Page 3 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"What?" The question escaped her lips, barely audible.
"You deserve to know that I've made other commitments. More suitable ones for someone in my position." His voice was formal, almost rehearsed. “I found a more suitable Omega for me and my fellow Alphas who agree that you no longer suit our arrangement. Talented, yes, but one that most certainly can’t fulfill all our needs, especially when you focus on your…own goals and career oath.”
What is he trying to say...?
I should give up my dreams so I can commit to him and the pack.
Why couldn’t this discussion be done anywhere? Why specifically now?
What does he get out of all of this?
"I admire your talent, but our compatibility was...overestimated."
Over…estimated?
Marigold's lungs constricted. Each breath became a struggle as reality crashed down around her. The stage beneath her feet —always her sanctuary—felt suddenly unsteady.
This was her safe place. Where she could shine and share her talent with the world and be appreciated.
And now?
Now it was being tainted. Stained.
Potentially ruined beyond repair…
This can't be happening. Not here. Not now.
"Rowan, please," she whispered, her dancer's poise the only thing keeping her upright. "Whatever this is, we can discuss it privately."
There mere idea that this was happening still couldn’t be fathomed. He was her biggest cheerleader, encouraging her to follow her dreams in performance arts.
Bought her first pair of pointe shoes…
She could feel the eyes upon her, the weight of their scrutiny pressing against her skin, yet within her tumultuous heart, a silent plea emerged, begging for invisibility. She wanted to dance away from this nightmare, to twirl back in time to the embrace of the spotlight that knew no rejection —only adoration.
"There's nothing to discuss." His words fell like an executioner's blade.Cold. Non-chalet. As if he hadn’t been the one to ask me to be his and be the idol of their pack."I wish you continued success in your career."
With a curt nod, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the merciless spotlight.
The theater's silence gave way to murmurs, growing louder with each passing second. Somewhere, a camera flashed. Someone laughed — a sharp, cruel sound that cut through the buzz.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The mantra from countless rehearsals echoed uselessly in her mind.
Her body moved on autopilot—chin up, shoulders back—while inside, something vital was collapsing. Years of disciplined emotion carefully channeled into her performances, threatened to burst through her carefully composed facade.
Don't cry. Not here. They're all watching.
The applause that had enveloped her minutes ago now felt like a distant memory from another life. In its place, she heard only the furious pounding of her heart and the whispers of the audience — pity and morbid fascination blending into a suffocating chorus.
Behind her sternum, a pressure built — grief and humiliation crystallizing into something hard and sharp. Her fingers trembled, and she curled them into fists, nails biting into her palms.
How could he do this? Here, of all places?
The stage — once her kingdom — had become her gallows.
From the corner of her eye, a figure emerged from the shadows, an elegant silhouette that contrasted sharply with her own dawning despair.
