Hell, when I was thirteen, she told me that ‘ballet wasn’t meant for chunky girls’.She said the words like it was a casual piece of advice. Like her opinion was a kindness. I spent years bleeding through pointe shoes just to spite her.
But still, I wish she’d get over the fact that I don’t look like her….just once.
“Do you have anything looser on top?” Mother asks the young attendant. “Something longer, too?”
“Of course!” She nods eagerly. “We got a new shipment in. Tea-length silhouettes with high collars. Perfect for formal ceremonies and very popular with omegas graduating this year.”
Mother’s mouth pinches as her eyes drop to the hem of the dress I’m wearing. “This oneissupposed to be tea-length,” she says sharply. “It looks downright inappropriate with how tall she is.”
The beta recovers smoothly. “Oh! Yes, well. Therearea few styles made specifically for tall omegas.” She turns to me with an apologetic little laugh. “It’s hard to dress tall girlies. Nothing ever falls where it’s supposed to, right?”
I force a smile because it’s easier than revealing how close I am to crying.
“Show me,” Mother says instantly.
The perky beta gestures toward a gleaming display near the front of the boutique, fabrics shimmering like frost under the lights.
Mother flits off after her, already chattering about hems and propriety and modesty.
The moment she’s gone, the air should feel lighter. But it doesn’t.
I still can’t breathe.
Not in this shimmering boutique with its overly polished marble floors and gilt mirrors. Not with customers giggling between racks of silk and the dull classical music humming overhead like a trapped bee inside my skull.
My chest pinches like my ribs are pulling too tight around my lungs.
I need some fresh air. Just a second of it.
My gaze drifts away from my mother, toward the front of the store. Sunlight spills through the large glass doors, streaking across the marble floor. Outside, the air looks crisp and cold. It’s not yet spring, but it’s a far cry from the choking frost of winter. A few betas stroll down the sidewalk, carrying glossy bags from the expensive shops that line this district.
I swallow hard.
Omegas aren’t allowed outside without an escort.
I ease away from the changing rooms like I’m only browsing. I take one careful step, then another, sliding past racks of pastel dresses and glittering shoes.
My pulse kicks up as I check over my shoulder. Mother is still busy fussing with the shop attendant, too absorbed in collars and hems to notice me.
I wait one more beat, making sure her attention stays pinned on the clothes.
Then I turn and cut for the glass doors, fast. Head down, breath shallow, chasing the first hit of outside air like it’s going to save me.
I push through the heavy glass door, and the fresh air hits me instantly. Cool. Clean. Crisp. It washes over my flushed face like a balm, and the tight band around my chest loosens by degrees. But before I let myself really sink into it, my eyes sweep the curb. I squint, looking for my family’s black town car.
I don’t want Mother’s driver to see me and freak out.
But the car isn’t here.
The street is mostly empty. There’s a wide ribbon of pavement and quiet storefronts, with the occasional expensive car gliding by too slowly, as if the drivers are shopping with their eyes.
Thank goodness.
My body instantly relaxes, and I suck in a deep breath. My abs slowly unclench as I fill my lungs again and again.
For a heartbeat, I simply stand next to the glass doors, letting my heart settle back into something close to normal.
That’s when I notice him.
