My life has never belonged to me. Not my choices, not my dreams, not even the air I breathe. Everything about me got worse the day I presented as an omega—an inconvenient truth my parents wear proudly, like both a badge and a burden.
My name is Mikael, and this is my story.
I presented as an omega the year I turned twelve, and the moment it happened, my life twisted into something unrecognizable. According to my parents, it meant I was born with a destiny I never asked for, one they were all too eager to shape for me.
They never hit me. They never yelled.
They didn't need to. Their words did the damage perfectly.
Every decision in my life since then was made for me: what school I attended, what I wore, how I spoke, who I married. And now? I'm being packaged and handed off to a man I've never met—a rich, frightening alpha whose name alone makes people stiffen their spines.
Everyone keeps saying I'm lucky.
I don't feel lucky.
I feel trapped.
People think I'm timid. Quiet. Obedient. If only they knew how hard I bite my tongue just to keep myself from saying what I actually think.
People always say omegas are meant to submit, to obey, to serve an alpha without question.
That alone makes my blood boil. My parents have told me countless times that I exist to be bred—that my only purpose is to produce babies and surrender my entire being to whichever alpha claims me, like I'm some kind of trophy, to even earn a trophy you'll work for it.
In this society, omegas are looked down on—counted as fragile things, fit only for kitchens, bedrooms, and silence. God, it's suffocating. I want to breathe, but I can't. And now it's worse, because I'm standing in front of the mirror in my room, looking as delicate as ever. My mother calls it presentable.
I hate that word.
I stare at the boy in the mirror, and for a second, I don't recognise him.
"Presentable."
My mother's favourite insult disguised as a compliment. Neat. Polished. Harmless. An omega dressed up like a peace offering.
The suit is blinding white—expensive, fragile.
The high collar wraps around my throat like a hand pretending not to squeeze. Fine lace spills over my shoulders and chest, framing the row of tiny pearl buttons leading down my waist. The trousers cling tight, hugging every line in a way that screams well-behaved.
A thin corset hides beneath the fabric, cinching my waist just enough to make me look soft. Never strong. My mother said it was "flattering." I call it what it is: a cage made of silk.
White gloves cover my hands nearly to the elbows, decorated with pointless ruffles that make me look even more breakable. I flex my fingers and watch them tremble slightly. I can't tell if it's fear or anger. Maybe both.
The veil is the worst part.
A sheet of sheer tulle hangs from a comb in my hair, flowing over my shoulders, edged with lace so detailed it probably costs more than every outfit I've owned combined. Through it, my reflection looks blurred—softer, fading. An omega bride. Not even allowed to look the way I want on my own wedding day.
My hair— Honeyed gold, wavy, annoyingly disobedient like me—has been forced into something elegant. Loose strands curl around my cheeks. My lips are tinted soft rose, shimmer dusted on my eyelids. Pretty, but never dangerous.
Silver chains rest on my neck, brushing my collarbones. Supposed to be accessories, but they look like collars.
A bouquet of white flowers hangs in my hand. Perfect petals. No scent. Silk ribbons bite into my palm when I squeeze harder than necessary. For a moment, I imagine dropping it—letting it crash to the floor and ruin the picture everyone worked so hard to create.
I lean closer to the mirror until I see every freckle, every eyelash. My eyes look too calm. Too resigned. It bothers me more than anything else.
"This is not all of me," I whisper. "You hear me? You might look like theirs, but you're still mine."
The omega in the mirror doesn't bow.
Not yet.
And if I have my way—not ever.
"Mikael, are you done? It's time to go," my mother's voice cuts in, she walks inside without knocking. Always the same.
"Oh my God!" she gasps, looking at my reflection. Her smile stretches. "Now this… this is beauty." She steps closer. "And what did I tell you?"
"To always keep smiling," I answer, forcing my lips upward.
"Perfect. You must look as presentable as possible. Let people crave to feel you under them." Her words stab at my brain, sinking discomfort deep into my spine. But I keep the smile—the one that never belongs to me.
"Now your posture," she fusses. "You look too intimidating. I told you not to appear controlling. You're not meant to emit that."
I understand instantly.
Still smiling, I sigh inwardly, dropping my gaze and softening my stance. My body folds into the shape she prefers—small, submissive, harmless.
She beams. "That's better. This is how an omega should look. Never raise your eyes at anyone—especially your alpha."
My alpha?
Who the hell is my alpha?
The stranger I'm being sold to?
I choke back a laugh. Not him. Not anyone. No one will ever be my alpha—not in this world, not in the next.
The real reason for today is simple: my parents want more power. Their business needs stronger backing to climb higher, and marrying me off to a wealthy family is the key. They proposed the marriage. His parents accepted immediately, they've been desperate for their son to marry and produce an heir.
More bullshit.
I can't escape it. So I keep up the act.
With one last breath, I step out of my room and follow behind my mother, docile as ever.