And Melissa.
Of course Melissa liked it. Melissa probably helped him write it.
I click on her profile and immediately wish I hadn't.
She's posted her own photo. A tasteful black and white shot of her holding Callum's hand, both of them looking somber and supportive. Her caption:
Standing by my friends in their darkest hours. Some people run when things get hard. Real ones stay. #AlwaysThere #TrueColors #HeartbrokenGroom
The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated audacity.
My hands are shaking now. Not just with anger, but with the physical symptoms of omega stress. My skin feels too hot. My stomach is cramping. My scent intensifies, and I hate it.
She was sleeping with him. For how long, I don't know. Weeks? Months? The entire time we were engaged? And now she's posting about "true colors" like she's some kind of loyalty expert.
I take another massive spoonful of peanut butter and chew aggressively, trying to ground myself in the physical act of eating.
My phone buzzes. Then again. Then five more times in rapid succession.
I don't want to look. Already know who it is.
But I look anyway because I'm a glutton for punishment.
Callum (7 messages):Jessica please. We need to talk.I know you're scared but running away isn't the answer.Everyone is asking about you. This is humiliating.Just come back. We can work through this. I forgive you.You're embarrassing me in front of my entire family.I've doneeverything for you and this is how you repay me?You're nothing without me. You know that, right?
The messages escalate so fast I get whiplash. From "please" to "I forgive you" to "you're nothing without me" in under five minutes.
And my omega reacts viscerally. My stomach cramps harder, doubling me over. Nausea rises sharp and bitter. My skin breaks out in a cold sweat despite the warmth of the room.
My body knows he's a threat. If he found out I was omega, he'd use it. Control it. Worst of all, try and control me.
The fear is primal. Biological. My omega wants me to run, hide, find pack, find safety, get away from this alpha who wants to own rather than protect.
I screenshot the messages with trembling fingers. Save them to a folder labeled "Evidence" that I created yesterday. Then I block his number.
The relief is immediate but temporary. Like taking off a too-tight bra at the end of a long day, except the day isn't over and I'm still trapped in this situation.
I go back to scrolling, which is a mistake, but my omega-heightened emotions won't let me stop. Everything feels more intense. More personal. More devastating.
Someone has posted a video. Grainy, shot from a distance, but unmistakably me. Climbing down the trellis in my wedding dress. Veil catching on branches. Landing in the flower bed like a graceless swan.
The caption:RUNAWAY BRIDE ALERT! Jessica Delacroix makes her escape! #HeartbrokenGroom #WeddingFail #YouHadOneJob
The video has 2,000 views.
Two thousand people have watched me climb out a window in my wedding dress.
What if they figure it out? What if the whole town knows I'm omega before I even understand what that means?
The anxiety makes my chest tight.
I close Instagram and open TikTok because apparently I hate myself.
Someone has already made a meme. My face photoshopped onto various escape scenes. Prison breaks. Zombie apocalypses. That scene from Shawshank Redemption where Tim Robbins crawls through the sewage pipe.
The song playing over the compilation is "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor.
I laugh despite myself, the sound slightly hysterical in the empty house. It's either laugh or cry, and I've done enough crying. My omega is already emotional enough without adding more tears to the mix.
