Episode 4 Spinning Straw Into… Something
Florence
Things only get worse.
And worse. And worse.
The alpha who assaulted me leaked where I work. So the bank becomes an absolute madhouse, with fans of the show from the area flocking in to barrage me with questions about the Royal Ashbourne pack and what it was like to be courted by them.
Every question, every eager look, every demand for an answer chips away at me.
And at my manager’s patience apparently.
“Things can’t keep going like this, Florence,” he says, but not unkindly.
“I know. I’m so sorry. I know it’s disruptive. But hopefully it’ll die down soon and things will go back to normal.” God, I hope that’s the case. I need things to be normal, at least at work, in my city.
Everything in my body is all fucked up.
His lips purse, just the slightest bit and I know…
I just know I’m going to hate what he says next.
“Unfortunately we can’t wait for that to happen, Miss Karlin.
This is a financial institution and having a throng of non-members show up every day is a security risk.
Having alphas approach your desk and demand dates from you is a security risk when you tell them no.
” He holds up a hand to stop my protest. “And I’m not saying you should be saying yes to avoid that, but you can’t deny that it’s been a problem. ”
I wince. It has been a problem.
But I don’t want to admit to anything. I don’t want to give him a reason to fire me. Or I suppose the correct term would be “let go” since I haven’t actually done anything wrong.
“You know I don’t encourage them or anyone. I’ve stayed off social media. I barely leave my house if I’m not coming here. I’ve done everything I can to mitigate the fallout from my time on the show.”
“I know, Florence. It just… isn’t enough.”
Isn’t enough. How many times has that phrase haunted me in my life? Enough. I am not enough. My efforts are not enough. My love is not enough. I am not enough.
“Please, Mr. Bahmer. I need this job. I can’t… With things the way they are I don’t think anyone else will hire me. I just… I can’t lose this job.”
His brow wrinkles and after a long moment, he sighs. “I’ll tell you what. We can treat this like an extended leave of absence. Unpaid, of course. And if things do die down and go back to normal, in say, two weeks? You can come back.”
Two weeks? That’s all the grace he’s going to give me? Two freaking weeks after I’ve worked here faithfully for years, been the model employee? Well, sans that whole taking a couple months off for the show and because I was sick.
Who am I kidding?
Two weeks is more than fair. He doesn’t even need to give me that.
I give a tight nod. “Okay. That’s… that’s very kind of you, Mr. Bahmer. I appreciate it.”
His face folds into a smile, wrinkles popping up by his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.
He reaches over and pats my hand. “It’s the least I can do.
You’ve been a joy to work with, Florence.
Truly. And I know things have been difficult for you since you got back.
” By difficult he means, he knows I’ve been diagnosed with RMD.
I had to tell him since he’s my direct manager.
He’s tried to be as accommodating as he can.
But what good is a teller that can only assist betas and omegas without feeling sick?
“And for the record, my wife and I feel the way that pack treated you was… abominable. You deserve better than them.”
I give him a tight smile and push to my feet, readying to collect my things and leave. No matter what he said, this will be my last shift. I won’t be coming back here. Two weeks, while generous, isn’t enough time for the furor to die down and we both know it.
“Thank you, Mr. Bahmer. I appreciate all you’ve done for me.” I hold out my hand and bite back a wince when he closes his fingers around mine. A wave of nausea swells, but I force it down by will alone.
He definitely doesn’t deserve to have me vomit all over him.
Not when he’s been so understanding.
He clasps both of his hands around mine. “When things die down entirely, if they die down entirely, come back and we’ll see if we can find a place for you, Florence.”
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back with a deep shuddering breath. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”
With one last trembling smile in his direction I turn to leave, knowing I won’t be coming back.
“What are you doing home?” Haven asks, the worry in her voice clear as she levers herself off the couch and rounds it toward me. “Did something happen at the bank?”
That’s it. That’s all it takes for the dam to break.
Tears flood my eyes, my mouth parts on a sob and Haven’s eyes widen in surprise even as she tugs me against her body in a tight hug.
I sob into her shoulder and she lets me soak her sweater—or actually, Jude’s sweater based on the rum soaked beach scent clinging to it—with my sadness.
I feel more than see Tic slip up next to us, his broad palm rubbing soothing circles between my shoulder blades.
They both murmur comforting words to me, words that I’m aware of but don’t really soak in. “Sorry,” I eventually mutter into Haven’s hair. “I just… Mr. Bahmer let me go from the bank today.”
“What?” Haven and Tic say at the same time, but their tones are entirely different. Haven’s is bright with shock, while Tic’s is dark with the promise of violence.
I push away from Haven and swipe a hand over my face, even as tears keep falling unchecked from my eyes.
“Technically, he gave me two weeks leave. Without pay, mind you. With the hope that things will die down. But ever since that asshole doxed me the bank has been… a bit of a madhouse.” I shake my head and wrap my arms around my stomach, hugging myself now that Haven is no longer doing it.
“I can’t even blame him. It's a financial institution. They need to have some kind of security. Having a bunch of looky-loos come in isn’t very secure, now is it? ”
Haven frowns and guides me over to the couch, urging me to sit down. “None of that is your fault though. Just like it’s not your fault that you have a hard time with alphas.”
She’s not wrong, but I can’t blame Mr. Bahmer.
I’d already been thinking I needed to find something else, another job that didn’t put me in direct contact with the public.
But I’d also been stubbornly trying to stick it out, to prove to myself and the rest of the world that the Ashbourne pack didn’t take this from me too.
My steady job, the one that provided security, normalcy when everything else feels so strange and uncertain.
I should have quit ages ago.
“I’m a goddamn mess,” I sniff, wiping my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. It's disgusting, but I’m beyond caring. Tic and Haven aren’t going to judge me for falling apart.
“It's okay if you are,” Haven says, reaching out to pat my hand. “You had your heart broken, that’s going to take some time to get over it.” Her fingers tighten, and her grey eyes burn into mine.
“But you are going to get over it, Flo. You’re going to survive this and come out fighting. Like always.”
My lower lip trembles as my throat goes tight all over again. I’m so fucking tired of fighting, of needing to be strong and reliable and elastic. Bouncing back after every blow life has seen fit to hand me.
And this is different. So fucking different. You can’t just bounce back from this. “How? I’m sick. I’m not going to magically recover from that.”
“No,” Tic says, tucking me against his chest and giving me a squeeze. “But we can do things to make it manageable. Starting with you actually taking the suppressants they prescribed you. The full dose, Ren.”
“And limiting your proximity to other alphas,” Haven adds.
“I have to work,” I protest.
“So work for us,” Tic suggests immediately. “We’ll pay you better than the bank, and we’ll be able to control your exposure to other alphas.”
Haven pushes my hair behind my ear. “You can work from home and keep your classes at the gym so you’re still seeing people.”
I wince. I used to love my yoga classes, but now being surrounded by happily bonded omegas, most of whom try to convince me I’ll be okay, is tough. Really fucking tough.
Jude saunters in, heads straight to Haven and drops a kiss on her forehead, then her lips humming with pleasure in his throat. I look away, their blissful happiness makes my throat tight in a way that it never has before.
I don’t resent my best friend’s happiness. I want her to be happy, she deserves it. More than anyone I know. It’s just hard to watch at the moment.
“What are we talking about?” Jude asks, wrapping his arms around his mate.
“Ren got let go from the bank today,” Haven tells him.
Jude winces and gives me a pitying look that makes my teeth grit. “That sucks, Flo, I’m sorry. What kind of a plan are we looking at?”
Haven shrugs. “Gotta find her a job where she can work from home. Tic’s gonna look at your company and see-”
“No,” Jude says quickly. “No, you shouldn’t work for us.”
It hurts. The rejection of the very notion that I might be an asset to their company. Jude sees it and smiles to soften the blow. I hate how much it reminds me of Forsythe giving me the same kind of look just before he broke my heart.
“What I mean is, you should let us invest in you instead.”
“Invest?” Haven asks before I can.
Jude grins all golden retriever energy. “Yeah. You said you were getting all kinds of requests for the name of your designer, right? All those dresses you wore on the show? Why not turn that into a business? You can offer custom designs.” He smacks a kiss on Haven’s cheek and then fetches his laptop, opening the screen and placing it in front of me.
“I was working on this as a surprise for your birthday, but since we’re talking about it now-”
He clicks into a program and I gasp. “It’s-It’s beautiful.”
And it is. Really, really beautiful, and understated which isn’t really Jude’s strong suit. Pale pinks, greys and creams. The first picture I see is of me, barefoot, a sketchbook on my lap, fabric around me. He must have taken this while I was preparing for the show.
Below it is a rotating carousel of pictures of the dresses I wore during filming, with names scrawled across it in my own handwriting. The Pirouette. The Arabesque. The Plie.
Jude clicks to another page as Tic and Haven crowd around behind us. This one is a page of my less fancy designs, the clubbing dresses I’ve made, the skirts and tops, the high waisted pants. The dance and lounge wear. The pajama sets I made for the pack.
Page after page Jude shows me talking the whole time.
“I thought we could get some of the simpler things into production right away. Creed’s been scouting for warehouses, where we can store them for shipping.
And then you can also have people submit requests for consultations for custom designs.
” Another click and there's a form for that.
“I also started a few social media accounts for you, if you want to move forward with it.”
Haven’s nodding behind me. “The evening dresses you can keep as names of ballet moves. And the workout clothes you could name after yoga poses. And oo! What if you did a line of swimsuits and named them after the other omegas on the show!”
I laugh at her enthusiasm, though it comes out somewhat choked. “I’m not sure about that. But it’s something to think about.”
Jude clicks back to the landing page. “And the name is just a place holder-”
“It's perfect,” I say, tears filling my eyes. “It’s so fucking perfect, Jude. I-Thank you.”
Haven sniffs behind me. “You did so good, baby,” She says in a tone as watery as mine. “So good. I love you so much.”
Jude hums a pleased noise. There’s the sound of them kissing. Hot and heavy over my shoulder. Tic tsks. “Take it elsewhere. Ren doesn’t need to see this.”
I glance over my shoulder in time to see Haven climbing Jude like a tree as best as she can with her oversized belly, and him carrying her out of the room.
A large brown palm slides onto my shoulder, squeezing gently. “You want us to move forward with this, Ren?”
I swallow around the enormous lump in my throat and nod. “I-yeah. Yeah, I think I do. But I don’t- I haven’t a clue where to start.”
“That’s okay. That’s why you have us. We’ll help in whatever way we can.”
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to thank Haven enough. Not just for being my friend, my family, but for bringing me this pack as well, these four scary as hell alphas who have offered me their unwavering support, for no other reason than that I’m important to their omega.
I’m not sure I deserve it.
“Love you like a sister, Flo,” he says, bending to kiss the top of my head.
“Love you like a brother, Tic,” I reply automatically.
One more squeeze of his hand and he leaves me, hurrying upstairs to the orgy that I am sure is happening in Haven’s nest.
Maybe it should bother me, but it doesn’t. Instead, I turn my attention back to the website Jude made for me, and the text scrawled across the top. Flo and Behold, where strength meets grace and every seam tells a story.
And for the first time since I was rejected on national television, I feel a flutter of hope.