The Reluctant Omega (The Omega Concord #3)

Prologue

Octavia

Three Years Ago

The courtroom is cold enough that goosebumps stand on my skin. Or perhaps it was just that my body is running on pure adrenaline as we await for the jury to return with their verdict.

Nervousness wars with my repeated mantra of ‘it’ll be fine.’ I tug down my pencil skirt as I stand. My lawyer, who took the case pro bono, takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. I ease my hand away and twine my fingers together, hands in front of myself.

The foreperson hands the bailiff the paper, who passes it to the stern-faced judge. He’s been kind of an ass the entire trial, but nothing more than expected, given the current President appointed him.

He unfolds it and looks up, stern gaze taking in the court but returns—and lingers—on me.

My ears ring.

“Guilty on all counts.”

IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS since my guilty verdict.

Pure, unadulterated, simmering rage has replaced every ounce of fear in my body.

Today is the allocution hearing to determine my sentence.

Utter bullshit. But I’m ready to say what needs to be said.

I stand, cameras flashing behind me. I clear my throat.

“The question is not whether I deserve punishment for my ‘crime.’ The question is how many children did not go to bed with empty bellies for the eight months that my Benevolence virus was increasing funds for families’ on state food assistance?

The question is, how many of our government officials could have alleviated food insecurity for needy families before I, a private citizen, was overwhelmed with the lack of compassion and humanity by the very people who were elected to lead us?

Perhaps we should talk about the number of families on food assistance who work full-time, and yet cannot make ends meet?

Or the number of parents who skip meals so their children are fed?

Or maybe corporate greed and the salaries of CEOs that pay the backbone of their company, the workers, pennies on the dollar?

” I pause and look around the courtroom.

“So yes, I am guilty. Guilty of having a conscience. Guilty of seeing a way that I could help and taking action. Guilty of caring more for families than any of our elected officials.” A deep breath. “I did it. And I’d do it again.”