Page 137 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

Marcia’s expression softens. “They do more than fund them.”

“I had no idea,” I manage. “None of this is public. How is none of this public?”

Marcia gives me a knowing look. “Because that’s the point, dear. From what I understand, most of what Synthera earns goes right back into this work. The shelters and the research. If people knew what they were really doing, there are powerful people who would try to stop it.” She looks at me steadily. “These are not men who are trying to profit off omega bodies. These are men who are trying to set them free.”

My throat is tight. My eyes burn. I press my thumbnail into the pad of my index finger, hard, focusing on the sharp point of pain to keep everything else at bay.

I think about the words I threw at Max and the way his face went still. He trusted me with the memory of his mother, and I still accused him of being the very thing he’s spent his entire life fighting against.

A wave of shame rolls through me.

“He’s a good man, Sophie.” Marcia’s voice is gentle now. “All three of them are.” She reaches across the space between our chairs and pats my knee. “Whatever you read in those files—whatever brought you here looking like you wanted to burn the world down—the truth is better than you think.”

I look down at her hand on my knee. Small, lined with veins, spotted with age. A hand that has held and lost and endured and still reaches out to comfort strangers.

“I made a mistake,” I say, and my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “I saw the files and I assumed the worst. I went to Max and I⁠—”

“You cared,” Marcia interrupts firmly. “You saw omegas being hurt and you got angry on their behalf. That’s not a mistake, dear. That’s a conscience.” She squeezes my knee once and lets go. “The mistake would have been not caring at all.”

I look at her, at the woman who seized on a table and still went back for more. She lives in a tiny room she treats like home. She calls Max dear, and he brings her salted caramel chocolates. My throat tightens so hard I can’t swallow.

“Perhaps it’s best if you talk to Max about the rest,” Marcia says. “I think I’ve said quite enough. And I suspect he’s sitting in that car making himself sick with worry.”

I stand, and she stands with me, and before I know what’s happening she’s pulled me into a hug—brief and fierce, her silver hair brushing my cheek.

“You remind me of someone,” she murmurs near my ear. “Someone who used to think being angry was the same as being strong.” She pulls back, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes bright. “It’s not, you know. Being angry is easy. Being open—that’s the brave thing.”

I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod.

“Come visit me again,” she says. “And bring those boys with you. Max never eats enough when he comes. I worry about him.”

“I will,” I say, and I mean it in a way that surprises me.

I walk back down the stairs, through the foyer, and out through the front door into the evening.

Max is in the car, both hands on the steering wheel, his head tipped back against the headrest. He looks exhausted.

I get in the car and close the door.

He straightens immediately, his gaze locking onto mine, searching my face with an intensity that would have felt like a threat a month ago. Now it just makes my chest ache.

“She told me about the shelters,” I say quietly. “About the funding. About what Synthera is really working on.”

Max doesn’t speak. He’s waiting, every line of his body held taut with the effort of not asking the question I can see burning behind his eyes.

“Why?” I ask him. “Why all of this? Why does it matter so much to you?”

He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the windshield.

“My mother’s name was Margaret Elaine.”

The words take a second to reach me. And then they do, and the ground shifts beneath my feet.

Margaret Elaine. Elaine House.

Oh God. He named them after her. All of them. Every single shelter.

I look at him, and the strain in his face tells me how hard that was for him to say. His jaw is rigid and his knuckles white around the steering wheel.