Page 35 of Puck Your Charity

I sit in a leather booth in the back corner of an independent coffee shop. The aroma of roasted espresso beans and fresh pastries tortures my empty stomach. I ignore the display case of muffins and croissants.

I sip from a paper cup of cheap peppermint tea. The hot water warms my throat. The barista gave me a skeptical side-eye whenI ordered the cheapest item on the menu and unpacked my entire life onto this table.

My laptop hums in front of me. The charging cable stretches across the scuffed floorboards to a wall outlet.

My banking app stays open in a separate browser tab. The numbers stare back at me with a mocking glare. I possess a tiny sliver of cash. Surviving this nightmare requires ruthless logic.

My brain crunches the numbers for the hundredth time.

A cheap motel on the outskirts of the city costs sixty bucks a night. Four nights eats up two hundred and forty dollars. That money represents a chunk of a security deposit for a new apartment.

A motel guarantees a hot shower, a locked door, and a warm bed. It guarantees temporary comfort.

But temporary comfort leads to long-term homelessness. Draining my savings on a cheap mattress leaves me trapped in my car forever once the funds run dry. Keeping the cash locked in my bank account remains my only path to a real roof.

I close the banking tab. The practical Beta mindset keeps me grounded. I refuse to blow my escape fund on a luxury.

I open the medical job board.

My fingers fly across the keyboard. I upload my resume to every open position in a fifty-mile radius. I apply for remote triage positions. I apply for telehealth counseling roles. I apply for basic data entry gigs at medical billing companies. I aim for anything keeping me far away from the chaotic liability of a hospital floor.

The inbox tab refreshes. A new email drops into the list.

I click the bold text.

Dear Ms. Blanchard, thank you for your application. Unfortunately, your recent medical registration status disqualifies you from this specific patient-facing role. Our insurance provider requires bonded status for all Omegaapplicants to waive heat-liability claims. We wish you the best of luck in your job search.

I slam my fist against the table. The paper cup rattles. A few drops of hot tea spill onto the scuffed wood.

The rejection emails flood my inbox. The healthcare system runs on liability and risk management. The state requires medical registration for all Omegas. The background check flags my new status the second they pull my file.

They view an unbonded Omega as a walking lawsuit. They think an unmedicated heat spike will cause a disaster on the clock.

A bonded Omega gets a free pass. A bonded Omega has a pack to regulate their hormones and sign the liability waivers. The system forces Omegas like me to seek a pack just to secure a damn paycheck.

I wipe the spilled tea off the table with a cheap paper napkin.

The suffocating weight of this new reality crushes my chest. I spent four years in college earning my degree. I worked brutal shifts to build a flawless resume. I dedicated my entire adult life to helping sick kids.

A glitch in my DNA erased all of it.

I stare at the glowing screen. Another rejection email pops into the inbox. The corporate phrasing changes, but the core message remains identical. The healthcare world considers me a walking liability.

Faking my designation crosses my mind. Forging a Beta medical chart sounds like the perfect solution to get my career back. But I lack the first clue on how to pull that off. Presenting three days ago leaves me blind to the underground tricks. I have no Omega friends to ask for advice. Navigating this new world alone leaves me stranded.

My jaw clenches until my teeth ache.

I think about Victor. I picture his arrogant, icy stare. I remember him standing in that hallway, whining about the smell of bleach and treating Sam like a burden. I picture Finn looking at me like a piece of meat to drag back to his den. I remember Lawrence offering me a soundproof cage in their mansion.

They triggered this nightmare. They woke up the dormant hormones and sent my life into a downward spiral.

I refuse to surrender. I refuse to crawl back to their mansion and beg for a bonding mark just to appease a medical board. I will scrub toilets for minimum wage if it keeps me free from their control.

I delete the rejection emails. I click on the next page of job listings.

I filter the search. I look for late-night janitorial shifts in empty office buildings. I search for overnight stocking positions at local warehouses. Working a cash register puts me right back in the public eye, surrounded by unmated Alphas and potential heat triggers. Surviving means hiding in the dark until I figure out a permanent plan.

The barista walks past my booth, wiping down the empty tables. She glares at my empty tea cup and my laptop cord. She wants me out of her section.