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"Are you quite unwell, my dear?" Kenneth asks, fingers curling around my biceps. Instinctually, I flex and tug away, his eyes widening in surprise. Yes, my body is changing. They can't see it beneath my thick, twill sheath dress and cardigan, but I've grown muscles.
I’m aware of my body in a way I’ve never been, the way my clothes fit more snugly in new places, no longer loose and draping. My legs and arms are more defined than they've ever been. My shoulders are a little bigger, no longer delicate and waif-like.
I lost the soft omega belly we're prized for weeks ago, the early signs of abdominal muscles shaping my waistline while it grows just a little bit thicker. I may be the submissive type, but my body isn't weak. Not anymore. I got accustomed to working out, passing the time when I lived in South Loop, doing all the exercises Roxy gave me to get stronger on the pole, and then some. And I've been eating less strictly, too.
Kenneth eyes my arm curiously, but I let my shoulders drop low and bow my head slightly. "Yes. I'm so sorry. I haven't been feeling well, actually. Please forgive me. In any case, I promise to be in touch soon."
Suspicion furrows his brow, and I can tell all four of them, Saul, Kenneth, Devon, and Jonathan, each feel slighted by my abrupt actions. I don't have it in me to backtrack and smooth things over, though. Besides, it's not like I'm marrying them. I don't need to.
At this point, I'm wondering why I'm even staying engaged.
On that note, I turn to walk toward my car, when Saul calls out, "Please tell your father we send him well wishes, by the way."
"My father?"
"Yes. I heard from my secretary, who saw your mother and Bowen at Chaney's Dress Boutique. Apparently, he had quite the injury, limping around on a crutch."
"I… uh, I mean, yes, thank you. I'll be sure to pass on your kind regards. Thank you," I smile, then quickly walk toward my car.
The moment I climb in, I feel like I can breathe. Which turns to gasping breaths, and then my fingers fumble over my phone as I dial her number. She doesn't answer, so I send a text.
Imogen: Is father injured? I've just had dinner with Stevens, and they said he's on crutches?? Please tell me he's okay.
I start the car, but wait, idling. Watching Stevens Pack make their way to their SUV, they don't bother hiding it as they turn their heads and watch a couple of young women in short skirts walk past them. Jonathan even laughs and slaps the back of Kenneth's arm while they turn and look toward the girls. A minute passes, and then both men leave their pack mates and follow the girls back into the club.
I'm not one to talk; I just had a foursome with Dante Pack, but still—I at least know I'm not marrying them. They're still engaged as far as they're concerned.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Mother: Imogen, your text is overly dramatic, please tone it down. Yes, his leg is in a brace. I told you, things are getting desperate, it is imperative you keep your word. In fact, I've been speaking with the wedding planner, and we are discussing moving the date up to next month. A fall wedding would be lovely. I'll keep you apprised.
Imogen: Mother, what happened to dad?
Mother: It doesn't matter. What matters is you do your part. It's dire, Imogen. Please, we are in serious trouble.
My heart races, a desperate thumping against my ribcage, as sweat beads form on my forehead. Is there no way out of this unbearable situation? Both my fathers are injured because they are behind on their debts. Do I actually have to marry Stevens to get money from them? Maybe they'll offer my parents a loan. Oh goodness, I'm going to be sick.
I know I can't marry them, but the urgency to find an alternative solution is more pressing than anything else in my life.
I stare at her words, wondering if things are really escalating, that someone would attack both my fathers for this supposed large sum of money. My OFA cloak has some perks, so I employ it, even here, alone in my car, and it helps me calm down. With shaking fingers, I text her back.
Imogen: How much money, mother?
Mother: We don't discuss the details of money in this family, dear, it's uncouth. You know that.
Growling in frustration, I text back.
Imogen: How much money are you selling me for? I need to know. What do my fathers owe the debt collectors? I'm not doing anything else unless you tell me.
Three dots appear, then disappear. They appear again before disappearing completely, and I know she doesn't intend to respond.
The parking lot emptied around me while I waited, Stevens Pack SUV long gone, with Kenneth and Jonathan still inside. I could confront them, pretend to be scorned.
But that wouldn't solve any problems because I have no issue telling them I'm not interested when the time comes. I've done it dozens of times before with other proposals, though this is the first time my parents have said yes on my behalf. It's also the first time they've said yes in exchange for money.
I could drive home to my parent's house and demand answers.
I could go inside, track down my betrothed, and catch them in a compromising position.
