Page 39 of Knot So Fast
My mother's expression shifts into something that might charitably be called concerned, but looks more like barely concealed horror.
"Darling, you can certainly acquire the same athletic build through Pilates, though it's not particularly attractive when a woman becomes too muscular or... intense about fitness. Alphas prefer a more refined approach to physical wellness."
I sigh heavily and set down my fork with more force than strictly necessary.
"Is this conversation really necessary during dinner? We're supposed to be having a nice family meal, not discussing my fitness routine like it's a corporate board meeting."
My father apparently decides this is the perfect moment to change the subject to something even more uncomfortable.
"Actually, speaking of social expectations, a pack reached out to me recently expressing interest in courting you."
I immediately choke on the sip of water I'd just taken, coughing and sputtering as the liquid goes down the wrong pipe.
"What?" I manage to gasp out once I can breathe again. "Can you clarify what you mean by 'interest,' because I'm definitely not interested in dating or courting anyone right now."
My mother leans forward slightly, her expression taking on that particular look of maternal concern mixed with social pragmatism.
"Sweetheart, you're getting older, and you really do need to start thinking about finding a suitable pack. It's not something you can put off indefinitely."
"Your mother's absolutely right," my father adds, his tone suggesting this is a business discussion rather than a conversation about my personal life. "Especially now, when it's so crucial to build a solid foundation and establish proper socialconnections in this world. The right pack alliance could provide security and stability that?—"
"Let me guess," I interrupt, my irritation finally boiling over into actual anger. "These packs are suddenly interested now because they're desperate to get an Omega ever since that announcement this morning that every Formula One team needs an Omega partner. Right?"
Both my parents go completely quiet, their expressions shifting from merely serious to something approaching alarmed. The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable, broken only by the soft clink of silverware against china.
"See?" I continue, warming to my theme now that I've clearly hit a nerve. "If you think this is going to stop with just racing, you're kidding yourselves. This move is just the beginning—the perfect test case in a field that's been completely male-dominated. Once it happens and proves successful, it's going to filter out to every other industry. It's only a matter of time before Omega inclusion becomes mandatory across the board."
My father's jaw tightens visibly.
"You shouldn't be watching that nonsense on television. It's not appropriate entertainment for someone in your condition."
I laugh, but there's no humor in it.
"Obviously someone around here likes it, or we wouldn't be having this conversation about suddenly interested packs."
My mother mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, "And where did that interest get our daughter?"
The words hit me like a slap, and I feel my anger drain away as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a hollow ache in my chest that I can't quite identify.
There's clearly more to this story—more to my accident, more to my past involvement with racing, more to why myparents seem so terrified of me engaging with anything related to motorsports.
But I know from experience that pushing for answers right now will only result in more carefully constructed non-responses and protective deflection.
I'm tired of fighting battles I can't win with incomplete information.
"You know what?" I say quietly, setting my napkin beside my plate and pushing back from the table. "My head is starting to hurt, so I think I'm going to take some medication and head home."
My mother immediately perks up with concern.
"Oh, sweetheart, if your head is bothering you, why don't you stay the night? You shouldn't be driving when you're not feeling well."
My father nods in agreement.
"Your mother's right. We have your old room ready, and it would be much safer for you to rest here rather than making that drive."
I pause, considering their offer. Part of me wants to retreat to my old bedroom and pretend I'm still the girl who lived here before everything went wrong.
But another part of me—the part that's been growing stronger since this morning's revelations—knows that staying here means more conversations like this one, more careful management of information I supposedly can't handle.
