“Mommy…”

The soft voice near my ear barely registered through the haze of exhaustion. I groaned, rolling slightly, unwilling to leave the comfort of sleep.

“Mommy,” the voice called again, firmer this time, insistent.

I cracked my eyes open to see a pair of wide, innocent grey eyes staring into mine, framed by dark, unruly curls.

“Wake up, Mommy. It’s seven. I’ve got school,” he announced with the kind of righteous urgency only a child could muster, his tiny hands squishing my cheeks.

This little tyrant was my son, Twen. He turned seven just a few months ago. Lucky or unlucky, he had his father’s looks: inky curls, steel-grey eyes, and olive-toned skin. The only thing still wholly his own was that slight roundness in his face, a trace of lingering baby fat that made him look even more adorable when he pouted.

“Mommy,” he repeated, this time with an exaggerated frown.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. He looked like a miniature Alpha trying to assert dominance over his Omega parent. I tugged on his cheek gently, earning a grumble of protest.

Being called “Mommy” was… complicated. I was a man. But I had carried him, birthed him, and raised him on my own. If anyone had earned the title, it was me.

“Yes, yes, you little tyrant. I’m getting up,” I grumbled, forcing myself upright. The room swam briefly. I was still dizzy from the late shift yesterday, my body barely holding together on caffeine and adrenaline. 

Twen’s sharp eyes softened. He was a good boy, uncannily mature for his age. Sometimes I wondered if he’d been born already carrying the weight I should’ve spared him. I offered a tired smile to ease his concern, then tousled his curls and nudged myself into motion.

I moved quickly from brushing to preparing breakfast, cracking eggs, flipping toast, and boiling water while tying shoelaces and zipping bags. He munched happily as I packed his lunch and ran through his school checklist. By the time the bus pulled up, he was ready to go.

“Have a good day,” I called after him as the doors shut. He waved through the glass, face pressed against it.

I sighed. Time to start my day. My shift at Exquisite, the five-star hotel where I worked as a chef, started in the afternoon, but with everything that needed doing, I had no time to waste.

I stripped off my t-shirt and padded into the bathroom, tying my shoulder-length brown hair into a rough bun. In the mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself—pale skin stretched over too-prominent bones, collarbones jutting out beneath sunken cheeks. My aquiline nose and long neck made me look... delicate, in a way that wasn’t always flattering. If anything, I looked like someone recovering from something terminal.

My lips twitched bitterly. Apparently, even chefs forget to eat.

Only my eyes held any defiance, large and almond-shaped, flecked with shades of amber. They were the one thing I didn’t hate about myself.

I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water rinse away the remnants of fatigue. As I washed, my fingers skimmed the back of my neck—and froze at a scar, no amount of scrubbing could erase.

His bite.

Proof that I’d once been his, bonded to him.

The mark had long since dulled from angry red to pale silver, but it still branded me like property, showing that I was taken omega, untouchable to anyone else. It was laughable, really. While he was probably living the high life with wife and kids and all, I was here, alone, washed out, and clinging to survival. Still shackled to someone who’d discarded me like trash.

Not that I was looking for romance. That ship had sunk years ago.

Still, the mark had been good for one thing. As a bonded Omega, my heat did not affect anyone but my Alpha. And since I’d registered as a Beta to avoid complications, I was able to get a stable job. That was more than most Omegas could hope for.

I finished my shower, toweled off, and slipped into my uniform. Chef’s coat, chef’s pants, apron, and shoes are in my bag. I pulled my Toyota out of the narrow driveway and merged into morning traffic.

Today felt lighter.

Yesterday, I was promoted to Sous Chef.

A bigger title with a bigger paycheck and twice the pressure, but it was worth it.

I could finally enroll Twen in a better school. He deserved more than public buses and pre-packaged lunches. He deserved a future.

And maybe, I’d get to open my own restaurant one day: a cozy spot with warm lighting and comforting scents.

But until then, I’d work and build something worth leaving behind.

For him.