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Oblivious to my quiet strength simmering just beneath her watchful eyes, she pulls out her phone, likely putting in a request for a private meeting with the director of the local OFA chapter, Madam Fletcher.
Ophelia's efforts to reform the treatment of omegas at the OFA—how they are molded and shaped into society's harsh standards of a perfect version of an omega—have been mixed. While she's found an ally in the school's head physician, Dr. Rubens, Madam Fletcher's reaction has been unpredictable, fluctuating between enthusiastic cooperation and complete resistance—as Ophelia put it, straight-up stonewalling.
I think she's chipping away at the problem, and with her pack mates, Sully especially, they're forcing their voices into public space. I've never heard so many discussions about omegas rights at OFA events, regardless of which side of the political spectrum people fall. It's being talked about, and that's a big step from years previous when omegas like me had no voice at all.
Because changes like this—looking at my body in a mirror with someone who steadfastly holds onto the OFA ideals, like my mother, and sees nothing but an overly muscular, ugly, undesirable omega—are cultural, and they take a long time to shift. But I feel change coming. Even if Fletcher is a problem, and it sometimes seems impossible to hold her accountable.
The more actionable changes, however, are putting alphas under trial for abuse, and that's what Ophelia's focusing on right now—in honor of her sister, but for all of us who felt pushed into a box because we aren't always strong enough alone to stand up on our own.
It's why I agreed to go to the prison with her, to talk to Jackson Olcene, the abusive alpha who tried to kidnap Ophelia and force her to take her sister's place in their pack.
Like it was their right to take her.
Sometimes, only remembering how strong others are is what gives me the strength to stand tall, too. I don't feel shame looking at my body. And my mates, my pack and, hopefully someday soon, my family—they like me for me. They make me feel like I'm the most cherished person on the planet, and they may not have financial resources like the Stevens Pack, but I couldn't care less, because it's what they do, their actions that count. They show up.
So when my mother pops her head back in the dressing room and snaps, "We're done dress shopping until you lose this god-awful weight," though it stings to hear, and I grit my teeth, plaster on a neutral expression, and hang the fluffy dress, I don't feel bad that it doesn't fit. It's an ugly dress anyway; who would want that thing?
Exiting the tight quarters of the dressing room a few minutes later, she explains she made an appointment for me this week at the OFA gym, through Fletcher, who was, supposedly, horrified when she heard I gained nearly a six-pack of hard muscle in my abdomen, no longer possessed a small, soft omega belly, and went up two dress sizes. I'm to meet with their nutritionist and personal trainer to correct the problem.
I continue to ignore her when we exit the store, and only vaguely note the time of the appointment, because I have half a mind to actually show up and tell Fletcher what I really think.
But really, I've had enough. I've had a lifetime of enough.
"How much money do you owe the debt collectors?" I ask with a straight face, not lowering my voice, right there on the sidewalk.
She gasps—that I had the audacity to interrupt her without apology, or to air our dirty laundry right there in public. She looks me over, maybe for the first time in ages. Scrutinizing the changes. Physical, but it's been more than that.
What would Roxy say to my mother in this position? Or Ophelia? Or even Franky? What would any of the omegas I've met who didn't grow up under the thumb of the OFA say to my mother after everything she's put me through?
"Imogen, I don't know what has gotten into you—"
"You know I'm never going to marry them. You know that, right?"
She grits her teeth, fingers digging into my arms so badly it hurts, but she doesn't relent, dragging me down the sidewalk to the nearest alleyway, and we step into the mouth of the quiet side street.
"You are marrying them. You will meet with Fletcher—"
"No, Mother, you're not listening. I'm not marrying them. You know I've always wanted a scent-match—" It's on the tip of my tongue to out my connection, but I'm not ready for that kind of blow up, so I take a deep breath and continue, "or at least to marry for love. How could you sell me to them? They're ridiculous! After dinner the other night, I watched Kenneth and Jonathan go back into the club, chasing after two young women in short skirts, not hiding what they were up to."
She rolls her eyes, "Imogen, really? Men like that cheat. That's not why you're marrying them. I know this isn't a love match, but I at least thought—" she sniffs, holding back non-existent tears, but dotting her eyes with a kerchief anyway, "I at least thought you'd help protect your family. I can't believe you could be so selfish."
This time, I gasp. "Me? Selfish? Mother, you're trying to force me to marry these men I not only don't love, but who would lock me into a lifetime of misery. That's really what you want for me?"
She scoffs, "Oh, yes, and the alternative? You turning down every single pack we put in front of you?"
"Maybe you're the one with bad taste in men." I cross my arms petulantly. Honestly, I feel like a teenager, because I haven't argued with her like this since I was going through hormonal changes, before my designation came through.
She sneers, shaking her head. "If your fathers and I didn't do this for you, you'd be single for the rest of your life."
"Better single and lonely than packed up and miserable."
"That's what you think now. But you're lucky I love you so much, because I'm going to save you from yourself. You will be marrying Stevens, you will stop this rebellious behavior, and you will stop walking around looking like some kind of, of, masculine working-class, body-building beta."
I've always loved my designation. I've always loved being an omega. But I've never, until this moment, found the idea of being a beta a benefit. "I'd rather be a masculine, working class beta, then an omega treated as a commodity to be bought and sold by her own family."
We stare off, and though I expect her to roll her eyes—an unladylike gesture, but one she does with me to be sure I'm aware of her displeasure—her shoulders soften slightly and she looks down at the ground.
"I'm sorry, Imogen."
