Page 96 of Lavender and Honey

She waves away my gratitude with a dismissive gesture. "Kindness costs nothing. Now, will you be alright? Or should I stay a while?"

I shake my head, suddenly desperate for solitude despite my fears. "I'll be fine. I just need some time to... process."

Mrs. Chen looks unconvinced, but she respects my boundaries. "If you need anything, I am just next door. Even just tea and someone to listen."

I nod, throat tight with unshed tears. Mrs. Chen gives my hand one final squeeze before heading toward the door, hermovements unhurried but purposeful. At the threshold, she turns back.

"Lydia," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "The scent blockers. That is your choice, not hers. Remember this."

The bell chimes as she leaves, the sound hollow in the empty shop. I stand motionless behind the counter, feeling strangely disembodied, as if I'm watching myself from a distance. My phone buzzes again on the counter, the screen lighting up with another message from the group chat. I can't bring myself to look at it.

Instead, I move through the shop on autopilot, flipping the sign to "Closed," drawing the blinds, shutting down the register. Each action feels mechanical, divorced from conscious thought. The colorful displays of paints and canvases that usually bring me joy now seem garish and too bright, hurting my eyes with their intensity.

My mother's words echo in my head, a poisonous mantra that drowns out reason:"An unmated Omega without pack protection—do you have any idea how vulnerable you are?"

I do know. I've always known. It's why I spent a year hiding behind blockers, keeping everyone at arm's length, building walls so high no one could scale them. Until Elias, with his warm smile and patient persistence. Until Finn, with his quiet strength and gentle hands. Until Soren, with his boundless energy and unexpected wisdom. Until Lucian, with his protective instincts and perceptive eyes. But what if they're not enough? What if my mother is right, and my "fantasy" of independence is just setting me up for eventual failure? What if the Greene pack is my only real option for long-term security?

A sob builds in my chest, pressing against my ribs like a living thing trying to escape. I swallow it back, not willing to break down in my shop where anyone passing by might see. Home. Ineed to get home, where I can fall apart in private, away from curious eyes and well-meaning neighbors.

I gather my things with trembling hands—purse, keys, the sketchbook with my seasonal gift box designs that had seemed so important just hours ago. Now they feel trivial, childish even. Playing at being an artist when my biological reality as an Omega might demand harder choices.

As I lock the shop door behind me, the lavender scent of my own distress swirls around me, no longer a declaration of trust and openness but a vulnerability I can't believe I willingly exposed. The short walk to my apartment stretches before me like an endless gauntlet, each step an effort against the growing weight in my chest.

All I want is to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and cry until this hollowed-out feeling subsides. To hide from a world that suddenly seems full of threats and complications I'd foolishly thought I'd escaped. To retreat from the terrifying freedom I'd been so proud of just this morning.

I want to disappear until I can figure out if the life I've been building is real and sustainable, or just a temporary refuge before reality—as my mother so coldly put it—catches up to me.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

My apartment door clicks shut behind me, the sound like a vault sealing. I slide down against it until I'm sitting on the floor, my legs suddenly unable to support the weight of my mother's words. My bag slips from nerveless fingers, keys jangling as they hit the hardwood. The silence of my living room presses against my skin, the familiar furniture and artwork frozen in place like witnesses to my unraveling. I've kept myself together by threads all the way home, hyperaware of my unblocked scent trailing behind me like a neon sign, announcing my distress to anyone with a sensitive enough nose. Now, in the privacy of my sanctuary, those threads begin to snap one by one.

The first sob catches me by surprise, tearing from my throat with such force it feels like it brings some essential part of me with it. Then another follows, and another, until I'm curled into myself on the floor, arms wrapped around my middle as if I might physically fall apart without holding myself together. My tears fall unchecked, hot against my cheeks, blurring the familiarcontours of my apartment into impressionistic smudges of color and light.

"I was doing so well," I whisper to the empty room, my voice ragged around the edges. "I was finally finding my way."

My chest aches with the force of my crying, each breath a struggle against the constriction of my lungs. I haven't cried like this since the night I fled my parents' house, since I sat in Avery's car and watched the looming silhouette of my childhood prison disappear in the rearview mirror. I thought I was past this—past feeling like I might shatter into a thousand irretrievable pieces at the sound of my mother's voice, at the weight of her expectations.

Eventually, the storm subsides enough that I can push myself up from the floor on trembling arms. I make my way to the couch, movements sluggish as if I'm wading through waist-deep water. My phone is still clutched in my hand, knuckles white around its edges. The screen lights up with another notification—the twentieth? thirtieth? I've lost count of how many times it's buzzed since my mother appeared in my shop.

With numb fingers, I swipe it open, the brightness making my swollen eyes sting. Messages flood the screen—all from the group chat, their concern evident even in the preview snippets I can see without opening the full conversation.

Elias: Lydia? Is everything okay?

Soren: Has anyone heard from Lavender girl? It's not like her to disappear mid-convo.

Finn: Maybe she got busy with customers?

Lucian: I don't like this. She's usually very responsive.

Their worry should warm me, should remind me that I have people who care now. Instead, it feels like another weight pressing down, another expectation I have to navigate. I have told them some things about my past, but not everything. I can'tface their questions right now, can't bear to explain the tangled mess of my past and the uncertain terrain of my future. But I need to talk to someone who understands, who was there from the beginning.

I open a new message thread to Avery, my fingers hovering over the keyboard before I manage to type:

My mother found me. She's in town. Wants me to go back for arranged mating with Greene pack. I don't know what to do.

I hit send before I can overthink it, then watch as the message status changes from "Delivered" to "Read." The typing indicator appears immediately, three dots bouncing as Avery composes her response. I hold my breath, as if the physical act of breathing might somehow interfere with the transmission of her words.

Avery: WHAT??? Are you okay? Do you need me to come there? I can be on the road in fifteen minutes.

---