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It's been an exhausting week of lying, pretending to be excited about my engagement with Stevens. To celebrate, my mother decided to have them over for lunch; maybe she was testing my resolve, I don't know. But I held my OFA cloak on tight, smiling quietly, listening, not speaking, acting obedient, but on the inside, I was panicking and angry and disgusted. All I could think was that I was sitting around a lunch table with a bunch of predators while they all smiled and laughed.
Ophelia seems to think they're lying low because of the spotlight she’s put on the heat clinics, but still.
I want to take them down. I need to take them down.
Sully and Red are working together to find information on who my parents might owe money to, before we confront them. I felt ashamed when Red insisted on being involved—not that having Sully know all the grim, sordid details of my family’s problems wasn’t bad enough, but Red… I don’t want him to lose respect for me. To think I’m anything like them, that I’d ever place money before family.
But I can't let my pride get in the way when there's so much on the line.
Deciding to wait until tomorrow to move the last of my things, I slip my empty luggage into the closet. Sneaking out of my room, I barely make it ten steps before my mother is there, greeting me like a staff member. She must have snuck right back in after she left for the morning, I wasn’t expecting to see her.
"Imogen, there you are. I've contacted the catering company you recommended, it was an excellent suggestion. Contacts like that are key when hosting high-society. As the mayor's wife, you'll need to be proficient in organizing events. I'm proud of you."
She's never told me she was proud of me before. Who knew all it took was party planning. She continues speaking, turning down the stairs. I'm expected to follow.
"Kenneth was delighted you suggested an engagement party." She pauses, spinning to face me. "Really, I am quite proud of you. This was an excellent turnaround."
She continues, though I’ve yet to say a word. "So the catering company is taken care of, I’ve contacted Fletcher, she gave me the name of a string quartet. I thought of using the same one we hired for the wedding, but honestly," she scoffs, "how tawdry."
"Mother," I interject once we round the stairs into the foyer. She continues on toward the kitchen, where we find Gerald chopping away.
I have to interrupt her again while she gets lost in party details. The only good thing is that the engagement party is soon, so I only have to endure another few days of this.
"Mother, I think, since they are hosting the party at their house, at my suggestion, perhaps we should let them tell us what they need. We don’t need to make it such a grand affair."
You would think I suggested we have a tailgate potluck by the look she gives me.
Her scrutinizing gaze narrows, then she snaps her fingers. "I almost forgot! Imogen! You’re going to be late!"
"Late for what?"
"My goodness, child, thank god we’re getting you married and not a minute too soon. Where is your head these days? You have an appointment at the OFA. With Fletcher and their nutritionist. Remember?"
She turns, plucking a seasoned carrot from Gerald’s tray. We share a commiserating glare but say nothing.
"I don’t think that’s necessary. I’ve been back on my strict OFA diet and will try the dress—"
"Imogen, dear, don’t lie to me. If it wasn’t for this recent turnaround, I might seriously consider getting you some counseling. You’ve never misbehaved like this."
"I'm not a child, mother. I can’t misbehave." I wish I sounded stronger, but my voice is thin.
She squeezes my arm, and this time, right in front of Gerald, touches my stomach, pinching my side. "It’s not just muscle, Imogen. You know I fully support a healthy diet with a reasonable amount of exercise. But you’ve gained…" She pinches my side again.
Tears sting my eyes, not because it hurts but because it hurts.
"Inches," she continues. "How many dress sizes? Two? Some men like a little thickness, but no alpha likes muscle on an omega, Imogen, certainly not both. Now, be a good girl, sweetie, and go get changed. Your appointment is in an hour."
Somehow, she reduces me to an overly emotional child, incapable of articulating the depth of the hurt she causes. Dejected, I head upstairs to change. Because, of course, I do. Regardless of what she says or does, I can't escape the years of ingrained need to be perfect for her. To not disappoint.
My appointment went far too long and was significantly worse than my mother telling me how far off the wagon I’d fallen regarding my appearance.
You’d think I was training to be a bodybuilder the way they gasped and sighed. Madam Fletcher assured me I could regain my previous waif-like shape in no time, with vigorous cardio and calorie counting.
I ran on the treadmill until I wanted to vomit. I drank teas and elixirs I knew would feel problematic in my guts within the house. They weighed me, twice, and when the personal trainer was extra helpful and asked if I wanted to measure my arms and thighs with a measuring tape, I’d had enough.
Raked over emotionally by my mother, treated like an object by the OFA, I just wanted to scream and cry. My mask was slipping, my perfectly serene smile was more of a grimace, and I felt like I was losing control.
I force myself to drive back to my parent's home and, without caring, march upstairs and pack another piece of luggage. I shower, change my clothes into something comfortable because I just can’t put on a dress, and storm back downstairs.
