Chapter 8 Jessica
JESSICA
There’s nothing more depressing than wearing your dad's old Guns N' Roses t-shirt and eating peanut butter straight from the jar with a spoon, propped against a mountain of pillows. The door is locked even though there's no one else in the house to walk in on me.
My newly awakened instincts don't like being alone. I pull Dad's shirt tighter around me, breathing in the faded scent that still clings to the fabric after all these years. Old Spice and motor oil and something distinctly him. It's comfort and grief wrapped together, and right now I need both.
My own scent is everywhere. It's too much. Too obvious. Too omega.
What if people can smell it on me? What if they know?
The thought makes my stomach cramp with anxiety.
I force my attention back to my phone. Back to the disaster that is my life in social media form.
#HeartbrokenGroom is still trending. Not nationally, thank God, but locally. Which in some ways is worse because it means everyone I've ever known is seeing this.
Callum's Instagram post has 847 likes and 203 comments. The photo shows him sitting on a bench outside the Riverside Estate, still in his tuxedo, head in his hands. The perfect picture of devastation. The caption reads:
Sometimes the people we love the most are the ones who hurt us the deepest. I don't know why she left. I may never know. But I want her to know that I forgive her, and my door is always open. Love isn't something you give up on. #HeartbrokenGroom #WeddingDay #LoveWins #StayStrong
My omega recoils from the words. Something about the tone, the manipulation wrapped in sympathy, makes my skin crawl. The part of me that's changing, becoming, knows on an instinctive level that this man is dangerous.
I want to throw my phone across the room.
LOVE WINS? The man who controlled what I ate, what I wore, what I said at my own wedding is posting about how love wins?
The comments are a masterclass in delusion, and reading them makes nausea rise in my throat. My omega is more sensitive to rejection, to judgment, to the pack—the town—turning against me.
Oh Callum, you deserve so much better! She'll regret this. You're a catch! Some people don't know a good thing when they have it. Sending prayers. You'll find your true omega someday.
That last one makes my stomach twist. What if they knew I was omega? What if this became about that instead of about me leaving? The thought makes me physically ill.
And my personal favorite, from someone named BeckyLovesWine2003:
I always thought she seemed stuck up. You dodged a bullet, king!
I've never met BeckyLovesWine2003 in my life. But apparently she's an expert on my character, and my omega's heightened emotions make the comment cut deeper than it should.
I scroll down to see who liked the post. Callum's parents, obviously. His college roommate. His manager. Half the guest list from our wedding.
And Melissa.
Of course Melissa liked it. Melissa probably helped him write it.
I click on her profile and immediately wish I hadn't.
She's posted her own photo. A tasteful black and white shot of her holding Callum's hand, both of them looking somber and supportive. Her caption:
Standing by my friends in their darkest hours. Some people run when things get hard. Real ones stay. #AlwaysThere #TrueColors #HeartbrokenGroom
The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated audacity.
My hands are shaking now. Not just with anger, but with the physical symptoms of omega stress. My skin feels too hot. My stomach is cramping. My scent intensifies, and I hate it.
She was sleeping with him. For how long, I don't know. Weeks? Months? The entire time we were engaged? And now she's posting about "true colors" like she's some kind of loyalty expert.
I take another massive spoonful of peanut butter and chew aggressively, trying to ground myself in the physical act of eating.
My phone buzzes. Then again. Then five more times in rapid succession.
I don't want to look. Already know who it is.
But I look anyway because I'm a glutton for punishment.
Callum (7 messages): Jessica please. We need to talk.
I know you're scared but running away isn't the answer.
Everyone is asking about you. This is humiliating.
Just come back. We can work through this.
I forgive you. You're embarrassing me in front of my entire family.
I've done everything for you and this is how you repay me?
You're nothing without me. You know that, right?
The messages escalate so fast I get whiplash. From "please" to "I forgive you" to "you're nothing without me" in under five minutes.
And my omega reacts viscerally. My stomach cramps harder, doubling me over. Nausea rises sharp and bitter. My skin breaks out in a cold sweat despite the warmth of the room.
My body knows he's a threat. If he found out I was omega, he'd use it. Control it. Worst of all, try and control me.
The fear is primal. Biological. My omega wants me to run, hide, find pack, find safety, get away from this alpha who wants to own rather than protect.
I screenshot the messages with trembling fingers. Save them to a folder labeled "Evidence" that I created yesterday. Then I block his number.
The relief is immediate but temporary. Like taking off a too-tight bra at the end of a long day, except the day isn't over and I'm still trapped in this situation.
I go back to scrolling, which is a mistake, but my omega-heightened emotions won't let me stop. Everything feels more intense. More personal. More devastating.
Someone has posted a video. Grainy, shot from a distance, but unmistakably me. Climbing down the trellis in my wedding dress. Veil catching on branches. Landing in the flower bed like a graceless swan.
The caption: RUNAWAY brIDE ALERT! Jessica Delacroix makes her escape! #HeartbrokenGroom #WeddingFail #YouHadOneJob
The video has 2,000 views.
Two thousand people have watched me climb out a window in my wedding dress.
What if they figure it out? What if the whole town knows I'm omega before I even understand what that means?
The anxiety makes my chest tight.
I close Instagram and open TikTok because apparently I hate myself.
Someone has already made a meme. My face photoshopped onto various escape scenes. Prison breaks. Zombie apocalypses. That scene from Shawshank Redemption where Tim Robbins crawls through the sewage pipe.
The song playing over the compilation is "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor.
I laugh despite myself, the sound slightly hysterical in the empty house. It's either laugh or cry, and I've done enough crying. My omega is already emotional enough without adding more tears to the mix.
My phone rings.
Unknown number.
Against every instinct screaming at me not to answer, I pick up.
"Hello?"
"Jessica." The voice is cultured, cold, and instantly recognizable. "This is Eleanor."
Eleanor. Callum's mother. The woman who picked out my wedding dress and my table settings and probably would have picked out my firstborn's name if I'd let her.
My omega goes very still. Prey recognizing a predator.
"Mrs. Whitmore." I keep my voice neutral even though my heart is racing.
"How did you get this number?"
My stomach drops. Of course.
"Callum gave it to you." "Before you blocked him."
"He's very distressed, you know. You've put him through a terrible ordeal."
“How?” I ask.
"Running away on your wedding day. Embarrassing him in front of two hundred guests. Stealing your maid of honor's vehicle." She clicks her tongue. "It's all very dramatic, Jessica. Very... common."
Common. The worst insult in Eleanor Whitmore's vocabulary.
Does she suspect? Can she somehow tell through the phone that I'm omega now? The paranoia makes me feel insane, but my newly awakened instincts are screaming warnings.
"Is there a point to this call, Mrs. Whitmore?"
"I'm calling to offer you a solution." Her voice shifts. Becomes almost pleasant. "We can fix this mess. All of it. The social media speculation, the gossip, the damage to Callum's reputation."
"And how would we do that?"
"A public apology. Nothing elaborate. Just a brief statement explaining that you experienced a mental health crisis and made a regrettable decision.
We'll say you've sought treatment and you're deeply sorry for any pain you caused.
Callum will graciously accept your apology, and we'll announce that the wedding has been postponed, not cancelled.
In a few months, when everything has calmed down, you can quietly separate and no one will be the wiser. "
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it, convinced I must have misheard.
"You want me to apologize. Publicly. And pretend I had a mental breakdown."
"It's the cleanest solution."
"For who? For Callum? For you?"
"For everyone." A hint of steel enters her voice.
"Think about it, Jessica. Right now you're the villain.
The unstable omega who abandoned her devoted fiancé at the altar.
One statement, and you become a sympathetic figure instead.
A woman who struggled and sought help. Much better for your future prospects, don't you think? "
She said omega. She said it so casually, like it was common knowledge, and my blood runs cold.
"What did you just say?"
"I said you're the unstable omega who—"
"I never told anyone I was omega."
Silence on the other end. Long enough that I know she realizes her mistake.
"Small towns talk, dear," she says finally, but there's calculation in her voice now. "Patricia at the clinic is very friendly with my bridge club. We know all about your little... development."
My stomach drops. Of course. Of course Patricia told someone who told someone else and now it's spreading through Largo Waters like wildfire. By tonight, everyone will know. Everyone will be watching me, judging me, deciding what this means.
And Eleanor knows. Which means Callum probably knows. Or will know soon.