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My mind raced back to Jaxon's call the night before, his voice smooth and unexpected through the phone line.
A spa day. Right before our trip to some exotic location I'd only ever seen in magazines. I guessed this was how the other half lived—beauty treatments not as an indulgence but as routine.
“Give me just a moment,” I said, stepping back inside to grab my purse and lock up.
The ride to the salon was a blur of morning traffic and daydreams. I tried to keep my nerves from tangling into knots—the kind that wouldn't be soothed by any amount of massaging.
Stepping into the salon was like walking into another world. The air held hints of lavender and jasmine, and every surface gleamed with an understated elegance.
The first stop was for a facial—a soothing experience that left my skin feeling like it could breathe for the first time in years. Then came the full-body wax, which was less about relaxation and more about endurance—a test I passed with gritted teeth.
Afterward, they ushered me toward another room for a body scrub that sloughed away more than just dead skin—it scraped off layers of fatigue I hadn't realized I'd been carrying.
Wrapped in the soothing embrace of the body wrap, I felt a serenity I hadn't known in months. My muscles uncoiled, my thoughts drifting like leaves on a slow-moving stream. That was until their voices, sharp as thorns, pierced through the tranquility of the spa.
Lydia's was unmistakable, the kind of tone that commanded attention even when you wished to offer none. “Can you believe Delcy lately? Naive as a newborn pup. She's like a lost little omega, always two steps behind. It's like she doesn't realize her place in the world.”
Nora's reply was softer but no less cutting. “Sometimes, I actually feel sorry for her. But then I remember, she does this to herself.”
I lay there, the wrap around me suddenly feeling like a shroud. Hurt surged through me—a cold wave that made my heart pound and my hands clench into fists beneath the fabric.
Lydia's laughter trickled into my ears, cruel and carefree. “Well, you know I've always had a soft spot for charity cases. That's why I decided to do something for her. Delcy's been struggling with her grandfather's medical bills, and we all know she doesn't have the money. Now she’s acting all crazy because I signed her up with the Gold Club. Imagine the cash she'll rake in; it could cover her grandfather's surgery, maybe even more.”
Amanda's voice chimed in, tinged with what sounded like genuine concern. “So you did it to help her.”
Lydia's laugh was more of a snort, her disdain barely concealed. “Of course it’s to help her! Why else would I do it? That ungrateful bitch.”
I felt my blood boil. How could she talk about me like that?
Lydia continued, her voice taking on a cruel edge. “Have you seen her latest sketches?”
There was a pause where I imagined Amanda and Nora shaking their heads and exchanging looks that said more than words ever could.
Lydia's laugh morphed into something ugly—a snort that seemed to scoff at my very existence. “Trust me, you're not missing out on much. They're dreadful.” Her words were knives, each syllable expertly sharpened to wound. “Doodles on napkins might as well be Picasso compared to her work.”
My cheeks burned beneath the layers of skin care products that had felt so luxurious moments ago.
Lydia continued with relish that turned my stomach. “An omega dreaming of becoming a fashion designer? As if those rags she calls designs would ever see the light of day.”
The pain twisted inside me—shame, anger, despair—all mixed into a toxic brew that threatened to choke me.
It was true that my designs weren't perfect, but I'd been working hard to improve. I'd been pouring my heart and soul into my sketches, and to hear Lydia dismiss them so casually was like a dagger to the heart.
But then I remembered something my grandfather always used to say. “You can't let other people define you, Delcy. You have to define yourself.”
And that's exactly what I was going to do. I would prove Lydia and the others wrong. I would show them that an omega could be a successful designer, that I could rise above my circumstances and make something of myself.
“As if she could ever crawl out from that poverty hole she was born into,” Lydia added sharply, her voice laced with venom.
The heat in the room seemed to intensify until sweat beaded along my hairline—not from the wrap but from a fury that simmered beneath my skin.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling a new sense of determination wash over me. I would not let their words get to me. I would not let them win.
As I lay there, cocooned in the body wrap, I made a promise to myself. I would work harder than ever before. I would pour every ounce of my energy and creativity into my designs. I would not give up, no matter how many obstacles stood in my way.
And when I finally made it, when I finally achieved my dream of becoming a successful fashion designer, I would look back on this moment and smile. I would remember the hurt and betrayal I felt, and I would be grateful for it. Because it was that pain that pushed me to be better, that made me stronger.
I closed my eyes and took another deep breath, feeling a sense of calm wash over me. I was ready to face whatever came my way. I was ready to prove them wrong.
