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"Imogen," my mother sighs, taking a seat on the bed beside my bags. "We only want what's best for you."
I huff, wanting to say and do more, like yell and shout that I'm more than a dollar sign; instead, I stay silent and serene. Straightening my shoulders and clearing my throat, pretending I'm the cultured debutante my mother raised, I gracefully fold items as I pack them into my bags.
She holds out an envelope, and I pause with a blouse in hand and glance at it. "What's that?"
"It's a courting gift. From Kenneth," she smiles, shoving the envelope into my hands.
Curious, I take it, pulling out the contents. I don't know why I'm surprised. Or disappointed. It's not like I want to marry them. Still, a gift card?
"Imogen, that was very thoughtful of the mayor," she chides.
"Do you think the mayor is trying very hard, giving his prospective omega a gift card to a spa that is owned by the OFA? I can go there anytime I want."
"Imogen!" my mother snaps. "I know I didn't raise you to be ungrateful. You should thank your lucky stars he's keen on you!"
I grit my teeth, accidentally crinkling the envelope. "He didn't even ask to see me, did he? He just dropped this off." If I was actually interested in Kenneth or any of the Stevens Pack, I think their lack of effort would offend me. Then again, maybe my mother is right. Maybe I am being ungrateful.
"Well, you weren't home, were you? You were off god knows where, doing god knows what, with whom. Imogen, you mark my words—if Stevens finds out you're anything less than we've presented, they won't have you. And I need you to understand," she shifts on the bed, clutching my hands in hers. "You need Stevens. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
There's a plea in her eyes, a sense of desperation. "Mother, what aren't you telling me?" Why on earth would I need them?
She pauses, and I fear she might ignore me, but then she softens, her shoulders slumping forward, so different from her usually perfect posture. We lock eyes in tense silence, but after tasting bravery at Queenie's, I'm determined to stand my ground, and she blinks away first.
Sighing, she confesses, "Your fathers over-leveraged. They're in a bit of a financial… pickle. It's nothing to worry about; everything will be fine. But we just need to see you settled, because I'm not sure we can support you much longer."
"I thought selling to Constantine was supposed to help?" My fathers are brilliant developers, less brilliant businessmen. Selling to Constantine was supposed to solve all our problems, especially since they stayed on as CEO's of their company.
"It did. But before they sold to Constantine Industries, they took on a couple of loans to keep the business afloat. Some of those debt collectors are expecting their payout soon." She looks down at her pants, plucking away at lint, deceptively nonchalant after dropping such a bomb.
Ice chills my spine, and I pull back. "What are you saying, mother?"
Her shoulders straighten, spine erect once more, lifting her chin to face me head-on; she pulls on that OFA cloak we both wear, and you'd never guess the agitation hidden beneath. It's perfection. I learned from the best. "You were supposed to marry Constantine. Then they went and fell in love with some charity case, which is fine, but now, we need you to make this work with the mayor. We're very lucky they've offered marriage before even bonding with you. You'll do this for me, won't you? For your family? Imogen, we need you to do this. Otherwise, we could be destitute."
"So you're just selling off your assets, then? First the business, now me?"
My mother gasps, and in that fleeting moment, my anger swells against the unfairness. But then guilt creeps in. I don't want them to be destitute. Growing up, I always clearly understood my place in the family and the obligations that came along with it.
I just never expected my marriage to be so transactional.
My parents need money to dig themselves out of whatever mess they've created, but it must be messier than they're letting on. They put on a façade of moral superiority, but in reality, they're not above such transgressions.
They like to tell everyone we moved to Arrow Cove to broaden my prospects, but things at the end, when we were still in Southern California, felt suspicious. My parents argued in hushed tones. Bowen's Jaguar disappeared from the garage one day, and they began sharing a single SUV to work. Then, one day, two Lamborghinis showed up, and everyone smiled again like nothing was amiss. There's been lingering issues in my family for a while.
But I don't ask questions because if I do, I'm ignored or reprimanded. Mind your place, Imogen. Smile, look pretty. That's all anyone needs from you.
Do I want to marry the Stevens Pack to dig my parents out of a financial hole? What does it say about the mayor and his deputy, Kenneth, and Saul, who are entertaining meetings with Ophelia and Sully Constantine and the DA regarding more security for omegas while also paying for my hand in marriage?
I'd already resigned myself to the wedding. That was the whole point of dancing at Queenie's, but now I'm having second thoughts.
But my mother looks worried, genuinely. I don't know what she means by debt collectors, but her eyes keep shifting, her white-knuckle grip expressing more emotion than she'd typically allow. I don't care about being financially destitute. Truly, I don't. Sure, I like nice things. But I care more about her and my fathers.
I glance back at the envelope in my hand. Maybe I was being ungrateful. Tucking the gift card into my packed bag, I give her a small smile.
Tension pulls wrought in my gut, tearing at my heart, my lungs. But I smile serenely and say, "Okay, Mother. I'll… marry the Stevens Pack."
She claps and lights up as if we didn't just have one of the heaviest conversations we've ever had. "Wonderful! I'll give the wedding planner a call. You'll see, Imogen. You won't regret this."
I can't share her enthusiasm, even if I have officially agreed. Gripping my bags, I nod in agreement, coming to a stand.
