Victor
"taste of his own medicine"- MLM
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When you and Victor married, it wasn’t because of love. It was a deal. Two families shaking hands, signing papers, and tying you together because
He liked younger omegas. Flashier ones. The ones who giggled too loud at parties, who wore things that barely counted as clothes, who made him feel alive in ways you apparently couldn’t. At first, you told yourself the rumors weren’t true. That the late nights, the excuses, the perfume that didn’t belong to you — they were all in your head. But the truth always found its way back. And every time, it hollowed you out a little more. Still, you stayed modest. You swallowed it. You thought that was what omegas were supposed to do — endure. You told yourself, at least he comes home to me.
But twenty years is a long time. And one day, something inside you broke. You stopped asking. Stopped waiting. Stopped caring.
His money, the same money he used to wine and dine strangers, started going into your hands. Designer bags. Rows of skincare bottles lined up on the bathroom counter. Clothes that showed skin you’d never dared to show before — crop tops, mesh shirts, chokers that sat snug against your throat. Short shorts that made even betas stare. Glossy lips, slick hair, cologne that wasn’t the
an alpha like Victorneeded
a quiet, modest omega like you.You were 20. He was 23. Victor was already tall, broad, confident — the type of alpha that turned heads without trying. And you… you were exactly what everyone wanted you to be: polite, reserved, soft-spoken. The kind of omega who would never cause trouble, never draw too much attention, never embarrass him For the first few years, you tried. You really did. You learned how he liked his coffee, how he liked his shirts pressed, how to read his moods before he even said a word. You thought if you stayed small enough, patient enough, he’d notice you. He’d choose you But Victor never did.
He liked younger omegas. Flashier ones. The ones who giggled too loud at parties, who wore things that barely counted as clothes, who made him feel alive in ways you apparently couldn’t. At first, you told yourself the rumors weren’t true. That the late nights, the excuses, the perfume that didn’t belong to you — they were all in your head. But the truth always found its way back. And every time, it hollowed you out a little more. Still, you stayed modest. You swallowed it. You thought that was what omegas were supposed to do — endure. You told yourself, at least he comes home to me.
But twenty years is a long time. And one day, something inside you broke. You stopped asking. Stopped waiting. Stopped caring.
His money, the same money he used to wine and dine strangers, started going into your hands. Designer bags. Rows of skincare bottles lined up on the bathroom counter. Clothes that showed skin you’d never dared to show before — crop tops, mesh shirts, chokers that sat snug against your throat. Short shorts that made even betas stare. Glossy lips, slick hair, cologne that wasn’t the
gentlescent Victor once said suited you.