixating on the array of lotion, soaps, and oils, before steeling myself and standing up. With my hands full of toiletries, we exchange a tense glance before I walk past, hastily stuffing the items into another bag, feeling the weight of her ultimatum like a sharp stab in my heart.
"Going somewhere?" One perfectly shaped eyebrow lifts high on her face, a surprising feat considering the amount of fillers she has to keep her expressions ageless.
"Yes. I'll be gone for a few days, maybe longer."
"Imogen," my mother sighs, taking a seat on the bed beside my bags. "We only want what's best for you."
I huff, wanting to say and do more, like yell and shout that I'm more than a dollar sign; instead, I stay silent and serene. Straightening my shoulders and clearing my throat, pretending I'm the cultured debutante my mother raised, I gracefully fold items as I pack them into my bags.
She holds out an envelope, and I pause with a blouse in hand and glance at it. "What's that?"
"It's a courting gift. From Kenneth," she smiles, shoving the envelope into my hands.
Curious, I take it, pulling out the contents. I don't know why I'm surprised. Or disappointed. It's not like I want to marry them. Still, a gift card?
"Imogen, that was very thoughtful of the mayor," she chides.
"Do you think the mayor is trying very hard, giving his prospective omega a gift card to a spa that is owned by the OFA? I can go there anytime I want."
"Imogen!" my mother snaps. "I know I didn't raise you to be ungrateful. You should thank your lucky stars he's keen on you!"
I grit my teeth, accidentally crinkling the envelope. "He didn't even ask to see me, did he? He just dropped this off." If I was actually interested in Kenneth or any of the Stevens Pack, I think their lack of effort would offend me. Then again, maybe my mother is right. Maybe I am being ungrateful.
"Well, you weren't home, were you? You were off god knows where, doing god knows what, with whom. Imogen, you mark my words—if Stevens finds out you're anything less than we've presented, they won't have you. And I need you to understand," she shifts on the bed, clutching my hands in hers. "You need Stevens. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
There's a plea in her eyes, a sense of desperation. "Mother, what aren't you telling me?" Why on earth would I need them?
She pauses, and I fear she might ignore me, but then she softens, her shoulders slumping forward, so different from her usually perfect posture. We lock eyes in tense silence, but after tasting bravery at Queenie's, I'm determined to stand my ground, and she blinks away first.
Sighing, she confesses, "Your fathers over-leveraged. They're in a bit of a financial… pickle. It's nothing to worry about; everything will be fine. But we just need to see you settled, because I'm not sure we can support you much longer."
"I thought selling to Constantine was supposed to help?" My fathers are brilliant developers, less brilliant businessmen. Selling to Constantine was supposed to solve all our problems, especially since they stayed on as CEO's of their company.
"It did. But before they sold to Constantine Industries, they took on a couple of loans to keep the business afloat. Some of those debt collectors are expecting their payout soon." She looks down at her pants, plucking away at lint, deceptively nonchalant after dropping such a bomb.
Ice chills my spine, and I pull back. "What are you saying, mother?"
Her shoulders straighten, spine erect once more, lifting her chin to face me head-on; she pulls on that OFA cloak we both wear, and you'd never guess the agitation hidden beneath. It's perfection. I learned from the best. "You were supposed to marry Constantine. Then they went and fell in love with some charity case, which is fine, but now, we need you to make this work with the mayor. We're very lucky they've offered marriage before even bonding with you. You'll do this for me, won't you? For your family? Imogen, we need you to do this. Otherwise, we could be destitute."
"So you're just selling off your assets, then? First the business, now me?"
My mother gasps, and in that fleeting moment, my anger swells against the unfairness. But then guilt creeps in. I don't want them to be destitute. Growing up, I always clearly understood my place in the family and the obligations that came along with it.
I just never expected my marriage to be so transactional.
My parents need money to dig themselves out of whatever mess they've created, but it must be messier than they're letting on. They put on a fa?ade of moral superiority, but in reality, they're not above such transgressions.
They like to tell everyone we moved to Arrow Cove to broaden my prospects, but things at the end, when we were still in Southern California, felt suspicious. My parents argued in hushed tones. Bowen's Jaguar disappeared from the garage one day, and they began sharing a single SUV to work. Then, one day, two Lamborghinis showed up, and everyone smiled again like nothing was amiss. There's been lingering issues in my family for a while.
But I don't ask questions because if I do, I'm ignored or reprimanded. Mind your place, Imogen. Smile, look pretty. That's all anyone needs from you.
Do I want to marry the Stevens Pack to dig my parents out of a financial hole? What does it say about the mayor and his deputy, Kenneth, and Saul, who are entertaining meetings with Ophelia and Sully Constantine and the DA regarding more security for omegas while also paying for my hand in marriage?
I'd already resigned myself to the wedding. That was the whole point of dancing at Queenie's, but now I'm having second thoughts.
But my mother looks worried, genuinely. I don't know what she means by debt collectors, but her eyes keep shifting, her white-knuckle grip expressing more emotion than she'd typically allow. I don't care about being financially destitute. Truly, I don't. Sure, I like nice things. But I care more about her and my fathers.
I glance back at the envelope in my hand. Maybe I was being ungrateful. Tucking the gift card into my packed bag, I give her a small smile.
Tension pulls wrought in my gut, tearing at my heart, my lungs. But I smile serenely and say, "Okay, Mother. I'll… marry the Stevens Pack."
She claps and lights up as if we didn't just have one of the heaviest conversations we've ever had. "Wonderful! I'll give the wedding planner a call. You'll see, Imogen. You won't regret this."
I can't share her enthusiasm, even if I have officially agreed. Gripping my bags, I nod in agreement, coming to a stand.
"Oh, Imogen, you can't still be leaving? I mean, I don't know where you've been staying, but if you're caught in a compromising…" she clears her throat, unable to voice the audacity I might possess at taking a lover.
I look down at my bags. I should just set them down and spend the week looking at floral arrangements with her, but my insides are screaming.
No, if I'm doing this, all the more reason to go back to Queenie's and C-Block. I need at least a few days, or weeks even, that belong to me. I need something to fulfill me, even if it's as small and silly as dancing on stage before I settle into a loveless marriage.
The mask will keep my identity a secret, so Stevens Pack will never find out that I’m taking my clothes off in front of strangers. And my parents… well, I'm hurt, to be honest. They got themselves into trouble, and they're essentially selling me to dig themselves out.
But my mother's fear was clear, and I'd never forgive myself if something happened to them and I could have prevented it. Still, that doesn't mean I can't be angry or feel betrayed.
Steeling my spine, I grip both bag handles. Wheeling them out the door, I call over my shoulder, "I'm leaving for now. You can call me if you need me. I can't stay here though, not until…"
I shake my head. I can't form the words until my wedding because they sound so wrong. It all feels so wrong.
As I make my way to the door, her arguments fill the air, but she realizes I'm serious. It may be a strange way and time to grow a backbone, but I don't relent, waving at Gerald while ignoring my mother's pleas to stay home before climbing into my car and heading back to South Loop.