Chapter 4 #2
Another cough, followed by what sounds like a full-body shudder. "I was supposed to attend this pre-Valentine's mixer event tonight. It's one of those Oakridge community things—you know how they are about participation in local events. Makes the town look good for tourism or whatever."
Pre-Valentine's mixer. Because nothing says romance like forced social interaction in a small town where everyone already knows everyone else's business.
"Okay," I say slowly, already sensing where this is going. "And you're calling me because...?"
"Because I'm so damn sick there's no way I can make it.
" Mila groans—a sound of pure misery that transcends phone speakers.
"I've been throwing up since last night.
Can't keep anything down. There's no universe where I'm leaving this bathroom, let alone putting on real clothes and socializing with humans. "
Yikes. That sounds genuinely awful.
"That sucks," I say, meaning it. "But can't you just... skip it? Tell them you're sick?"
"It's mandatory." The word comes out like a curse.
"Part of the business license agreement for anyone operating in Oakridge Hollow.
Miss a required community event without coverage, and they can fine you.
Report you to the commerce board. Make your life generally miserable in the way only small-town bureaucracy can. "
Small towns. Gotta love the charming authoritarianism hidden beneath the cozy exterior.
I pout, even though she can't see it. "But won't they check my ID? I'm not exactly a business owner in Oakridge. I just work at the bakery."
"No, no—as long as you say you're there for Mila, covering for Hazel's Hearth & Home, it should be fine.
" Another coughing fit interrupts her, and I wait it out with a wince.
"I already reached out to the event manager.
Explained the situation. She said as long as I could get coverage, she wouldn't report it as a no-show. "
I look around at my disaster of an apartment. At the boxes I should be unpacking. At the organizational system I should be implementing. At all the productive things I could theoretically be doing with my Saturday evening.
Or... I could go to a party. Drink free alcohol. Pretend to be a functioning member of society for a few hours.
Sigh. Why not?
"Fine," I say, and I can practically hear Mila's relief through the phone. "You totally owe me, though. Like, multiple shifts worth of owed. Maybe name a pastry after me or something."
"The Rosemarie Croissant," she says immediately, her voice warming despite the congestion. "Layers of flaky deliciousness with a surprising kick. We'll make it with cinnamon and brown sugar."
Okay, that actually sounds incredible.
"Deal," I say. "Now go rest. Drink fluids. Stop talking to me and focus on not dying."
"You're an angel," Mila croaks. "A beautiful, lifesaving angel. The details are in the email I forwarded you—venue, time, dress code. Thank you so much, Rosemarie. Seriously."
"Yeah, yeah." I wave a hand she can't see. "Go be sick in peace."
She thanks me again—sincerely enough that I almost feel bad for the internal grumbling—and hangs up. The line goes dead, leaving me alone with my chaos and a new obligation.
I look around the apartment one more time.
What do I have to lose with some random mixer? It's not like I've got anything pressing to do here. The boxes will still be waiting when I get back. The organizational crisis will still need addressing. Might as well delay the inevitable with free drinks and forced small talk.
I push myself off the bed—mattress protesting slightly at the movement—and start picking my way through the obstacle course of my living space.
Somewhere in this chaos, there's a dress.
A specific dress. One I'd bought right before I became a "castaway," as I've started calling it in my head.
Before I had to run for the hills to Oakridge Hollow.
Before my life became a series of evasive maneuvers and early-morning workouts and pretending everything was fine.
I find it in the third box I open—the one labeled "CLOTHES - NICE" in handwriting that's only slightly more legible than a doctor's prescription.
The dress is black, simple, the kind of understated elegance that whispers money without screaming it.
It's a designer piece—I forget which one, but the fabric feels expensive against my fingers, smooth and cool and perfectly weighted.
Fitted through the bodice with a subtle V-neck that's sexy without being desperate, flaring slightly at the hips to skim over my curves rather than cling.
This will work. No one's expecting me to show up in glamorous attire anyway—I'm covering for someone, not trying to impress anyone. But the dress is branded enough that with some makeup and a bit of effort with my hair, I can look hot without looking like I tried too hard.
I hold the dress up against my body, checking my reflection in the small mirror I've propped against the exposed brick wall.
Dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders.
Hazel eyes that still look a little tired from this morning's emotional marathon.
The glint of my piercings catching the afternoon light filtering through the single window.
You know what? This can be an empowering moment.
The thought surprises me with its optimism. I'm not usually one for pep talks, internal or otherwise. But something about the idea of going out—of putting on a beautiful dress and doing my makeup and walking into a room full of strangers like I belong there—feels like an act of rebellion.
My family wants me hidden away, terrified, jumping at shadows and waiting for them to collect me like a package that got lost in shipping. They want me broken and compliant and ready to accept whatever fate they've decided I deserve.
What if I showed up to a party instead? What if I wore a killer dress and did my hair and laughed with strangers and drank champagne like a woman who has nothing to fear? What if I lived my life in spite of them rather than in reaction to them?
A smirk tugs at my lips—small but genuine. This can be an empowering moment. And even if it's not, at least there will be free alcohol and appetizers.
I lay the dress out on my bed—carefully, because it's been shoved in a box for months and the last thing I need is to show up looking like I got dressed in a tornado—and start gathering everything else I'll need.
Heels that are comfortable enough to stand in for hours but tall enough to make my legs look incredible.
Jewelry that's understated but expensive.
Armor. All of it. The dress, the heels, the jewelry, the makeup I'm about to apply—it's all armor. The kind you wear when you're walking into battle but want everyone to think you're just there for the champagne.
The bathroom is barely big enough for one person to turn around in, but I've made it work.
The counter holds my essentials: a skincare lineup that my mother would approve of (old habits die hard), makeup products I've collected over years of learning exactly what makes my features pop, a curling iron that's seen better days but still functions.
I take my time with the routine, finding comfort in the familiar motions.
Cleanser, toner, moisturizer, primer. Each step is a ritual, a meditation, a way to center myself before walking into the unknown.
Foundation that matches my skin tone perfectly.
Concealer under my eyes to hide the evidence of too many sleepless nights.
Contour that sharpens my cheekbones. Highlight that catches the light like I'm glowing from within.
This is my element. Not as much as creating coffee, but close. There's something about transformation—about taking raw materials and turning them into something beautiful—that speaks to a deep part of me.
I'm halfway through setting up my makeshift vanity station—bathroom counter covered with the skincare and makeup products I actually managed to bring with me—when my phone buzzes with a text notification.
I glance at the screen, expecting something from Mila. Maybe the email with the event details, or another thank-you message, or instructions on what exactly I'm supposed to do at this mixer besides exist.
But it's not Mila.
It's Ruby.
I frown, swiping to open the message. Ruby doesn't usually text out of nowhere—we'd only reconnected yesterday, and she's probably busy with her acting prep and horse-riding lessons and whatever else goes into becoming a western romance star.
The message makes my blood run cold.
RUBY: hey babe, not trying to freak you out but I think your folks are trying to marry you off?
that's what's being whispered around. some of the industry people I know have connections to those elite omega circles and they're saying the Carlisle family is looking to 'reclaim' a runaway. be careful in Oakridge ok?
I stare at the screen, reading the message once, twice, three times. The words blur and reform, each pass confirming what I already knew but had been desperately hoping wasn't true.
They're actively looking for me. Not just waiting for me to come to my senses—actively searching. Putting out whispers in elite circles. Using their connections to track down their wayward omega daughter.
Be careful in Oakridge.
The warning sits heavy in my chest, pressing against my ribs like a physical weight.
I think about the gym this morning—how I'd stood there spiraling, completely vulnerable, lost in my own head for nearly fifteen minutes.
How anyone could have approached me. Could have grabbed me.
Could have done whatever they wanted before I even registered the threat.
That Alpha—the one with the green eyes and the expensive clothes—he'd appeared behind me without me noticing at all. If he'd been someone else. If he'd been working for my family...
I shake off the thought, forcing myself to focus on the practical implications. I'm going to a public event tonight. A mixer with lots of people, in a small town where everyone knows everyone. Relatively safe, as these things go. But not completely safe. Not anymore.
My eyes drift toward the closet—toward the lockbox on the top shelf that I try very hard to forget exists.
Should I carry my gun?
The thought is reflexive, born from years of self-defense training that my family insisted on before realizing they were creating a weapon they couldn't control. I know how to shoot. I'm licensed. The gun is registered in my name, purchased legally, stored properly.
But carrying a firearm to a community mixer feels... excessive. Like showing up to a potluck in full tactical gear. There's cautious, and then there's paranoid, and I'm trying very hard to stay on the right side of that line.
I look at the lockbox again. Then at the dress hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Then back at the lockbox.
Compromise.
I cross to my other storage area—a smaller box labeled "JUST IN CASE" that contains the kind of items most omegas don't admit to owning.
Pepper spray. A taser that may or may not be legal in this state.
And a knife—slim, elegant, the kind that can be strapped to a thigh under a dress without creating an obvious bulge.
The blade is beautiful, actually. Custom-made by a metalworker I'd found through the kind of underground connections that wealthy families pretend don't exist. The handle is wrapped in leather dyed the color of dried blood, and the blade itself is folded steel that catches the light like captured lightning.
It's not just a weapon—it's a work of art that happens to be capable of causing serious damage.
Perfect for evening wear.
I huff out a breath, decision made. The gun stays locked up. The knife comes with me. Because while I refuse to live my life in constant terror, I'm also not stupid enough to walk around unprotected when my family is apparently escalating their efforts to drag me back.
No one would be stupid enough to try to jump me in such a small town. Not where everyone knows everyone. Not where gossip travels faster than the speed of light and strangers stand out like sore thumbs.
I repeat the reassurance to myself as I finish my makeup—subtle smoky eye, lips stained a deep wine color that matches the dried-blood leather of my hidden knife.
As I curl my hair into loose waves that frame my face.
As I slide into the black dress and zip it up, feeling the fabric settle against my curves like armor disguised as elegance.
The knife straps to my thigh with practiced ease. I adjust the holster until it sits comfortably, invisible beneath the fall of my skirt. The weight of it is reassuring—a constant reminder that I'm not helpless, never have been, and refuse to become.
I check my reflection one final time.
The woman staring back at me doesn't look like a runaway. Doesn't look scared or vulnerable or one phone call away from a breakdown. She looks put together. Confident. The kind of omega who walks into a room and makes people wonder who she is rather than dismiss her as insignificant.
This is who I am. Not the broken doll my family wants to sell to the highest bidder. Not the desperate fugitive hiding from her past. I'm Rosemarie Carlisle, and I survived every attempt to diminish me, and I'll be damned if I let fear keep me from living my life.
My phone buzzes again—the email from Mila with the event details.
I skim it quickly: venue is the Oakridge Community Center, time is 7 PM, dress code is cocktail attire.
Standard mixer fare. Should be easy enough to blend in, make the required appearance, and get out before anything dramatic happens.
Famous last words, probably.
I grab my clutch—small, black, just big enough for my phone and ID and the emergency cash I never leave home without—and head for the door. The late afternoon sun is already slanting toward evening, painting the alley outside my window in shades of amber and rose.
My hand pauses on the doorknob.
No one would be stupid enough to try anything in Oakridge Hollows. This is a community event, filled with locals who'd notice anything suspicious immediately. I'll be surrounded by people all night. Perfectly safe. Totally fine.
I take a breath. Square my shoulders. Think about Ruby's warning and my aunt's phone call and the Alpha in the gym who'd looked at me like he could see right through my carefully constructed walls.
Think about the knife strapped to my thigh and the chaos I'm capable of creating if anyone is foolish enough to underestimate me.
Hopefully...