Chapter Text
“How could you be so foolish, Stiles?” John asked, his voice heavy with disappointment.
Stiles stared down at his hands, twisting his fingers in the material of his trousers. He bit down on his lip, stilling the wavering. “Dad, I told you that I don’t remember,” he softly confessed again.
“Stiles, people saw you going to Lord Hale’s room,” John forcefully stated. “It’s bad enough that you didn’t exercise judgment, but then lying to me—”
“I’m not lying!” Stiles loudly snapped, finally looking up at his father. “I told you that I can’t remember what happened! All I know is that I wouldn’t go up to a stranger’s room!”
John tapped his knuckle against the window he was standing beside. He turned to look at Stiles. “You flirted with him all night,” he firmly uttered. “You know that is what everyone is saying.”
“Gossip doesn’t mean it’s true,” Stiles argued. He had flirted with Lord Hale for but a moment, briefly at the refreshments table. He had stopped, though, when he saw the betrayal in Isaac’s features. Isaac’s sadness was enough to stop Stiles cold from pursuing anything further. And he told Lord Hale as much, that his answer to any future flirtatious conversation would be unwelcoming.
Stiles couldn’t remember much after that.
John sighed, moving to take a seat at his desk. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to think of how they would proceed. Even an operation to solve the problem cost more than they could manage to spare at the moment—and even then, there wasn’t a guarantee that Stiles would survive. He knew there would be too much gossip surrounding Stiles to hope that someone would court him quickly enough to avoid scandal.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles softly mumbled to break the painful silence between them.
“So am I,” John answered as he leaned back in his chair.
~*~
“Do you think this costs too much?” Lydia asked as she turned her skirts, watching the material sway in the mirror. She paused her inspection of the fine silk to look at Stiles when he didn’t answer her. She released a fond sigh as she stepped down off the pedestal, drawing closer to Stiles. She looked over his shoulder, catching sight of the small newborn clothes laid out on display.
Stiles hesitated as he reached out to touch one, his fingertips gaging just how soft the material was. He wondered if his baby would have soft skin—most babies did, he was told. He worried about the lace causing a rash if the baby’s skin was too sensitive. He moved his hand to touch one of the soft rompers, finding it much more suitable for a newborn baby’s needs.
“You’re keeping it,” Lydia knowingly stated, startling Stiles. She stared at her friend, waiting for his response.
“It’s a risky operation,” Stiles offered, not wishing to tell Lydia that they didn’t have the money to even entertain the thought of concern for his health.
“You could die giving birth,” Lydia answered.
“At least it wouldn’t be money wasted then,” Stiles sharply countered, dropping the romper back onto the small display case.
“It will be a bastard,” Lydia softly argued as she followed him, wishing to make Stiles see reason.
“People already talk,” Stiles answered as he looked at her, knowing what she was going to say. Having a child out of wedlock was a death sentence to what little social standing Stiles had. He would never procure a marriage that could help him and his father now. “No one is going to just decide to court me that quickly. And even if they did, I’d start showing before they even asked to marry me.”
Lydia silently walked towards Stiles. “Your father is okay with this?” She softly questioned.
“No,” Stiles answered, releasing an aggravated sigh. “But he knows there is no reversing what happened.”
Lydia frowned as she watched Stiles sit on the bench by the mirrors. She sighed, turning to look if they had an audience before she lifted her skirts to make it easier to sit next to Stiles. She clumped the heavy material together, piling the skirts between her legs as she hoisted them out of her way. She gently bumped shoulders with Stiles. She smiled at him when he looked at her. “You’ll be a great parent.”
Stiles released a watery laugh, shaking his head. “I can’t do this on my own—no Omega can.”
“You’re not one to fall for Omega stereotypes,” Lydia reminded him.
Stiles wiped the tears from his eyes. “I don’t have the financial stability to take care of myself, let alone a baby.”
Lydia’s brows furrowed.
“When my father dies, probably of a heart attack, which may happen sooner rather than later thanks to me, I’ll have nothing,” Stiles stated as he sucked in a quick breath. “And then I’ll be left with a child, and no means of support. No one will take us in—my baby will end up in a poor house—”
“Stiles,” Lydia sharply interrupted his line of thought, grabbing his hand to hold tightly. “You are not going to be homeless.”
“Lydia—”
“I would never allow that,” Lydia firmly stated with a squeeze of her hand. “You will not be destitute. I will look after you if I must.”
Stiles was quiet as he calmed his breathing, knowing that Lydia would be good enough to take them in if they needed it. But he wasn’t sure if he could allow himself to be a burden—or if Lydia’s mother would even entertain the idea of having an Omega with a tarnished reputation under the same roof as her daughter.
“My father blames me for this,” Stiles softly confessed. “He hasn’t said it, but I know he does.” He pressed the palm of his hands into his eyes as he tried to stop the tears. “I wish I could remember what happened that night—but even then, I don’t think anyone would believe me.”
Lydia rubbed small circles in Stiles’ back, wrapping her other arm in front of Stiles as she held him in place.
~*~
A messenger brought a parcel to the house the next morning.
Stiles cried when he realized it was the romper he had been inspecting. He cried harder when he read Lydia’s handwriting on the greeting card:
For the baby who will have all the love in the world, I can only give fashion .
Stiles hid the romper from his father. He wanted to keep all reminders of his pregnancy from his father’s sight, knowing that it would only upset John more. He folded the romper up, hiding it in the memory box he had of his mother’s things.
~*~
Stiles tried to argue with his father that he shouldn’t go on showing his face at the festivities for the season. He could hide away until his child was born, to return with no one the wiser. But he knew his father was right when he said that no one would believe such a story—that Stiles, suspected of having a passionate love affair with Lord Hale, merely missed the remaining parties and disappeared from sight for no other reason than his own.
There was already talk that Stiles was looking rounder—which was absurd, because Stiles read that Omegas usually didn’t show until the end of their first trimester. It was no secret as to why John was forcing Stiles to attend—it was to save face. Stiles would be seen as a coward, and branded guilty because of his absence. But instead, he was also forced to face the ridicule of the gossip whispered behind gloved hands and silk fans.
There were three balls that Stiles had to attend before the season officially ended. He made it through the first one with little fuss, counting his blessings that it was an afternoon outing at one of the Argent’s local estates. He found himself luckily in Lydia’s company for most of it, which made many people abandon their intent to ridicule him.
It was the second event that broke Stiles’ resolve. It was when he suffered the most vocal ridicule for his apparent shame.
Stiles was remaining on the outskirt of the party, trying to keep his back to the wall in order to prevent someone sneaking up on him. He had grown weary since the night Peter Hale entered his life. He chewed his lip as he tried to piece through the events of that night, as he tried so many times before.
Stiles couldn’t remember what happened after he took that drink from the waiter. He had grown dizzy, his stomach churning as the champagne soured. He tried to find his father before the unthinkable happened—but everywhere he turned, an unfamiliar face stopped him from getting away. Everything was blurry and unrecognizable as a sure hand rested against his back, guiding him away from the crowd.
The next thing to happen that Stiles could remember clearly was waking up naked, in the bed of an unfamiliar room. His whole body hurt, his head pounding loudly in his ears. His legs were stiff, a sharp pain throbbing between his legs. He composed himself as best he could, trying to dress as quickly as possible. He was scared to know the truth, but even the little he knew about sex wasn’t enough to shield him from understanding that someone had taken him by force. He was only partly dressed when Peter had entered the room once more.
Stiles jerked away from Peter’s touch, terrified of the man. He tried to get away from him, pain rising through his body as he moved to the door. He tried not to act scared when Peter pressed him against the door, stopping his escape.
Heated words were exchanged, Peter’s mockery scaring Stiles more than humiliating him. Stiles knew the truth—there wasn’t anything he could do in the moment, just like there was nothing he could do last night to stop Peter from taking him to bed.
“You have some nerve showing your face here,” a masculine voice sharply uttered towards Stiles.
It caught Stiles’ attention, pulling him away from his memories. He looked up at the owner, recognizing the young Omega ward Lahey. He frowned at Isaac, knowing very little about what Isaac could be so upset about. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he answered.
“You’re sorry ,” Isaac nearly hissed. “After what you did, you should be hiding your face in shame,” he forcefully uttered. “None of the others will say it to your face, so I will.”
Stiles was taken aback by such ferocity. “I don’t know what you’re so angry about—”
“You threw yourself all over poor Lord Hale,” Isaac cut Stiles off.
Stiles felt as if ice was being poured over him, a dead weight moving to settle in his stomach. He twisted his hands behind his back, unsure what to say. “Isaac, please, that’s not what happened—”
“You made such a disgusting scene about it,” Isaac continued, a deep scarlet flush of anger showing high on his cheeks. “We all saw. It was pathetic how you pushed yourself on him, feigning illness to trick him into taking you up to his room, too.”
Stiles bit his lip, knowing he was better off to not answer such allegations. He had wondered for a long time why no one had helped him—why no one had stopped Peter from taking an unchaperoned Omega towards the residential wings of the estate.
“And then seducing him,” Isaac uttered, shaking his head. “All because you knew he’d never be your beau.”
It suddenly clicked for Stiles.
Isaac had been a ward of the Laheys for some time now. He had been passed by for suitable matches numerous times—and there were whispers that he was incapable of carrying a child, like the few male Omegas who couldn’t. There were rumors that the Laheys were trying to get Isaac an arrangement with the Hales—hoping that such a prestigious match would garner their money back.
Stiles never thought that it would have been Peter Hale that the Laheys were trying to arrange a marriage with.
“Nothing is happening between Lord Hale and me,” Stiles stated in hopes of reassuring Isaac. “If Peter Hale wishes to court you—”
“My lord won’t hear of it,” Isaac sharply concluded. “And it’s all your fault. They’re saying that he isn’t gentlemanly enough since he warranted such behavior.”
Stiles looked away from Isaac, unsure what to say.
Peter was older than most bachelors, though he was still in his prime. He was charming and decadent, having a refined taste for the flare in dramatics. He liked to gamble and drink, as most men of his stature did. And he knew a beauty when he saw one—particularly when it came to Omegas. He had a history of philandering, finding himself in more than one bed of eligible Betas and Omegas. But he was never accustomed to the idea of rejection—and Stiles turned that on its head when they met.
Isaac, on the other hand, had been hopeful that Peter would look his way. It appeared to be an immediate dislike of Peter’s—as if it was too simple to already have another’s affections without trying.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Isaac,” Stiles answered, finally looking at him. “But I can’t undo what Peter did.”
“You just couldn’t stand that someone else would be getting attention,” Isaac blamed him.
“That’s not true,” Stiles argued, wishing he could have this conversation elsewhere. He wished for many things that could be done differently these past months.
“You should leave,” Isaac nearly demanded. “It’s the least you could do.”
Stiles scoffed at the idea that he had the power to make such things happen. “I wish I could,” he simply answered.
“I thought we were friends,” Isaac countered, his voice wounded as he spoke such pains. “But it was just a cruel joke, wasn’t it?”
Stiles’ features softened some at that, his anger wilting away at Isaac’s confession. He felt pity for Isaac, unable to deny that the others did talk—gossip spread like wildfire in their circles, and it was never kind to Omegas in Isaac’s position.
Isaac had been living with his aunt and uncle for the past decade, living off their good graces as they made sure to remind him daily. He had been lucky to escape his father, but still unfortunate to have relatives just like Mr. Lahey. Isaac didn’t have to wear the high collars and long sleeves to cover the bruises anymore, but he did have to mend his own clothes and piece together outfits that were often times too ill-fitting for his shape.
Stiles had been the one to help Isaac with his needlework.
“I thought we were friends, Isaac,” Stiles corrected him. “But after what you just implied, I’m … I’m not sure I could call us that anymore.”
Isaac’s determination cracked some, his own features weakening to show distress. There was no doubt that Isaac had practiced many times in the mirror what he would say to Stiles should they interact. He allowed his anger to cloud his judgment, only knowing that thanks to Peter’s interactions with Stiles, he was now forced back into no hopes of a match.
“Even so,” Isaac started, pausing when he realized that he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue this course of action. “My lord and lady do not want me associating with the likes of you anymore.”
Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat, recalling how people had told him to not bother with the young Lahey. He had told them that he didn’t believe in such pettiness. He now understood how that point of view could be addicting—if only he could turn such critical attention away from himself and onto someone else.
“I hardly think Omega Stilinski has done anything to afford him such a venomous attitude, young Lord Lahey,” a male voice uttered in Stiles’ defense, the sound of a cane tapping down on the marble floor accompanied the footsteps drawing the voice closer.
Isaac looked startled when he realized who the voice belonged to. He took a step back, looking down out of embarrassment at being reprimanded. “Alpha Hale,” he uttered in greeting.
Stiles felt sick, his stomach twisting at the mention of a Hale. He turned his head to look at the man next to Isaac, laying eyes on the young Alpha Hale for the first time.
Derek Hale had been one to avoid social gatherings, his station and wealth permitting him to forgo such trivial things. He would very rarely show himself during the social season, perhaps appearing once or twice for that year before disappearing completely. He was a beautiful young man, by anyone’s standards. He was accomplished for his years, owning expensive estates in many of the places his work required he travel to. He spent his younger years in service to the military, with extinguished honors following him.
And the most important piece of information available to society—recently divorced. Many eligible people had tried and failed to gain Alpha Hale’s attention, but many still held out hope.
Stiles offered a small bow to Alpha Hale, hoping he would excuse himself from the conversation.
“Omega Stilinski,” Alpha Hale addressed Stiles. “I wish we were introduced on better circumstances.”
Isaac’s features visibly flinched at those words. He was upset that even now, Stiles was receiving the attention of a possible suitor. And he wasn’t the only person in the room to notice Alpha Hale engaging with Stiles. “I had grievances,” he softly argued, wishing to make the scene dissipate—part of him hoping that Alpha Hale might actually agree with him.
“Then you should have asked to speak with your fellow Omega in confidence, don’t you think?” Alpha Hale uttered, uncaring if his tone reprimanded Isaac for his behavior. His gaze was still on Stiles.
Stiles looked away from Alpha Hale, unable to think of an reply. He wished he could think up a way to defend Isaac, but at the same time, he believed this was karma, still pained by Isaac’s words of contempt for him.
“No,” Isaac defiantly uttered, turning and leaving them both behind in a haze.
Stiles looked after Isaac, wishing he could have offered words of solace to him. He wished he could explain that what happened with Peter Hale was not consensual, in the least. He had hoped maybe Isaac would see that such a match was less than desirable now that Peter’s ways were clear. But Stiles was the one painted with shame, not Peter, and he feared that people would not see the truth until another fell victim as publicly as Stiles had.
And even then, Stiles had doubts.
“I’m sorry, Alpha Hale,” Stiles started, taking a step away from the older man. He hoped the renewed buzzing sound of gossip was enough to convince his father that they should leave now. “But I believe I should depart.”
Alpha Hale grabbed Stiles’ arm to stop him from walking away. “I have a few questions to ask you, Omega Stilinski,” he explained when Stiles turned to look at him.
“Please take your hand off me,” Stiles sharply demanded.
Alpha Hale looked surprised by Stiles’ ferocity, but obliged his request. “Apologies,” he offered. “I’m not used to social etiquette the way most of my standing are.”
Stiles’ brows furrowed as he lingered longer than he wished to. “Perhaps you should pay more attention to those around us, then,” he replied. “It’s not polite nor warranted to touch another like that—especially an unmated Omega.”
Alpha Hale’s gaze narrowed into a critical look, observing Stiles for a few moments.
Stiles felt uneasy under Alpha Hale’s eyes, knowing when he was being sized up. He had wondered what the man was told about him, if gossip reached a recluse like him.
“I need to speak with you,” Alpha Hale finally admitted, turning his sight about the room. “About a pressing matter.” He looked at Stiles. “In private.”
Stiles flinched at the words, the implication hanging about them. He was certain someone told Alpha Hale about what happened—maybe the Hales thought that they could share an Omega. A quick thought flashed through his mind, fear that Peter told his nephew about what happened, and now Alpha Hale thought he was entitled to Stiles as well. He took a step back from Alpha Hale. “That wouldn’t be proper,” he uttered.
“Proper,” Alpha Hale stated the word, as if he was testing out the sound of it on his tongue. “Is that what you told my uncle when you escorted him to his rooms?”
A heaviness fell deep in Stiles’ stomach at those words. No one had mentioned it to him, keeping silent about what happened between him and Peter. Everyone would whisper it behind his back, but no one would say it to his face—except Alpha Hale, it appeared. He reacted on instinct alone, grabbing hold of a wine glass that had been forgotten on the table next to them. He tossed the wine into Alpha Hale’s face, tears burning his eyes as he slammed the glass down on the table once more.
Stiles ignored the sharp gasps that followed, turning and heading towards the foyer. He hoped he could escape into the afternoon air of the sidewalk, away from the eyes of others. He was surprised to see his father walking towards him, a small hope that he would tell him that they could leave. Reality was much crueler, his father grabbing a firm hold of his bicep, forcefully turning him back towards Alpha Hale.
Like a child would, Stiles tried to dig his feet into the ground, hoping his father would give up from the resistance. It was to no avail, his father easily forcing him back to Alpha Hale’s side. He refused to look at Alpha Hale, having caught the way the man dabbed at the excess wine with his handkerchief.
“Apologize, Stiles,” John forcefully demanded of his son.
“He insulted me,” Stiles replied, believing that before this social season, his father would have at least felt protective of Stiles’ honor. Only now, he had none to protect.
“Throwing wine in another’s face is not an acceptable reaction,” John chastised him, knowing that Stiles knew it wasn’t proper.
“I did insult him,” Alpha Hale easily admitted, much to Stiles’ shock. He folded his handkerchief, using the dried parts to wipe the remaining wine from his face. “It appears that I still don’t know how to word things gently.”
Stiles bit down on his tongue, wanting to tell Alpha Hale that was an understatement.
“Regardless of what was said, Alpha Hale,” John started. “My son doesn’t seem to understand what the appropriate way to respond is.”
Stiles hated how on display he was, knowing that the other socialites present were amused by his current predicament.
“All the same,” Alpha Hale began. “I apologize,” he stated to Stiles, a look of sincerity covered his features.
Stiles drew in a steady breath, taking a small bow of his head. “Thank you,” he softly answered. “I regret my immediate action,” he added, knowing his father wasn’t going to accept anything less than an admittance of wrongdoing.
“I appreciate that,” Alpha Hale replied. He appeared surprised when he found another random drop of the wine falling from his beard. He looked at John, offering a slight dismissal of his hand when he realized the older man was trying to compensate him. “I assure you, this isn’t the first time—and I doubt the last time—I’ve had something thrown in my face.”
Stiles flushed at the mention of his actions. He felt on the spot, embarrassed to be the subject of such scandal. He could feel all eyes in the room fixated on him, and he wondered if it would ever stop.
“I would like to call on you, tomorrow—to discuss a few things,” Alpha Hale addressed John, sneaking glances at Stiles. “You look unwell, Omega Stilinski,” he commented.
Stiles was surprised by the gentleness in Alpha Hale’s voice. “I’m tired,” he weakly offered.
“Perhaps retiring for the evening would be best,” John stated.
Stiles was too exhausted to care that he was the reason for such a departure.
~*~
“Stiles,” John firmly called his name as they exited the carriage.
“I want to go to bed,” Stiles countered as he rushed into the house, avoiding his father at all costs.
John grabbed Stiles’ arm before he could dash up the stairs. “What you did today was reckless—”
“He implied that I’m a whore, and I’m the reckless one?” Stiles demanded as he turned to look at his father.
“He is a well respected Alpha—”
“And I’m a filthy Omega,” Stiles answered, yanking his arm out of his father’s hold. “I know you see me as having no other value besides the marriages I could secure—”
“That is not true,” John argued, angered that Stiles would even dare to utter such a lie. “I am trying to protect you from struggling in this world without any means once I’m dead.”
Stiles turned away from his father. “Why don’t you confront Lord Hale, then?”
“One man cannot answer for another’s crimes,” John answered.
“No,” Stiles shook his head. “Why don’t you confront Peter?”
John appeared surprised by Stiles’ question.
“He violated me,” Stiles stated, tears blurring his vision as he remembered the queasiness he felt when Peter touched his cheek—how he remembered the hands that bruised his skin. “He hurt me— and you don’t even believe me.”
“I believe you,” John firmly countered. “But I cannot confront a man I cannot find, Stiles.”
Fear pulled at Stiles’ features. “What do you mean?”
John sighed, releasing a heavy breath. “He’s vanished.”
Stiles felt dizzy, his stomach uneasy.
“His nephew came here to find him, and hold him accountable for what’s happened. That was what Alpha Hale meant by talking to you.”
Stiles however didn’t hear a word his father said, quickly losing his balance as his knees buckled, a faint spell consuming him. He was filled with dread at the idea of Peter prowling the streets still, putting any and all unsuspecting Omegas at risk.
John managed to grab Stiles before his son crumpled to the ground in a heap.
“I’m fine,” Stiles weakly answered his father’s rushed questions of concern. “I just need to sleep.” He allowed his father to carry him up the stairs, unable to admit it made him think of when he was a child—when he was still too innocent to understand the cruelty of the world he had been born into.