Chapter 23
Imogen
What's a girl to do when the most perfect, fated, scent-match pack decides to be patient, allowing her the time to navigate through her life choices?
Since that unforgettable night at the club, I've been floating through each day, my legs still trembling with the lingering euphoria of post-orgasmic bliss. I only stayed with them that one night, moving back to my parent's home the next, because I could feel the intense connection between us growing stronger, and I was on the verge of abandoning everything and everyone else, ready to complete our bond.
It wasn't fair to keep them waiting, but they reluctantly agreed to give me space while I figured out my life.
Red invited me on a proper courting date, and even though I knew I should have declined to avoid being seen with him in public, I couldn't find the courage to turn him down. Every step, every decision I make feels precarious, like my tenuous grip on everything will come crashing down around me at any moment.
They've offered me their trust even though I'm still publicly engaged to another pack, and I feel unworthy of them. The weight of shame bears down, and I'm consumed by worry that when they find out that my parents, who dug themselves into such a deep financial hole, resorted to selling me for their own gain, they'll see me differently and think I'm just like them.
But they don't know, and they've placed their trust in me. Since Dante accepted me into their pack, they've been texting me all week, individually and in their group message, sometimes forgetting I was in it and sending Iggy random complaints because he was being too loud with a hammer at two o'clock in the morning or something like that. It made me laugh, getting a peek into their lives, and I want so badly to join them.
This afternoon, I have plans to meet Ophelia. She asked me to go to the prison with her since she didn't want to go alone and couldn't ask her mates. I was surprised she wanted to meet with one of the men who not only kidnapped her but also hurt her twin sister, Alma, many years ago. However, Ophelia has never asked me for anything, so I couldn't refuse.
Regrettably, just as I was about to leave for the day, my mother unexpectedly walked into my bedroom—unannounced, of course—and insisted on my attention for the morning.
I'm a terrible liar, and she would see through any excuse I gave her why I couldn't go shopping; I certainly didn't want her finding out about my actual plans, so I agreed to go. Besides, I was desperate for answers, so a shopping trip, however uncomfortable, could be helpful.
The memory of my father Bowen's anger still lingers, making me hesitate to mention the money again. But I reassure myself that he's probably just as afraid as I am, and his stress caused him to take it out on me.
Under the guise of wedding dress shopping, we browse through rows of taffeta and lace, sequins, and other gaudy, shiny dresses that make me feel more like a decorated birthday cake than a blushing bride.
My mother skillfully dodges my questions, just as I have been at skipping pre-wedding preparations.
"Mother," I call out, cracking the door to the dressing room, hoping to trap her in one place. "Mother, could you come help me, please?" I leave the dressing room door ajar and turn to face the mirror, pulling the strapless, sequined monstrosity up a little higher.
"Oh, Imogen," my mother gasps, sneaking in and closing the door behind her. With the layers of taffeta and frill at my skirt, it’s a tight fit.
"Could you zip me up, please?"
She pulls the base, giving it a tug, pausing when the zipper reaches my mid-back. "Imogen… what on earth have you been doing?"
I meet her eyes in the mirror. "What do you mean?"
The look she gives me has me feeling small. I swallow the distress because I know what she’s about to say. I watch her look at my body, the parts exposed, shaking her head in disappointment.
She gives the zipper another sharp tug, the material pulling taut against my spine, constricting my lungs. I hate this dress. I hate that look on her face, like I’m not enough. But I smile softly, prepared to take the verbal beating.
Squeezing my arm, she says, "Why are you suddenly so muscular? Even your back! Oh my god, look at your shoulders. They're huge!"
"I’ve been exercising. It’s healthy," I defend quietly, knowing what she sees. I have traps now. I didn't mean to get them, but I really loved doing the weight-lifting exercises that made my arms strong; one thing led to another… my neck no longer delicately slopes down. Instead, there's a small bulge at the tops of my shoulders that flexes when I lift my arms.
"It’s… masculine. Imogen," she pressed her hand to her forehead, closing her eyes briefly. "Men do not like muscular women. It’s grotesque."
"Mother—"
"I'm making an appointment with Madam Fletcher. This has gone on long enough. You need a new diet plan and—" she wrings her wrists, grimacing, taking in my body, "We need to do this fast. I am so disappointed in you. How many sizes have you gone up?" She spits, pulling the back of the dress closer to read the tag.
She shakes her head, unzips the dress, and frantically shoves it down, exposing me in a nude strapless bra and panties, the look on her face disgusted. I press my lips together and chance a look in the mirror. My legs have gotten thicker, my butt, too. My arms are a lot more defined but bigger, as well. I'm not waif-like; I've lost the fragile frame I left the OFA with.
How can I feel pride one minute, then disgust and shame looking at myself in the next? I like how strong I've been getting. I like my body.
But my mother's right; it's not the perfect omega image. I'm not perfect. I've never been perfect.
My cheeks feel hot and flush, but I swallow the pain, paint my face with a small smile, and downcast my eyes.
I've not been dancing as much these last two weeks since I quit, except for that one shift Roxy called me for, but I've still been keeping up with all the exercises. If anything, I've been working out more, stuck at home with nothing to do. I told Roxy to call me again, anytime, if she needed me, too ashamed to ask for my job back since I'd quit so unexpectedly and left her high and dry. She hasn't called, and I don't have the nerve to just show up.
My voice is thin and weak, but I steel my spine. "Mother… I don't want to meet with Madam Fletcher."
I am not ashamed of my new body. I love it. I love feeling strong. The mere thought of retreating into that confining cage I've slowly broken free from, the delicate, waif-like OFA omega, the submissive, softly spoken Imogen puppet who dresses like a child and says yes to whatever is asked of her, ignites a fear within me, like if I don't put a stop to it, I'll be surrendering a piece of my soul.
Oblivious to my quiet strength simmering just beneath her watchful eyes, she pulls out her phone, likely putting in a request for a private meeting with the director of the local OFA chapter, Madam Fletcher.
Ophelia's efforts to reform the treatment of omegas at the OFA—how they are molded and shaped into society's harsh standards of a perfect version of an omega—have been mixed. While she's found an ally in the school's head physician, Dr. Rubens, Madam Fletcher's reaction has been unpredictable, fluctuating between enthusiastic cooperation and complete resistance—as Ophelia put it, straight-up stonewalling.
I think she's chipping away at the problem, and with her pack mates, Sully especially, they're forcing their voices into public space. I've never heard so many discussions about omegas rights at OFA events, regardless of which side of the political spectrum people fall. It's being talked about, and that's a big step from years previous when omegas like me had no voice at all.
Because changes like this—looking at my body in a mirror with someone who steadfastly holds onto the OFA ideals, like my mother, and sees nothing but an overly muscular, ugly, undesirable omega—are cultural, and they take a long time to shift. But I feel change coming. Even if Fletcher is a problem, and it sometimes seems impossible to hold her accountable.
The more actionable changes, however, are putting alphas under trial for abuse, and that's what Ophelia's focusing on right now—in honor of her sister, but for all of us who felt pushed into a box because we aren't always strong enough alone to stand up on our own.
It's why I agreed to go to the prison with her, to talk to Jackson Olcene, the abusive alpha who tried to kidnap Ophelia and force her to take her sister's place in their pack.
Like it was their right to take her.
Sometimes, only remembering how strong others are is what gives me the strength to stand tall, too. I don't feel shame looking at my body. And my mates, my pack and, hopefully someday soon, my family—they like me for me. They make me feel like I'm the most cherished person on the planet, and they may not have financial resources like the Stevens Pack, but I couldn't care less, because it's what they do, their actions that count. They show up.
So when my mother pops her head back in the dressing room and snaps, "We're done dress shopping until you lose this god-awful weight," though it stings to hear, and I grit my teeth, plaster on a neutral expression, and hang the fluffy dress, I don't feel bad that it doesn't fit. It's an ugly dress anyway; who would want that thing?
Exiting the tight quarters of the dressing room a few minutes later, she explains she made an appointment for me this week at the OFA gym, through Fletcher, who was, supposedly, horrified when she heard I gained nearly a six-pack of hard muscle in my abdomen, no longer possessed a small, soft omega belly, and went up two dress sizes. I'm to meet with their nutritionist and personal trainer to correct the problem.
I continue to ignore her when we exit the store, and only vaguely note the time of the appointment, because I have half a mind to actually show up and tell Fletcher what I really think.
But really, I've had enough. I've had a lifetime of enough.
"How much money do you owe the debt collectors?" I ask with a straight face, not lowering my voice, right there on the sidewalk.
She gasps—that I had the audacity to interrupt her without apology, or to air our dirty laundry right there in public. She looks me over, maybe for the first time in ages. Scrutinizing the changes. Physical, but it's been more than that.
What would Roxy say to my mother in this position? Or Ophelia? Or even Franky? What would any of the omegas I've met who didn't grow up under the thumb of the OFA say to my mother after everything she's put me through?
"Imogen, I don't know what has gotten into you—"
"You know I'm never going to marry them. You know that, right?"
She grits her teeth, fingers digging into my arms so badly it hurts, but she doesn't relent, dragging me down the sidewalk to the nearest alleyway, and we step into the mouth of the quiet side street.
"You are marrying them. You will meet with Fletcher—"
"No, Mother, you're not listening. I'm not marrying them. You know I've always wanted a scent-match—" It's on the tip of my tongue to out my connection, but I'm not ready for that kind of blow up, so I take a deep breath and continue, "or at least to marry for love. How could you sell me to them? They're ridiculous! After dinner the other night, I watched Kenneth and Jonathan go back into the club, chasing after two young women in short skirts, not hiding what they were up to."
She rolls her eyes, "Imogen, really? Men like that cheat. That's not why you're marrying them. I know this isn't a love match, but I at least thought—" she sniffs, holding back non-existent tears, but dotting her eyes with a kerchief anyway, "I at least thought you'd help protect your family. I can't believe you could be so selfish."
This time, I gasp. "Me? Selfish? Mother, you're trying to force me to marry these men I not only don't love, but who would lock me into a lifetime of misery. That's really what you want for me?"
She scoffs, "Oh, yes, and the alternative? You turning down every single pack we put in front of you?"
"Maybe you're the one with bad taste in men." I cross my arms petulantly. Honestly, I feel like a teenager, because I haven't argued with her like this since I was going through hormonal changes, before my designation came through.
She sneers, shaking her head. "If your fathers and I didn't do this for you, you'd be single for the rest of your life."
"Better single and lonely than packed up and miserable."
"That's what you think now. But you're lucky I love you so much, because I'm going to save you from yourself. You will be marrying Stevens, you will stop this rebellious behavior, and you will stop walking around looking like some kind of, of, masculine working-class, body-building beta."
I've always loved my designation. I've always loved being an omega. But I've never, until this moment, found the idea of being a beta a benefit. "I'd rather be a masculine, working class beta, then an omega treated as a commodity to be bought and sold by her own family."
We stare off, and though I expect her to roll her eyes—an unladylike gesture, but one she does with me to be sure I'm aware of her displeasure—her shoulders soften slightly and she looks down at the ground.
"I'm sorry, Imogen."
My crossed arms lower and I tentatively bring my folded hands to my waist, nerves churning in my gut. "Mother, I—"
"No, you're right. Sweetheart, I've only ever wanted you to be happy. I am worried about you, and this path you're going down. That's why I think Stevens will be good for you. Elevate you, help you build that confidence you always seem to lack."
I bristle, hugging my arms tighter. "I'm not marrying them."
She smiles softly. "Let's not make any rash decisions. I really think they are the best pack for you to join. That they can help us financially was only ever a secondary boon."
The reminder of the money makes me feel even more tired and sad. "How much, Mother?"
For a split second the softness disappears, her eyes angry and raging, but she clears it just as quickly. She smiles sadly, so well practiced, I almost believe it. Waving her hand like it's nothing, she says, "Just a few hundred thousand. See? Not so much. Marrying them really is about matching you with your best chances at being somebody, Imogen. Without them, I'm afraid your reputation for turning alphas down has scared all the upstanding packs away. Without them, Imogen, I fear you'll fade into obscurity. Whatever happens to me and your fathers, because of this messy debt collector business, is not as important as what happens to you, my beautiful girl. They just want their money. What's a few broken bones?"
"Why can’t you sell some of your things? I don’t understand. All the cars, that house is way too big. You could downgrade, sell everything to keep us all safe.”
She rubs my shoulder, which still hurts from where she grabbed me, then starts to walk away as if I’d said nothing at all, calling out over her shoulder, "Please follow through with the appointment with the nutritionist, sweetheart. I only want what's best for you."