Page 8 of Knot All is Forgiven

Hell, I was even in inpatient therapy after Pack Stargazer found their Omega, convinced that I was wrong all along. I had to go along with it, but everything they had me say and do felt wrong.

It only made it even more apparent that I am an Omega, but she's trapped inside me.

I've been in Lunarcrest City for a decade now. Between hospitalizations, moving out of my parents' house, and taking classes at the community college, it took me longer than expected to save up the money to relocate. But I did it. I showed up in Lunarcrest with hope, a dream, and a degree in marketing from a subpar college.

I've made a nice life for myself here.

I work at Hurry Up And Grow, a massive advertising firm. I'm the senior executive for the print division, working with companies and our graphic designers to put together eye-catching ads to help sell whatever bullshit they're pushing right now.

I say that like I don't enjoy it. I really, really love my job. There is something so satisfying about figuring out how to convince someone they need something.

It's a pretty comfortable gig, and it's given me enough income to get a complete genome mapping from the Design Clinic, which I've been meaning to do for ages.

My parents didn't design me because it was way too expensive for our small-town lifestyle, so we don't know what my traits say, but I am convinced my traits will confirm what I've known my whole life.

I am an Omega.

The doctor clears his throat, forcibly pulling me out of the haze I'd fallen into. The Alpha smiles kindly at me when I startle. He is so put together, with a crisp white shirt stretched across his fit chest and a deep green tie that matches his eyes. His dirty blonde hair is shorter on the sides, with the top kept long.

"As I was saying," the doctor repeats.

What was his name again? Dr. Vickers?

Yeah, I think that's it.

"Your genome map is fascinating."

"Fascinating, is it? How?" I squirm in my seat, my black pencil skirt riding up my thighs. I do an awkward shuffle, attempting to pull it back down, but instead, I probably end up looking like I'm scratching hemorrhoids on the seat. I nervously tap the heel of my pointed-toe pumps on the cold tile floor.

"Fascinating in that it's almost a dead ringer for the Perfect Omegas'."

The Perfect Omega. Almost two years ago, it came out that her whole life, she'd been abused and manipulated into being the image of what an Omega could be. Her genome was designed to have all the key traits of the ideal Omega.

"Okay, crazy odds and all, but I have told everyone I'm an Omega my whole life, so I'm not too surprised. I just haven't presented yet." He opens the folder for me, and I snag the top sheet. It's a summary of my predicted characteristics based on my genome.

"I put your information in as if you were a child," he says, not making eye contact. "I didn't want your age to influence how your sample was processed and interpreted. As much as we rely on science, there is still a human element in the predictors." He leans forward, spreading the pages before him, talking quickly and excitedly. "This one says you'll be graceful, with a low likelihood of regular stumbles or breaking a bone. It also impliesyou may excel at dancing, ice skating, or gymnastics due to your good coordination."

I laugh, shaking my head. "I'm a dancer," I say softly. "Or, I was. I haven't been since high school, but I lived at the studio for a while there."

"Were you also a good student? Specifically with languages?" he continues, holding up another page. "What about your eye for color?"

"I was a great student. I never studied other languages, but I'm from a small town, so there was never any need. And as for your last question, I'm an ad executive and like to paint. So I would say my eye for color is pretty good."

His eyes track over my body, and I inhale at his perusal. It's not predatory, but it still feels a little invasive.

"Your figure is …" he clears his throat, his cheeks flaming red. "You've got a fertile figure."

"I'm sorry, what?" The sentence is so strange that I cannot help but laugh, my eyes streaming with tears as Dr. Vickers looks increasingly uncomfortable. "What is that even supposed to mean?"

He stammers, looking anywhere but me. "Omegas tend to have wider hips and fuller breasts…" he says in a tone so low it may as well be a whisper. "I couldn't figure out how to say that without coming off like a creep."

"No, Vick, you just came off like an alien."

"Vick?" he wrinkles his nose in confusion.

"Yeah, short for Vickers."

"What is Vickers?"

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