5. Andi
Andi
Gina knows exactly what she’s doing. It’s been another four days since Ezra stopped by and I actually spoke to another human being.
Stuart has continued to drop off my meals twice a day, but he’s even less chatty than before. I’ve taken to talking at him, rather than trying to ask him anything of substance, just to soothe the stir-crazy part of my brain.
I only know it’s been four days—so eleven day’s total—because I’ve been counting them like a prisoner, using an eyebrow pencil to write on a spare receipt left in one of the garment bags for my new wardrobe.
I’m lying, spread-eagled on my bed, in my silk robe like a slob. It’s the only piece of clothing that’s comfortable enough to lounge around in, other than my old high school gym outfit.
It’s also thin enough that I’m freezing. It’s almost like I’ve been cold for days now, even under the duvet. I used to run hot enough that Ezra called me a furnace back in high school. I don’t know what to make of my body, now that it’s seemingly forgotten how to keep itself warm.
I’ve already made my way through all the books in my room and I’m going to have to start re-reading them if I want any sort of entertainment.
I don’t think I’ve lacked stimulation this much since I first got my iPod touch when I was six.
I prop myself up onto my elbows when the click of the lock echoes through the silent room.
Ah, shit.
In walks Gina, with a level of energy I can’t mimic. She sweeps into the room, a cloud of judgment wafting off of her.
I scan her, trying to find any hint of injury underneath the pair of flowy, wide-legged slacks or matching high-necked blouse she’s wearing.
She always wears high-necked styles, very off-trend for any omegas these days, because of the dark scars on her neck; a reminder of her chemical unbonding to my father.
I find none. Not even a wrist brace, and I know she was cradling her left wrist the last time I saw her.
Was she faking the severity of her injuries? Possibly.
Considering this wasn’t the first time she’s thrown herself down the stairs, maybe she knows how to take a fall. It’s such a ridiculous skill set, the thought nearly has me snorting out an undignified laugh.
She doesn’t have a normal omega perfume, her wine scent is normally sour and acrid, even when she’s in a good mood.
It’s been that way since the unbonding. She tries to mimic the normal sweetness of omega perfume with lots of layered, sweet body oils and scented products, but none of it can truly replicate the dynamic nature of an omega scent.
The amount of cloying, overwhelming, clashing scents wafting off of her only means one thing.
We have guests.
“Andromeda,” Gina says, her eyes scanning over me like a harsh professor grading a failing paper.
“Mom,” I say, my voice low as I push myself up to sitting.
There’s so much more I want to say.
I want to yell, want to scream. Want to tackle her to the floor and shake her bony shoulders and demand my freedom.
But I don’t.
Because I wouldn’t put it past her to use whatever reactions I have against me. If I do something crazy, will she use it to justify keeping me confined here like a prisoner for the rest of her life?
“Don’t talk back to me,” she huffs, immediately moving to my closet. “You should get dressed. We have guests, and we need to prepare for tonight.”
Bingo. There are guests downstairs.
“Who’s here?”
“Jonathan and Ezra,” Gina says, her voice muffled. The metal hooks of the hangers scrape against the wood as she rifles through the options there.
Dread gnaws low in my gut, creeping its way up my body until it’s pressing against my lungs. It’s getting hard to breathe. Maybe I should take a page out of Ezra’s book and start doing those breathing exercises his therapist must have taught him.
It’s not the same sort of dread that I would’ve felt if Ezra and I hadn’t had that pseudo heart-to-heart the other day, but the mention of having something to prepare for tonight makes me uneasy.
Is this it? Is this where I’m going to be paraded around by Ezra for all the hungry paparazzi to descend upon, ready for their next big headline stories?
“Here, this will make you presentable,” Gina says, emerging from the closet with a white sundress.
It’s a basic thing, with thin straps and a square neckline.
The fabric is of high quality, enough that it holds its shape, even on the hanger.
“Jonathan wishes to discuss the details of tonight’s event. ”
“And what exactly is tonight’s event?” I ask, eyeing the dress like it’ll jump off the hanger and suffocate me.
“A charity gala. Perfect, don’t you think?” Gina says, shoving the dress towards me.
I let out a tired sigh, standing from my bed.
Gina just stands there expectantly. Damn, I guess I really don’t get any privacy.
I’m used to changing in front of people.
It happens a lot in dressing rooms for modeling gigs, but this is different.
There’s something strange about being a grown woman with your mother hovering over you like she doesn’t trust your ability to dress yourself, especially when I can practically feel her assessing gaze as I slip the dress up and over my hips and slide the straps over my shoulders.
The moment I reach behind myself awkwardly to try to zip up the dress, and it catches, I brace myself.
Gina makes a sound of disapproval, gripping my shoulders and spinning me around. Her delicate, almost claw-like fingers are cold as she presses her knuckles into the skin of my back tugging the dress closed.
“Suck in,” Gina snipes.
A retort is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down, taking a deep breath in and breathing it out slowly, flexing my abdominal muscles.
Gina jerks at the zipper. “Harder.”
I do it, because what the hell else am I supposed to do? Everything in that closet is a similar size to this dress.
When she finally gets the zipper up, the dress is harsh and restricting. The fabric is structured enough that it almost serves as a makeshift waist trainer, keeping me all cinched in, in what I know Gina will call the right places, but all that really means is that I can’t take a deep breath.
And the worst part? The dress is made of an itchy canvas that holds its shape really well, but feels terrible against my skin. I have to bite back a frustrated scream that I know will probably sound more like a pathetic whimper.
“At least you fit,” Gina huffs, her arms crossed over her chest as she runs an assessing gaze over my form when I spin slowly to face her.
“I don’t know what the hell you were eating with that male omega,” she says, spitting Beck’s designation like a slur, “but you should’ve known better than to let yourself go this much, Andromeda. Then this wouldn’t be so painful.”
“I didn’t—”
“Hush,” she snaps, and my words die on my tongue. “We don’t want to keep the alphas waiting, now do we?”
She spins on her heel, turning her back to me.
“Mom, why are you doing this?” I finally ask. Even though my voice is soft, some of the frustration that’s been a constant companion over the past week and a half bubbles over.
“It’s for your own good, dear. Everything I do is for your own good,” she says, waving her hand as if dismissing my question entirely.
“That’s not an answer,” I bite out, reaching out to grab her wrist. Underneath the fabric of her high-necked blouse, she feels breakable.
Almost pathetically so. It infuriates me, the fact that someone like her can have full control over every aspect of my life now.
“I’m an adult. I should be allowed to make my own decisions.
I have my own life. I can’t—I don’t know how you expect me to just be okay with this.
This bullshit conservatorship is ridiculous, Mom, and you know it! ”
The glare she cuts towards me is so cold it immediately takes the winds of outrage from my sails.
“You’ve shown you’re incapable of making the right decisions,” Gina says, her voice low. “So I have to step in and protect you from yourself.”
“Tell yourself that all you want, but it’s not true,” I say, my jaw working. My hand is shaking around her wrist, a sign of the fury I’m barely managing to keep leashed.
“Be careful, Andromeda,” Gina says, eyeing where I’m still holding her wrist. “You wouldn’t want to do anything to make the courts think you’re more mentally unstable than you already are, hm?”
I drop her wrist like it’s burned me, my chest heaving.
Gina will use everything and anything at her disposal to make sure I stay under her thumb. I can’t play into things. Not when I’m as helpless as I am.
“Now then, I’m sure you’ve learned to behave after your time in here. Are you ready to go?” Gina asks with a sniff, resting her hand on the doorknob.
“Yeah,” I mumble, keeping my gaze aimed at the floor.
She opens the door, not even casting me a second glance. She just expects me to follow her. And I do. Because what other choice do I have?
It’s not like I’m going to willingly stay in this God forsaken room any longer than I have to.
At the top of the landing, there’s another alpha wearing the same uniform as the two who dragged me to my room. Great. No running, I guess.
Gina makes her way down the stairs first, but I pause, gripping the banister. I’ll never be able to look at stairs the same way again. If I threw myself down these steps and took a page out of Gina’s book, would that change anything?
No, it wouldn’t. It would only make me look insane.
And even though I feel halfway there, after my solitary confinement, I have more self-preservation than that. In a space where I can only truly rely on myself, I need to keep my wits about me.
How was Dad able to do it? Stay in that house all these years when there’re probably memories everywhere of Gina.
How was he able to walk up and down those stairs every day knowing that this was the place that Gina sealed both their fates by doing something so absurd, something no one could think she would do to herself, and that he was blamed for it?