Page 177 of Knot So Social

The need to act fast wars with my paralysis. My heart thumps so hard inside my chest it feels like it’s being dislodged. Something tickles my cheeks and I swipe at them to discover fat tears leaking.

Haven’t I been through enough? Didn’t I struggle too many times already?

A statement. Put out a statement. Now. My phone vibrates on my desk as Kylie tries to get back in touch with me, but I leave it unanswered. Focus on the words. Do I admit the truth and explain myself? Or do I deny it?

I grab a pen, the stem unusually rigid under my fingers. The sides dimple deep into my fingertips as I draw a flow chart with possible outcomes.

Deny the claims. Say that yes, it was filmed during the day with a vacant seat and I came back late night for a private sitting. Hush money for the restaurant owner. If I deny the claims, then my audience’s next step will be to ask for proof. Receipts. I’ll need to be filmed in public. Is there any way I can step outside my door? The alphas—

A harsh scoff escapes me. If I could drag my paranoid body over that threshold, I’d have already done it. The threat that waits out there to devour me is a hundred times worse than the dumpster fire burning down my digital kingdom. I know, because I’ve experienced it twice. The searing fire, cells exploding throughout my body as the overload drags me under.

Three twelfths of a second?

Yeah right. Longest seconds of my lifetime, followed by months of agonizing physical therapy while I learned to talk and walk again.

I squiggle deep strokes over the top of that flow chart and start again.

Tell the truth. Or something with truth mixed into it. Everything’s been true up until now, but the Luxembourg case if different. I couldn’t go because of illness maybe. Or my heat? Or travel plans got canceled? But then why was my assistant there?

I circle back to my heat. That’s when everything started going wrong. My mind whirls and my breathing shallows out until I’m gasping and heaving over the desk.

“Willow?” Someone bangs on the door. “Please, let us help you!”

“Ha!”

Help? What help have alphas ever given me? They always laughed at my failings. Rubbed my face in it like a bad puppy.

See? This is why you shouldn’t try, shortcake. You can’t do anything.

“Why?” I groan, pushing my chair back and leaning down, my head almost between my knees. “Why did I get given this hand to play? Should I have been born an alpha?”

Why wasn't I born smarter, more resilient? Why didn’t someone stop me going down that path of destruction with the Ilvine pack?

Because no one’s ever had my back.

“Cara mia! Per favore! Please. Please let us in.”

I cover my ears and rock in the seat. Where’s Mr Shares? I can’t tell the difference between the voices in my head and the real ones.

And with each moment I hesitate, everything I’ve worked for disintegrates further. Why can’t I act? Why can’t I save what I built?

It’s like lightning struck all over again, and I have to stand by helplessly while it paralyzes me.

So should I just let it burn? Throw furniture on the bonfire, laugh and dance and admit this was all I was ever worth. That the alphas were right. Pack my things and go back to living in my car?

“I can’t,” I sob, gripping my knees tight. “I can’t do it. I can’t go back!”

Fear and rage mingle together in a potent cocktail. I launch upright, my chair slamming into the wall. With a wild cry, I rake the desktop and monitors to the side, tumbling them over the edge.

“I can’t go back!” I scream, tearing at the cables under the desk.

The keyboard flies across the desk, slamming into my shoulder. I don’t care. The lamp tumbles to the floor, the glass dome shattering into a million pieces. Like my content.

The lies were never the problem. It was the omega beneath them, the shaky foundation. If I'd just been perfect, I wouldn’t have needed lies. If I’d been enough.

That was always the problem. Me. A faulty omega who wasn’t supposed to be alive. Like a glitch in the Matrix, I’ve poisoned everything around me.

I lean over the desk and grab the letter opener from the drawer. If I can’t force myself outside, maybe I should just—