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"Imogen, we’ve received an offer."
"For what?" I asked, innocently munching on a carrot stick while my mother neatly folded herself onto the high-top chair beside me.
"Your hand."
You’d think I’d be used to it by now; we’ve had this exact same conversation so many times, and I'd always firmly rejected it. But this time, something about her tone was different. Icy dread trickled down my spine.
"My hand," I repeated, carrot frozen mid-air.
"The Stevens Pack. They’ve been in negotiations with your fathers and have come to an agreement. The wedding will take place before the new year."
"Where are your mates?" I change the subject, forcing my lips to curl despite the pain.
She hooks her thumb toward a hall I hadn’t noticed, nestled behind the long bar top. "In the office with Cass and Red. I think they're bro-ing out on some new security software." She adds an eye roll, but her voice is thick with love and adoring pride.
My return smile feels fake despite my genuine happiness for her and Constantine. I’m not jealous. I swear I’m not jealous. My lips quiver the bigger they stretch.
"Oh, Imogen, what happened?" Ophelia leans forward again, forcing my gaze to meet hers.
"I'm getting married," my voice shakes. Delivering such news without inflection feels wrong. The words cut like glass, and it takes effort to keep a straight face. But… perfection. So I downcast my eyes, plaster on a neutral smile and fold my hands in my lap.
She’s quiet for a minute, pulling her hands back to her side of the table and picks up her drink. Glancing at the stage, she finger waves at Franky, who somehow has mixed calisthenic exercise moves with a stripper pole that shouldn’t look sexy but somehow does.
Without looking back at me, she says, "You’re getting married if that’s what you want. Is it? Is that what you want?"
I choke out a wet cough, the torrent of rage threatening to spill over caught in my throat. I suck it all back in, and admit, "Actually, yes. I really, really do."
"Let me rephrase. You’re getting married to who?"
"The Stevens pack."
"The Mayor?" Ophelia shouts, whipping her head toward me.
"Yes," I sigh.
Her lips press, like she’s trying very hard not to yell profanities. "Okay, so you’re getting married to the mayor and his pack. Is that what you want?"
If I try to respond, I’ll cry. No one wants a crying omega in a strip club. My head shakes back and forth just once.
"Then you’re not getting married."
As if it were that simple. "That’s what I told my mother when she informed me of the wedding date. Before she threatened to cut me off from the family. She said they didn’t do all this work for their omega daughter for it to amount to nothing, and Stevens made a very generous offer for my hand. My parents will disown me if I don't accept."
"What in the hell does that mean, they made an offer? You’re not a fucking pawn!" Ophelia growls. Taking a deep breath, she apologizes, "I’m sorry, Imogen. But you’re not a commodity. We are not special edition toys to be traded and sold."
She’s been working behind the scenes for months against injustices just like this, but she’s only one person. With her pack at her back, she's helped install new security features at various heat clinics, and she’s been collecting testimony from omegas all around, even from the High Hills, my neighborhood, about negative experiences at heat clinics. The mayor—my to-be-betrothed—has been working with the DA to identify and prosecute alphas who thought they were getting away with taking advantage of omegas in heat at the clinics.
But she cannot change our culture overnight. I was born into a wealthy family that values money, power, and good standing in social hierarchy, and my purpose has always been to elevate my family—even if I have to sacrifice my happiness to do it. That's just how it is for most omegas. We're so rare and treasured by alpha packs that any family in possession of one could be set for life.
"Face it Ophelia, I am a pawn. I don't want to lose my family over this. I love them, and they mean well, they really do. They just want what's best for me. I've always dreamed of settling down, and they know that. Maybe they're right, and I've been too picky."
"What's best for you is giving you a choice. It's not theirs to make."
"I mean, is it really so bad? The Stevens Pack is nice. They smell good. They're a little boring, but they're wealthy and can provide for me and our children. All I've ever wanted is to be in a pack, fall in love, have kids…"
"Are you in a rush to do it? Immy, you're only twenty-three. Not exactly a spinster."
I reach across the table and snag her drink. It's a little crass, something I'd never normally do, but I'm a ball of nerves, so I take a big sip, ignoring her amused smirk at me stealing her drink. I nearly spit out the sickly sweet soda, but the sugar is distraction enough to keep the nerves at bay.
