Chapter 24 #2
My jaw tightens at the reminder, as well as the implication that I’m doing something wrong now.
The open house at Westbrook took place weeks after I ended the ill-advised courtship with Carson. I told him with polite firmness that it wouldn’t work and I needed distance. He smiled at the time, said he understood, and agreed we could return to how things were before we attempted to date.
I believed he understood. In reality, he had been waiting for me to come around. During the open house, another Alpha expressed interest in me, and Carson did not take it well. He grabbed my wrist when I tried to move away. I jerked back, accidentally striking him and splitting his lip.
No one saw the bruises that followed me home. They saw blood, heard raised voices, and decided the rest for themselves.
By the end of the week, I wasn’t an Omega who had defended himself. I was a liability. Bigger than most with my designation. Stronger than I had a right to be. And therefore, in their view, dangerous.
“I maintain appropriate boundaries between my personal and professional life now,” I reply, my nails digging into my palms.
Carson leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Leadership is about optics as much as substance. You understand, I’m sure. Your committee work has been exemplary because you appreciate these nuances.”
The praise slides between his veiled criticism, a tactic I recognize from countless interactions at Westbrook. Build up, tear down. Elevate, then undermine.
“As an Omega of your size, restraint matters even more,” Carson continues, dropping to a confidential murmur. “You’re held to higher standards, particularly in educational settings. It’s unfair, for sure, but we can’t ignore the reality of the situation.”
As if I haven’t lived with this stigma my entire adult life.
“Until you’re in a recognized courtship, your personal associations reflect on the school.” His fingers trace the edge of a document, the paper whispering beneath his touch. “On me.” His gaze lifts to mine, intent and unwavering. “On Quinn.”
The mention of Quinn sends ice through my veins. “Quinn’s performance so far this year is exceptional.”
Carson’s mouth curves into a smile. “Indeed. Which is why consistency in her support structure is so critical at this juncture.”
He shifts in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. “Some parents still aren’t onboard with such a large dog being in our school.”
My pulse stutters. “I thought you said the parents were approving of him.”
“Some.” He sighs and shakes his head with regret. “But not all. And you know how vocal the naysayers can be.”
“The documentation for Sprinkles is complete and up to date, as you requested,” I protest. “The school board approved the revised policy.”
“Yes, your work there has been invaluable.” Carson reaches for his water glass, taking a slow sip before continuing. “Which is why I’d hate to see anything compromise that progress. You know this is about more than the school board. It’s the parents you have to win over.”
“I don’t understand how my private life relates to Quinn’s accommodation status,” I say, each word measured.
Carson sets his glass down. “Consistency, Leif. The foundation of any successful educational environment. Parents question inconsistencies.”
A memory surfaces of Carson at Westbrook, questioning a young teacher’s commitment after she missed a faculty meeting to care for her sick mother. His sympathy while he undermined her standing with the administration behind her back.
“I’ve maintained consistent support for Quinn since her enrollment,” I counter, placing my hands flat on the table. “My professional responsibilities remain my priority.”
“Of course they do.” Carson gives every indication of agreement while his expression broadcasts doubt. “Your dedication to Quinn is why I’m bringing this to your attention now, before it becomes an issue.”
He leans back in his chair. “The Omega educators who succeed long term understand the importance of perception. A recognized courtship provides structure and legitimacy. Without it...” He spreads his hands, palms up. “Questions arise about stability, judgment, and priorities.”
The irony burns. It’s the same argument Carson used when he first convinced me to try a courtship with him, and it had failed spectacularly. Meanwhile, what Emily and I have been building is genuine, based on real connection and mutual respect.
“Are you suggesting I need to enter a formal courtship to maintain my professional credibility?” The question escapes before I can filter it, sharper than intended.
Carson’s eyebrows lift. “Not at all. I’m merely observing how these situations are perceived by the community we serve.” He picks up his pen again, tapping it against the table. “Academy parents expect certain standards from those who work closely with their children.”
To him, an Alpha’s scent on an Omega outside formal courtship disrupts the hierarchy he relies on to maintain control.
“I appreciate your concern,” I say. “I’ll keep your perspective in mind.”
Carson studies me, assessing whether his message has landed with sufficient force. “Excellent. That’s all I ask.” He gathers his papers, signaling the end of the conversation. “Your work with Quinn is too important to risk over a temporary assignation, after all.”
The dismissal of what Emily and I share twists in my heart.
His chair creaks as he leans back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “I’ve been meaning to ask how you’re balancing everything these days. The committee work, substitute teaching, Quinn’s support plan, and now your outside interests. It’s quite a full plate.”
The question pins me like a butterfly to a board. “I manage my time effectively. The committee work complements my responsibilities with Quinn, and the substitute positions fill hours when she’s in class.”
Carson tilts his head. “Time management isn’t my only concern. Mental bandwidth is a finite resource, even for someone as capable as you. Your work at Pinecrest has been exemplary thus far,” he continues. “I’d hate to see that change due to outside distractions.”
The word hangs in the air between us. Distractions. Emily’s cottage with its warm lights and handmade quilts. Jared’s easy laughter over dinner. Mixie purring on my lap while Emily’s fingers card through my hair. The sense of belonging I’ve found within their walls.
“My personal life doesn’t interfere with my professional obligations,” I say for the second time, careful to stay neutral despite the flush creeping up my neck.
Carson taps his pen against the table again. “Perhaps not yet. But these situations have a tendency to evolve. I’m only concerned because I see such potential in you, Leif. The work you’ve done with the policy committee demonstrates capabilities beyond nannying or classroom teaching.”
My heart thuds painfully as Carson’s strategy emerges clearer with each word. He’ll dangle professional advancement as a counterweight to personal happiness.
“Quinn needs stability,” Carson murmurs. “The school needs consistency. Your path here at the Academy could be quite remarkable, with the right focus and priorities.”
Emily, or my career. Emily’s pack, or Quinn’s security. Those are the choices he’s offering me.
“I appreciate your concern,” I say. “And your confidence in my capabilities.”
“Of course.” Carson stands to come around the table. “We’re all invested in your success here.”
I turn to leave, and his hand finds the small of my back, his thumb rubbing small circles on my spine as he walks me to the door.
“I hope I haven’t been too hard on you, Leif.
As your friend, I worry about how you’ll be perceived.
You’re valuable to the Academy, and there are those here who look up to your reliability, consistency, and understanding of appropriate boundaries. ”
“I’ll see you at tomorrow’s faculty meeting,” he says, releasing me.
This time, he allows me to escape.