4. Willow
Chapter four
Willow
I’m such a fool. I let my guard down and exposed my flaws in front of a stranger.
I drum my fingers into my thigh as I lean on the window frame, staring out at the backyard.
Rain mists the window, blurring the trimmed green lawns and trees beyond.
At least there’s no thunder today—that would really ruin my day.
Rain, hail, wind; none of them matter because I never go outside.
But just as I stay in my carefully contained box, so should my secrets. My shame.
If my viewers find out I’m so broken, they’ll crucify me.
I sigh and push away from the cold vista. Might need another coffee to piece my focus back together. I need to be working, but instead I’m restless, shivery inside. The office feels wrong, my desk is too rigid, and my office chair just isn’t cutting it.
An old voice oozes through my memories. “You can’t hide your flaws, Willow. You’re lucky we took you in, you know? But don’t worry, we don’t mind. We’ll take care of you now. In fact, how about you drop out of school, so we can take better care of you?”
Back then, it sounded like I’d found something wonderful. Instead, they were my slippery path to destruction. And even though it’s been ten years, I still can’t shake the poisonous knowledge that I’m not good enough.
Mr Shares studies me from his basket, rope toy abandoned.
I limp out through the office’s French doors to the open area. The picture frames holding the weather maps from the two days my life went up in smoke hang crooked. Did Alessandro bump them when he poked around?
I can’t shake the mental mirage of the concern on his face as he stared down at me. Of all the freaking reactions, I just had to throw myself on the ground and scream like a possessed cat. I thought I was getting better with loud noises?
Nails click on the floor and then Mr Shares bumps against my leg, feathery tail slapping the wall.
“Stop moping, right?” I murmur.
He looks up at me, big brown eyes glistening as if he understands. I fix the photo frames without looking at the weather spirals and then rub my dog’s head. “Think positive. That’s what all the therapists say.”
Mr Shares whuffs in agreement. It’s much easier to think good thoughts with him within reach.
So, what’s the positive in a situation where my perfect online identity could be compromised?
Mr Shares pads to the back door and stares at the rain a minute before crossing back to his bed. He turns around twice before settling, paws hanging out the front with his head resting on them. Honestly, it’s hard to stay down with such an adorable animal in the house.
“The upside?” I ask under my breath as I set a clean mug under the coffee machine and press the button. “I guess it’s that he didn’t recognize me, right?”
Sometimes that happens when workmen or delivery people come to my door. Oh, you’re that omega influencer, aren’t you? I’ve seen your reels.
No, Alessandro had no recognition sparking in his face at all. It was a handsome face though.
I go to the fridge for ingredients to make myself a turkey wrap.
The visitor burns in my memory, more vivid because of how I embarrassed myself.
All high cheekbones, olive skin, and pouty lips, especially when he smiled.
He had a slight hook in the bridge of his nose, and a close-shaved beard.
His black hair swept back from his forehead when I saw him, but would have been long enough to cover his eyes.
Not super tall, but more of a slighter frame, for an alpha. With work-stained hands.
And a lovely, soothing scent like sea breeze, or sea salt. In fact, I assumed it was cologne, but now that I recall his old overalls and how quickly he brought Mr Shares, it’s likely he wasn’t wearing cologne at all. Another nose full, and I’d be able to tell.
“Willow!” I slam the fridge door shut in warning. “Enough thinking about one Alessandro.”
Mr Shares jerks upright, head twitching toward the door as if he expects someone to knock.
“He’s not coming,” I mutter, slapping the bag of wraps down onto the bench. “Not like we’ll ever see him again.”
The package’s corner lands right on top of the business card. My hands move of their own accord to flick the offending item away, but instead I pull it closer.
Alessandro Baccini. Restorative Lawns and Gardens.
Restorative? Sounds very therapeutic, for a garden service.
And like something I dearly need a prescription for.
Even with tons of therapy, I’m still a mess.
I groan and drop my head into my hands, leaning way over the bench.
The card has his phone number, but I wish it had his photo as well.
Italian name, golden skin, slighter frame. Why’s he clinging to my mind so much?
So much that my little lady bits warm up just from reading his name. A trickle runs down my thigh.
I straighten, dropping the card from numb fingers.
“No,” I whisper. “Oh, no, no, no, no!”
I dig out my phone and click through to the omega app which measures my cycle.
Five years. I haven’t gone into heat since the last accident which tore my nervous system apart.
My body broke so badly, I had to relearn to walk, never mind any normal hormonal cycles.
Haven’t felt desire, haven’t even considered taking care of my needs with a toy.
And the heats before the accident? Well, I don’t even want to think about those.
I lunge for the medicine cabinet and flick bottles side-to-side, scanning all the labels. There must be some blockers here somewhere, right?
“Damn it!” I hiss when I come up short.
Don’t panic, Willow. Just breathe, and post a task on the FindIt app. Right. I waste ten minutes flicking through reviews to find the strongest brand of hormone blockers and then post the job. Within a minute, someone who needs the work snaps the errand up. Delivery estimated for half an hour.
Better book a phone consultation with my doctor too.
I make my wrap with passive aggressive speed, slapping down mayo, trimmed turkey, some cranberry preserve, lettuce, and grated cheese. A single tomato in the fridge looks sad, but today’s not the day to force myself to eat something I don’t love.
Work deadlines or not, I can’t fix my focus, so I eat my wrap while listening to the last few recordings from the other big influencers in my lane.
#OmegaBaby has new clips, all orientated toward being cute and silly, embracing the omega stereotypes.
#LeonieTells has more of a domestic and relationship pivot, telling omegas how to speak up and make sure their voices are heard among all the raging pheromones.
Her shortest reel, on the topic of courage, irritates me.
I scoff under my breath, drumming a nail on the tabletop. “Easy to be courageous when you’ve got nothing more to talk about than why people aren’t helping with the laundry.”
But the advice lingers in my thoughts because it’d take a whole bunch of courage to contact Alessandro again.
My gaze drifts toward the windows, where the rain’s growing thinner. I wouldn’t have to necessarily talk to him, right? I could just contract him for the job and do all the instructions via text. Mr Shares needs the bigger space out the back to run around.
A little voice in my head asks what happens if he tells anyone what he saw. It’s risky. Been a long time since I trusted an alpha, except for the men who handle my house security. The only way to manage life is with contracts.
Ah. That’s the solution. Send him a work contract that includes a confidentiality clause. Technically our first meeting was a consultation about what was possible and would be covered by the clause.
I huff out a big sigh, the tension draining from my chest. Happy with my solution, I spring up from the table and clear my dishes.
The doorbell rings just as I finish and I limp over to answer it and collect my package.
I check the label for instructions and pop two pills that should stifle any thought of a heat.
Most likely I’m just overreacting. I haven’t had a heat for years, so why would I suddenly get symptoms now?
I brush my teeth and check my outfit before returning to my desk and hitting the record button.
“Hello, Omegalings. Newsflash! Did you know that you don’t have to be at the mercy of your pheromones?
” I hold up the pack of tablets and rattle it.
“We have so many miracles of modern medicine which mean we don’t have to act like animals anymore.
Like these heat blockers? I take them all the time.
If you haven’t tried them, you need to. The freedom, the decision making that you claim back with every skipped heat, is what your life should be like. ”
I straighten and shake my head.
“And do not, for the love of all things omega, let your alphas tell you that you need to go through your heats every time.”
My blithe smile covers the rising bitter memories, of prolonged heats, of passing out for want of a knot. And of what happened to my nest. I blink hard. Ancient history should stay in the past. Best to keep my focus on recording my current manicured life.
“Most of the time, alphas just want the action, not to mention the omega leave from work. It’s your body.
You do not have to be a victim trapped inside it.
If you enjoy your heats and want to revel in them?
” I spread my hands for the camera. “Then by all means, go right ahead and enjoy them. Lap up that attention and the chaos. But if you find your heart sinking when that slick starts, then maybe skip one and see how it goes. You are your own boss.”
I set the pill bottle down with a loud clack in the middle of my desk before finishing with, “Stay bossy out there.”
It wasn’t strictly necessary to say I’m always taking the pills. But these days, I become someone else whenever I’m behind the camera. Through the lens, I’m Willow, the perfect omega who travels everywhere and lives a glamorous life. The omega every woman and omega out there looks up to.
At first, I just hid my scars, but then someone asked for my favorite exercise routine. After that, I faked being able to walk around fine. Then another viewer asked how I handled travel and itineraries, so I faked traveling. It spiraled into something so big I can’t unravel the threads anymore.
All I know is that behind the camera, everything is perfect. Organized, curated, glamorous. And now I spend most of my day containing the ever-growing lie that hangs over me.
But it’s okay, because I’m helping millions of women with my advice. If they protect themselves and their finances, it doesn’t matter how the information comes. So long as they don’t find themselves at the mercy of vicious alphas who want to take away their independence and chain them to a nest.
That’s all I want.
And if living behind a mask of perfection helps silence the old voices in my head, even better. People all around the world hang on every word from the omega those brutes called worthless.
Speaking of which, I need to organize another ‘trip’.
After sending today’s filming to my editor for tidying up, I shoot off a message to my personal assistant, Kylie, to set out an itinerary for filming.
I’ll green screen it from my studio room while she runs around the globe getting on-site footage. Wonders of modern technology.
Would Alessandro condemn me, if he knew the truth?
Clicking my tongue at the thought, I pack up for the day.
With no stock trades running and enough video content scheduled to last a few days, I can afford to take an afternoon off.
Realistically, I could take weeks off, and no one would know, but what would I do, alone in my house?
Binge streaming services and fall into depression?
Been there, done that, don’t need to go back.
I wander aimlessly through the multi-story house until I find myself in the small room I set aside for crafts.
How long has it been since I did any of my old hobbies?
Once upon a time, I knitted scarfs for my packmates and made quilts for my friends.
Tried to impress three alphas with homemade crafts.
Might as well be a lifetime ago.
Now I have no one to share them with, and finished pieces would only grow into a pile. Unless I started a segment showing I have handicraft hobbies, which would increase my appeal to a new section of social media users?
A quilt then.
I set up the video camera in my craft room and pull out a half-finished project I was working on when the accident happened. The seams tickle my fingers as I run my hand across the patchwork. I used to love making these. Now the colors seem lifeless.
Maybe I could run the numbers on pricing and selling at a fair or weekend markets, as a way for others to start small businesses.
Usually, I advocate against businesses involving small goods, since they’re so difficult to scale.
But it might be the best place for some omegas, especially if that’s all they know how to do.
Or women who are broken like me. Would they be inspired to know I started out selling things privately when my pieces-of-shit pack members dropped me like a pile of steaming manure?
Meh. No one needs that sob story.
Everyone wants the good and perfect, something flawless to strive for. Anything else gets torn to shreds in this cruel world. So that’s the only side of me they get to see.
Mr Shares lopes into the room and whines, turning in a fast circle.
“Time to go out, buddy?” I ask.
He runs ahead of me, but I change direction toward the front door. He paws the back sliding door, asking if I’ve lost my mind.
“No. You need to go out front for now,” I tell him. “Can’t have you jumping that fence again.”
He gets the picture and trots outside into the rain-scented air, the sky clearing more with every hour.
Still, I peer up at the clouds, straining to listen for distant thunder.
The cold wind wraps around me, making me shiver.
The back patio is far more sheltered than this exposed front door, protected from both the wind and the frightening sky.
“I’ll call Alessandro,” I tell myself. “Get that fence capping so Mr Shares can use the rear yard. Nothing can hold me back.”
Because that’s what a perfect, organized omega would do.
And yet in reality I can’t even step into my front yard to clean up my dog’s poop.