My shoulders tensed. "I'm not pretending anything. The treatments work,” I pushed out the words, tasting the half-truth. “They work well enough, Cat. Promise.” I turned my head, so she could see my smile from behind. It didn’t feel convincing, and the expression vanished the minute I shifted my gaze back to the clothing.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice even though no one was nearby. “I read about them, Mac. I’m glad they’re working, but… at what cost? They seem barbaric.”
“They’re not that medieval,” I pulled out a jewel-tone, drop waist dress. It also had a high-low hem with off the shoulder straps. I didn’t like it one bit. “This is too much. Send back anything that’sthisover-designed.”
“You’re changing the subject,” Cat chided, voice still pitched quietly. “If you’d at least tell the others, I’d feel better. They love you and would want to support you, Mac.”
“They know, so don’t worry.” I shrugged, stuffing the magenta monstrosity back on the rack.
“You told them?” Her entire demeanor shifted. “Oh. Oh, I’m so glad, Mac.”
“Well, we needed something to bond over after our big bad battle,” I said it flippantly. “I think Tray has suspected a few months. He all but carried me to my room after one particularly gnarly stripping.”
“Why didn’t you just tell him then? Tell all of them?” Her voice sounded genuinely confused. Betas probably didn’t understand the concept of Alpha-hood. The media portrayed our secondary gender as indomitable. We were programmed to reject vulnerability.
“Because getting beaten with a medieval weapon during a piano lesson made for better conversation.” I winked at her, trying to force a smile.
“Mac,” she said my name with so much sympathy that I immediately wanted to prove that I didn’t need any.
“Cat-a-li-na,” I simply said her name in response, breaking it into its syllables, as if by doing so, I could also break up the tense conversation.
I turned away from her, focusing on a rack of cardigans, pull-over sweaters, and blazers. "The pain was worth it and the alternative was giving up. Cat, I know you’re a Beta, but you’re also well-versed in ferality. You have to be, working in close quarters with Alphas. It’s required like CPR for lifeguards.”
Picking up an olive-hued sweater, I bristled at the scratchy wool texture. I dropped it on the floor unceremoniously, not caring that the price tag read well over two hundred dollars.
"I know how bad it can be…” Cat’s voice trailed off. “I know theoretically,” she clarified, “I just wish?—"
“That we’d all found a perfect omega in time to avoid suffering?” I shot her a wry smile over my shoulder. “You’re singing everyone’s favorite tune.”
Cat was ready with a response, but the front door opened just as she started to speak. It drew our collective attention away from the clothing and our conversation. The stylist entered, followed by his assistants. They each held a sky-high stack of shoe boxes. The rearmost Beta tripped over the ridge separating the threshold tile from the hardwood. She tiltedforward, desperately trying to regain her footing, but she failed. Her skyscraper of shoes tumbled down, one box hitting the head of the second assistant, who then proceeded to also lose control of their own leaning tower of footwear. The stylist, seeming to sense the disaster in action, sidestepped expertly, turning so smoothly that the boxes he held barely shifted. He waited to the side near the ugly bench in the foyer and watched his assistants stumble, fall, and land in a pile of cardboard, tissue paper, and heels.
I tried not to laugh at the ridiculous scene, but the corner of my mouth twitched upward. The stylist rolled his eyes dramatically at his assistants.
"Children. I'm working with children," he muttered, setting his perfectly balanced stack on the bench. He adjusted his paisley scarf with one hand, the other planted firmly on his hip. "How difficult is it to carry shoes in a straight line? It's literally the simplest part of your job description.”
The assistants scrambled to collect the scattered boxes, their faces flushed with embarrassment.
“We’re sorry, Sir,” one of the flustered women squeaked out.
“Won’t happen again,” the other quipped as she gathered up logo-embossed paper to fold neatly back into a corresponding shoe box. She picked up a pair of black leather, platform heels next. Almost immediately, she fumbled and dumped one of the sleek shoes onto the floor again.
“If there is even the slightest damage to those Prada heels, it will come out of your paycheck.” Their boss sniffed, checking his nails before sighing dramatically.
Cat, ever the diplomat, shot me a look that clearly communicated‘you didn’t win this, just because we’ve been interrupted’, and then she strode quickly towards the disgruntled stylist and shoe mishap.
“Fabio, darling,” Cat put on her cloyingly nice, professional voice as she approached, arms already out for a performative air hug and double cheek kiss. The stylist acted in kind, arms out and simpering smile in place.
“Catalina, I am sorry I did not greet you when we first arrived, but,” he waved a hand after their faux hug, indicating the flurry of movement in the mansion, as well as his bumbling employees. “It is too much. All too much.”
“I know. You’re such an absolute gem to come on short notice with so many things for our soon-to-arrive Omega.” Catalina placed a hand gently on Fabio’s shoulder and moved him towards me and the clothing racks. “Now that we have a moment, we need to go over what should stay and what needs to be returned.”
“Returned!” Fabio slapped a hand on his chest. “Everything is perfect for the Omega. I have carefully looked at her colors and measurements. She will stun in these outfits. A showstopper fit for Oblivion Haze!”
“Yes, you have impeccable taste, darling. Truly. No one would ever question that.” Cat shot me a look. I had no idea what she wanted, but I figured I’d take over.
“Send back anything in warm hues,” I made it an order, which apparently wasn’t what Cat had in mind, because now her expression was exasperated. “Our Omega has dark hair, blue eyes. She’s a cool winter. Fall colors are going to wash her out. And we want soft. Nothing scratchy or stiff. Nothing that irritates the skin.”
“Fashion requires discomfort at times,” Fabio huffed, hands on his hips now as he stared me down.
