Page 142 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

The room falls silent, the usual rustle and murmur of journalists stilled by the simple, stark opening. Cameras click softly, recording every nuance of her expression as she continues.

“For six years, I was held captive in a facility designed to process and condition omegas for sale to wealthy clients. During this time, I was subjected to medical testing without consent, psychological manipulation, and preparation for what they termed ‘placement’ with my…” She pauses. Swallows hard. “My master.”

She describes the facility in detail. The sterile rooms, the medical equipment, the security measures designed to prevent escape. Outlines the “processing” procedures with a detachment that speaks volumes about the psychological armor she’s constructed to revisit these memories. Explains the classification system used to categorize omegas based on physical attributes, fertility markers, and behavioral compliance.

Throughout her testimony, the press room remains eerily silent. Even the most hardened journalists appear shaken by the methodical description of industrialized abuse, the cold efficiency with which human beings were reduced to products with price tags.

“I was not the only omega held in this facility,” Hailey continues, her voice unwavering despite the difficult subject matter. “There were at least two dozen others during my captivity, of various ages and backgrounds. Some had been there for months, years…others had just arrived. All were being prepared for sale, both domestically and internationally.”

She describes Vi briefly—the omega who helped her during captivity, who may still be somewhere in Heath’s network. Mentions other omegas only by first names or distinguishing features, respecting their privacy while making it clear these were real people, not abstract victims.

“My escape was not planned,” she admits, a hint of emotion finally cracking through her composed exterior. “It was opportunistic and desperate. Many others were not so fortunate. Many are still missing.”

She pauses, taking a sip of water from the glass provided, using the moment to compose herself before continuing to the most important part of her statement.

“I’m speaking publicly today for two reasons,” she says, her gaze lifting to survey the room with unexpected strength. “First, to put a face and voice to the crimes being investigated, to ensure that these atrocities cannot be minimized or forgotten. And second, to speak directly to others who have survived similar experiences.”

Here she deviates slightly from her prepared text, her eyes finding the camera at the back of the room, speaking now not to the journalists but to those who may be watching the broadcast.

“To those who have escaped, who are recovering, who may be afraid to come forward: I understand your fear. I share it. But our silence is what allows people like Veyra Heath to continue operating in the shadows. Our voices, together, are stronger than their money, their connections, their threats.”

Her gaze is unwavering, her voice gaining conviction with each word. “You arenotbroken. You arenotdamaged. You are survivors, and your experiences matter. Your testimony matters. And most of all…you’re not unwanted.”

The room remains silent for several heartbeats after she finishes, the impact of her words settling over the assembled journalists. Then, as if a dam has broken, hands rise across the room, reporters eager to ask questions, to expand on the powerful testimony they’ve just witnessed.

The agent steps forward, taking control of the Q&A portion as planned. Cameras flash, questions being directed at Hailey as I and the rest of the pack stand and shield her from their inquiries.

We exit through the same side door we entered, immediately surrounded by a protective cordon of FBI agents who guide us back to the preparation room. Hailey walks with her head high, her posture rigid, maintaining the composed facade until the door closes behind us, shutting out the press and the cameras and the weight of public scrutiny.

Then, and only then, does she allow herself to tremble.

Finn is at her side instantly, arm around her shoulders, guiding her to a chair. “You did brilliantly,” he tells her, his voice warm with pride and concern. “Absolutely brilliantly.”

She nods, unable to speak. Stone approaches with a bottle of water, which she accepts with a grateful nod. Ren crouches, a finger under her chin.

“You did great, sweetheart.”

I let out a breath, happy it’s done. “We can leave whenever you’re ready.”

“Yes,” she whispers, rising from the chair with visible effort. “I’d like to go home.”

The return journey passes with the same tense vigilance as our arrival, though with the added complication of media vehicles attempting to follow our convoy. The FBI lead car handles this efficiently, directing them away with authoritative gestures and occasional brief stops that allow our vehicles to gain distance. By the time we reach the highway leading back to our property, we’ve shed our unwanted entourage.

Hailey sits in silence for most of the journey, her expression distant, processing. Occasionally her hand finds Finn’s or mine, seeking connection without words.

It’s only as we approach the turnoff to our property that she finally speaks. “Do you think it will help? Truly?”

The vulnerability in her question tugs at something deep in my chest. “Yes, of course.” I tilt her chin so she’s looking at me. “It’s already helping. The networks are running your testimony. People are listening. People who might have information, who might come forward now.”

“And Heath?” she presses. “Do you think she’ll respond?”

It’s the question that’s been haunting me since this plan was first proposed—how Heath might retaliate against such a public challenge to her operations, her reputation, her freedom. “I don’t know,” I admit. “But if she does, we’ll be ready.”

She nods, accepting my honesty even if it doesn’t provide the reassurance she might want. “I’m glad it’s over,” she says softly. “The waiting was almost worse than doing it.”

We arrive home without incident, passing through the security gate with its newly upgraded systems. The house looks unchanged, peaceful in the afternoon sunlight, a stark contrast to the intensity of the morning’s events.

As we exit the vehicles, I’m struck by a sudden need to verify our security, to confirm that nothing has changed during our absence. “I’m going to check the perimeter,” I announce, already moving toward the edge of the property. “Standard protocol after being away.”

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