Page 3 of Puck Your Nanny

Two weeks.

Fourteen days to find a new place to live, a new job, a whole new life.

Panic flares, hot and prickly, under my skin. I try to swallow, but my throat feels like sandpaper.

I finally find my voice, though it’s small and shaky. "Two weeks?"

Brent shrugs, the picture of indifference."Seems fair."

Fair? To him, maybe. He's got his perfect little life, his perfect little girlfriend who won't even look at me, his perfect little job where he gets to sit on his ass all day and type away on his perfect little laptop. He doesn't have to scramble, to worry about where his next meal is coming from, or where he's going to sleep.

Freda finally lifts her head. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but she still can't quite meet mine. "Daisy, I..." she starts, then her voice trails off. She takes a shaky breath. "I'm so sorry."

Sorry doesn't cut it. Sorry doesn't pay the rent. Sorry doesn't magically create a job out of thin air. Sorry doesn't fix the gaping hole that's just opened up in my life.

I stand up, my legs wobbly. I need to get out of here, away from Brent's smug face and Freda's pathetic apologies. I need to breathe.

"It's fine." The word sounds surprisingly steady, considering the turmoil churning inside me. "I'll be out in two weeks or less."

I turn and walk away, not looking back. I head back up the narrow staircase to my tiny room, the room that's no longer mine. Each step feels heavy, weighted down by the sudden, crushing reality of my situation. I reach the top and head into my room, and once the door is shut, I take a deep breath. I need a plan. A real plan. And I need it fast. Because fourteen days, in the grand scheme of things, is nothing.

I walk to my bed and plop down. I have a plan. Maybe. It depends on whether she answers her phone. I take out mine and click on contacts. I scroll to the letter M and then to Mom. I hesitate a moment, then hit call. It rings and rings. The machine picks up.

"You've reached Roberta. I doubt I'll get your message."

I don't leave a message. Of course she didn't answer. The hope that had sparked when I pressed the call button fizzles out, leaving behind the familiar ache of disappointment. It was a long shot anyway. I knew that.

It's not like she offered any real help when the Millers let me go. Just that same old line, delivered with that tone of forced cheerfulness she uses when she wants to avoid a difficult conversation: "You're such a strong, independent woman, Daisy. You always figure things out."

As if it's a compliment, some kind of badge of honor, instead of a way to deflect responsibility. As if I choose this constant struggle, this feeling of being perpetually on the edge of disaster. Like I enjoy having to claw my way through every single day.

I toss the phone onto the bed beside me. The screen flashes, a bright, mocking rectangle in the dim room. I push myself up, my hands digging into the worn mattress, and start to pace.

The room feels smaller than ever, the walls closing in. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to ward off the chill, a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature.

A tiny, traitorous part of me, a part I usually keep buried deep, whispers a pathetic wish. What if I were an Omega? It's a ridiculous thought, one I immediately try to squash. But it lingers, like a stubborn weed.

I've heard about the Omega Protection Program, of course. Everyone has. It's no secret that it's far from perfect. The shelters are overcrowded, the stories of forced pairings with "compatible Alphas" are horrifying, and the whole system reeks of antiquated ideas about Omega biology and societal roles.

But... a locked, omega-only shelter. A guaranteed place to sleep, no matter how basic. Food, however bland. A temporary reprieve from the constant pressure of finding a place to live, of worrying about where my next meal is coming from. Right now, even that flawed, restrictive system has a certain twisted appeal.

It's a horrifying reflection on society, though, isn't it? That Omegas are so marginalized, so controlled, that their only options are to find an Alpha who'll claim and care for them in their own way, or rely on government handouts and the dubiousprotectionof the state.

There's no real path to independence, no encouragement for them to thrive on their own terms. It's a system designed to keep them dependent, to reinforce the outdated hierarchy of Alpha,Beta, Omega. It makes me angry. But it would fix my issue now, wouldn't it?

I shake my head, fiercely trying to banish the thought. I'm a Beta. Plain, ordinary, no-heat-having Beta. And while that comes with its own set of challenges, it also means I don't have to deal with the biological imperative, the societal pressure, the constant threat of an Alpha's unwanted attention.

I can't even imagine going through a heat right now on top of everything else going wrong in my life. The overwhelming need, the vulnerability, the risk of an Alpha in rut. No. Absolutely not. My regular period is bad enough with the cramps, the bloating, the emotional rollercoaster. Adding a week of intense, uncontrollable desire to the mix? I'd probably jump off a bridge.

At least as a Beta, I'm in control of my own body, my own choices. Even if those choices are currently limited to finding a place to live and not starving.

I stop pacing and find myself in front of the dusty, overflowing bookshelf in the corner. It's a hodgepodge of genres; romance novels Freda insisted I'd love—I didn't—self-help books my mother sent with the best of intentions—they mostly made me feel worse—a few well-worn fantasy novels that are my true escape.

A pang, sharp and unexpected, hits me. I'm going to have to get rid of most of this. Sell it, donate it, trash it, whatever it takes. There's no way I can haul all these books around with me, not without a permanent address, not without a car. Each book represents a tiny piece of my life, a memory, a comfort, and the thought of letting them go feels like another small loss in a day that's already been full of them.

The book on top is an old romance novel,Alpha's Prize, Freda gave me a year ago, claiming I needed more romance in my life. I pick it up, the cover displaying a ridiculously muscular Alpha and a swooning Omega. I throw it back on the bed, face down.The idea of an Alpha's anything, right now, makes me feel a little ill.

I grab another, this one a self-help book my mother sent me, its title proclaiming the secrets toUnlocking Your Inner Potential and Achieving Self-Sufficiency. I hold it in my hand for a moment.Self-sufficiency,as if it's a switch I can just flip.

---