Chapter 5 5

AMELIA 

•A few hours later•

The house feels quieter and empty now but not in a way that makes it easier to breathe.

I sit at the dining table, the plate in front of me untouched for longer than it should be before I finally pick up my fork and knife, cutting into the steak like I’m supposed to, like everything is normal.

Like I wasn’t just—

I push the thought away and force a bite into my mouth.

Chew.

Swallow.

Rinse and repeat even though it feels like it’s sitting wrong in my throat.

But I just need to finish.

I just need to leave and go board a cab to go back to my dorm.

Back to somewhere that feels like mine.

“You eat like that and you expect to look presentable?” my mother says.

I pause halfway into lifting a fork to my mouth as I slowly lift my eyes up to where she's sitting across from me, a glass of juice on her lips.

She's not even looking at me properly, her tone light but sharp enough to cut through whatever peace I was trying to hold onto.

My grip tightens slightly on the fork.

“I am eating,” I reply quietly, because there’s no point pushing or reacting.

Speaking up or trying to defend one self equals talking back and talking back caused punishment.

“There’s eating,” she says, setting her cup gracefully on the table, “and then there’s whatever it is you’re doing.”

A soft chuckle comes from across the table.

Her uncle.

“She’s always been like that,” he adds, leaning back in his chair like he’s enjoying this. “Half of everything and good at nothing.”

I say nothing because I’ve heard worse. Then, I shift my attention back to my food. Reacting only makes it last longer.

I focus on my plate, carefully cutting another piece, smaller this time, even though I’m not hungry anymore, even though I stopped being hungry the moment I sat down here.

If I finish this, I can leave.

If I leave, I don’t have to sit here and listen to them pick me apart like I’m not even here.

It sucks living in a house with mirrors.

Sucks feeling like something they tolerate instead of someone they want.

And while at it, I can feel his gaze on me.

It sits there, steady and constant, and it hasn't left me since the start of this charade of a dinner.

And I hate that I notice it. I hate that he didn't reject me earlier. It would have been easier if he had.

I would have known where I stood.

But now…

I don’t.

And the worst part is—

a small, traitorous part of me keeps wondering why.

And I hate that he left me there. I hate that he didn't meet my expectations.

Even more, I hate that a part of me is aware of him even now.

“She takes after her father, Tom.” my mother says, almost dismissively, like that explains everything.

“And we all know how that turned out.”

Uncle Tom says.

“Copper can't turn into gold, never.”

“I wasn't even aware you summoned her during the reception.” Uncle Sam, her second uncle says, his voice making it visible that there's food in his mouth while he spoke.

“I did.” She says. 

Their voices blur together after that and I just try all my possible best to tune it out and turn it into background noise.

“Her father,” Mateo says suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise without effort.

And the table quiets.

I think it's because he doesn't speak much and when he does, people listen.

“What about him?”

My mother sighs like it’s an inconvenience to explain.

“He was an Omega,” she says, like the word itself is enough. “Reckless, you know. Emotional. And weak.”

“And she inherited all that,” Uncle Tom adds quickly.

I keep my head down.

Silence settles for a second.

Then—

“She’s your daughter, right?” He asks, voice calm.

My mother scoffs lightly.

“Yes,” she says. “But she doesn’t act like it.”

A pause.

And then—

“Good,” he says.

And something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten.

“She’ll stay here.”

My fork stills.

“With us.”