**Chapter 10: Emmeline** With my large box of stickers to my left and a collection of colorful pens neatly arranged in a pot to my right, my desk is a canvas of chaotic creativity. In front of me lie three planners, their pristine pages waiting to be filled. Usually, this is the time I cherish most during the week. Yet today, my hands tremble uncontrollably, and a cold pit of anxiety churns in my stomach—a deep-seated unease that refuses to fade. My eyes dart to the corner of my room, where my nest beckons like a siren. It's warm, a sanctuary woven with the comforting scents of lavender, chamomile, and the lingering essence of Uri. They swirl together in the fabric, calling to me with an enticement that feels all too familiar. Oh, how I wish my nose wasn’t free of a cold right now. “What’s wrong with you?” I grumble to myself, tugging at my hair in frustration. “Just get it together, Emme.” But as is so often the case, I don’t. Instead of succumbing to the siren call of my body, I hit play on my playlist, desperate for the rhythm to ground me, and I pull up my laptop’s calendar. Logic, I remind myself, is the key to pushing against the storm of instinct that threatens to overwhelm me. As I sift through my meetings for the upcoming week, a sense of purpose momentarily distracts me. A doctor's appointment and a review at the Omega Centre loom on the horizon, mingling with what promises to be an already chaotic schedule. “How will I balance it all?” I think, my heart racing at the weight of responsibilities: a burgeoning pregnancy, job expectations, and the potential fallout from everything that could go wrong. Suddenly, my scent spikes—a visceral reaction to the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me. I curl inward, clutching my stomach as I inhale sharply, but the breath won’t satiate my longing for safety, for the pack scent, for the reassuring presence of alphas. Closing my eyes, I grapple with the urge to retreat to my nest, fighting against the anxious tide ready to pull me under. **Calm down, Emme. Take it step by step.** “First, the meetings,” I instruct myself, highlighting the red tab on my calendar. Eight meetings next week—and then my heart drops. Two of them are with Oscar. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and in this case, it feels like I've sprinted directly into the lion's den. Oscar, my CFO. Oscar, Uri’s packmate. Oscar, the man who turned my world upside down during our spontaneous shopping adventure yesterday, leaving me a tangled wreck inside. He’s going to hate me. That thought spirals like a rollercoaster, sending my stomach into a wild twist—not from nausea, but from something far more disturbing: guilt. He’s genuinely lovely and we have a rapport that a lot of people would envy. He dedicated an entire hour to help me find the right clothes and even stayed behind just to ensure Isaac picked me up safely. Yet, that was before the truth—before he knew I’d spent the night with Uri… and, God help me, before I discovered I was pregnant. And not telling him straight away? A disaster waiting to happen. I feel like a disheveled puppet dangling from fraying strings. My scent glands pulse with anxiety, making the air around me feel thick and suffocating. Despite my biological instincts crying out for help, there's no one here to respond to my silent plea. I press my fingers against the tender flesh below, wincing slightly at the sensitivity. It’s been far too long since I’ve felt the grounding weight of an alpha to ease this disarray, and Evander, sweet as he is, simply isn’t enough to calm the storm raging inside me. A dull, throbbing ache nestles in my core, my scent glands swelling from the stress that has become my relentless companion. I rub the spot lightly, attempting to alleviate the uncomfortable pressure, but it only heightens my sense of isolation. As my gaze flickers to a family photo taken years ago at one of my dads’ work functions, my stomach drops with dread. What will happen when they learn the truth? Disappointment will surely breed in their hearts—a deep-seated pain I had hoped never to revisit. Thirteen years to disappoint my fathers the first time, and here I am, breaking my own record within a mere twelve years. A pregnant omega without a pack, destined to echo my mother’s path. And then there’s Evander, his picture sitting valiantly beside mine, a stark reminder of the emotional turmoil I’ve woven around us. He’s furious and scared, desperate to be here, while all I’ve done is shut him out. Over sixty messages from him today speak volumes in their urgency. But it’s just too much. He can’t fathom why I haven’t scheduled that fateful appointment—to discuss… to terminate this pregnancy. Even thinking the word feels like a betrayal to myself. I keep oscillating between pros and cons, yet until I have a solid list—until I craft a plan… “Meetings,” I whisper firmly, trying to anchor myself back to reality. Drawing shaky breaths, I attempt to jot down Oscar’s name in my planner, but the letters blur together, each stroke resembling a cry for help. Perhaps it’s tears blurring my vision, or it could just be my inept handwriting. Probably both. A whine escapes my throat before I can clamp it down, my hand snapping over my mouth in horror. I never let my omega sounds slip—this is one facet of myself meant to remain hidden. Panicked, I sweep my gaze around the room, terrified at the thought of someone overhearing. But then clarity washes over me. I’m at home, safe in my sanctuary, and yes, it’s okay to let my omega self be vulnerable... for now. Still, my heart races, whether from fear of exposure or the wish that a certain alpha would take me in his arms and tell me everything would be alright. I force a slow, calming breath past my lips, mimicking the confident growl of an alpha. Yet, it’s weak, useless—much like I feel. “Calm down, Emme. Now,” I snap at myself, again failing to emulate the commanding bark of an alpha. I take deep, steadying breaths as I scan my planner once more. **Monday at 10 am. You got this.** I jot down Oscar's name and press on to the Friday evening meeting. With determination, I reaffirm to myself that I can handle this—or at least I think I can. But as I reach for a sticker to embellish my planner, my body betrays me again. My nails tap anxiously against the polished wood of my desk, that soft, inviting nest across the room beckoning me away from this unyielding surface. No, Emmeline. **Focus.** You are a professional. You’re the Creative Operations Manager at Opus Media. You do not… My eyes flicker once more to the corner where my nest sits, a mockery of my frantic attempts at self-discipline. Those inviting hues of pink and purple—an audacious attempt to challenge the patriarchy and declare independence—now seem like a luxurious refuge from the chaos of adulthood. “No, Emme,” I scold myself, tears threatening to spill over. “Professional omegas don’t retreat to their nests during work planning. They don’t steal ties from their one-time lovers. And they absolutely do not fantasize about handsome betas.” A wave of nausea crashes over me, and I realize full well that my mind is the architect of this turmoil. Uri. The man who is everything a woman could desire, and yet stands out as a towering symbol of my chaos. I manage to drag my focus back to the planner, the pen trembling in my grip. The page blurs as another surge of nausea hits harder, twisting my insides. Oh, Sterling’s biting sarcasm and crisp scent would be a balm right now. The minty freshness that could cut through the thickness of my despair— I lunge toward the trash can, the sudden movement causing my meticulously arranged pens to scatter across the floor. A terrible noise crashes against my ears—my shame echoed in clattering sound. Everything around me feels fragile, much like the control I’ve tried to hold on to. Gagging, I hunch over the bin, my stomach lurching as I realize I’m about to retch. My body heaves painfully, tears spilling down my cheeks, mixing with the bile threatening to overwhelm me. My desk calendar, once pristine, is now marred with tears that seep into the ink, blurring my carefully written plans. How ironic, the scent-neutralizing spray tucked in my drawer now seen as a feeble joke. What purpose does it serve now when this place reeks of distress? Of pregnancy? Of an omega abandoned by her pack? I press my palm against the cool surface of my desk, inhaling deeply, but only stale air fills my lungs. Throughout the day, I have battled this relentless sickness, and my body is revolting against my isolation in the absence of an alpha, against my severed ties to my pack. I am exhausted, lonely, and desperately deprived—each moment feeling like a weight upon my chest. Everything around this pregnancy feels insurmountable without their support—without a bond I can lean on. With a heavy sigh, I set the empty bin aside and turn away from my desk, knowing there’s no chance of finding relaxation among my planners tonight. Not under the burden weighing heavily on my heart. Instead, I am drawn toward my nest, each step feeling like an act of surrender, a relinquishment of control that I grasp at so desperately. A deep, satisfied purr emanates from my chest as the confines of my professional persona start to crumble under the soft embrace of my sanctuary. The blankets beckon me as I sink down, my knees hitting the floor beside the nest—though I hadn’t consciously made the decision to kneel. “Just for a minute,” I murmur, but even as I speak the words, my voice cracks under the weight of my own pretense. Pretending to sit primly at the edge proves futile; my body knows precisely what it craves. Within an instant, I’ve surrendered, burrowing among the warm blankets that envelop me, my pressed blouse crumpling as I curl into a protective ball. At once, my scent glands cease throbbing, and the edges of urgency smooth into something far more manageable. I am warm, I am cozy, I am content—a fragile happiness amidst the storm of my thoughts. But deep down, I recognize the weakness wrapped inside this comfort. I want to believe I’m simply giving my body what it needs, yet there lies a nagging voice in my head, whispering accusations of weakness and indulgence. Why can't I reconcile this thought process with the need for structure and planning? As I nestle among the blankets, my emotions start to morph. “I can’t do this,” I cry into the softness, curling tighter, as though my physical form could contain the demand clawing at me from within. It has never been easy being an omega, but lately, it feels more like an impossibility. If I hold on to this baby, if I dare to navigate this uncharted territory of pregnancy… My sobs are dramatic, yet I release them unabashedly, knowing no one is here to witness my emotional unraveling. Who cares if I’m being unreasonable? If I’m weak and foolish for not trying harder to plan? Betraying my ambition by even considering this child? My hands rest gently over my stomach, feeling the profound mix of yearning and fear within me. There’s a part of me—not just the omega—that desires this child. It transcends biological impulses. It’s me; it’s Emmeline. I long for motherhood. Stupidly, I want this baby more than anything I’ve ever desired—perhaps equal to my career. “You're a selfish fucking bitch, Emmeline,” I hiss into the cushions, the swell of tears renewing as I grapple with the hollowness of my situation. How can I possibly raise a child when I can barely hold onto my own life, my ambitions, everything I’ve strived for? I’m destined to fit a mold, to be the submissive omega, to become the homemaker society expects of me. Maybe, just maybe, this child is a dreadful punishment from the universe, a consequence of my audacity to dream, to reach beyond the constraints of my identity. With every shuddering breath, I inhale waves of warmth mixed with spiced honey—Uri’s scent, the only tangible solace I’ve had since discharging from the hospital. His tie, carefully tucked beneath the plush pillows, is the solitary lifeline to grip in this sea of despair. I yearn for a sign that it can all be okay, that perhaps my nightmare can morph into something tender—something hopeful. If I dare to utter the truth, maybe everything will change for the better. Evander wouldn’t have to fret anymore; I’d spare my dads from disappointment. And my baby? They’d have the family they deserve. My strangled cry erupts from my throat more jagged than any blade, and I push the pillow aside, reaching for Uri’s tie. I had buried it under layers of fluffy fabric, a covert act to shield myself from reminders of complicated emotions. But now, it feels imperative. I need its warmth; I need the comfort it offers. I crave reassurance, protection from the storm raging inside me. I wish it could hold me, cuddle me into submission. With trembling fingers, I rub the silk against my scent glands, inhaling the remaining traces of Uri—a fading comfort that feels simultaneously euphoric and hollow. “It can’t fix you, Emmeline,” I mutter under my breath, pinching the fragile threads of reality. “Because they don’t want you. Because nobody wants you.” I curl my fingers around his tie, allowing myself to breathe in the fragrant mixture of honey and pepper that fills my senses like a warm embrace. The moment it touches my skin, a shiver dances down my spine. It envelops me, softening the jagged edges of my despair. My body instinctively responds—a comforting purr slips from my lips as I clutch the tie securely. Yes, I may have to return it when I return to work, but for now, it belongs to me, and I intend to soak up every lingering essence of Uri that clings to the fabric. Tears slip silently down my cheeks as my hand rests gently on my stomach, a delicate acknowledgment of everything that’s to come. “Don’t be stupid, Emme,” I whisper, more tears following the trail of the first. “Professional omegas don’t cry in their nests with their boss's stolen ties.” But perhaps… perhaps pregnant omegas do.