Page 91 of Glitterati Omega

Charli reached out, brushed his hair back, then cupped his cheek. He closed his eyes. “Charli.”

“Yes, pet.”

He glanced down. “I’m sorry I’m so dense.”

She gave a startled laugh. “Rupert.” Her tone was reproachful, but her expression wasn’t. “Pet, you’re not dense.”

“Oh, yes, I am,” he huffed. “If I weren’t, I might have accepted the idea that you can be my mother—that you are my mother—years ago.”

She snorted, then shook her head at him. It was fond though. He took the hand that had cupped his cheek. “Now, Mother, I think it’s high time we talk about you retiring.”

Charli shook her head, her gray locks swinging. “No.”

“No?” He furrowed his brow. “But you’re well past retirement age—”

She grabbed his hands and perched on the desk. “Rupert, parent is the only job you never retire from. You’re either fired or dead.”

He blinked. She grinned impishly. “In other words, you’re stuck with me.”

He gave her a watery smile, then ducked his head. He pulled his hands away, wiping at his tears. “I’m glad,” he almost whispered, then huffed a breath. Charli leaned over, wrapping an arm about his shoulders, dropping a kiss on top of his head.

“Me too, pet. Me too.”

,

Rupert wrote to his lawyers, instructing them to reply to Thomas’s team. They were firm on their stance: Thomas would have to sue and win in court if he wanted half the estate. They weren’t going to hand it over in exchange for Thomas’s signature on the divorce papers.

He also instructed the team to file a motion for a restraining order against Thomas. The last thing Rupert needed was to come into contact with him.

He declined to tell Winston about it, figuring it was settled. Thomas, because he was a stubborn ass, would no doubt pursue a lawsuit. His team would file the motions, and Rupert’s team would simply crush them underfoot. They’d been over it a hundred times—Thomas had no legal right to make a demand. Nothing of Rupert’s was his. It was true that Rupert couldn’t undo the past; he’d always carry with him what Thomas had done. But Thomas had no hold on his present or his future, and it was refreshing to think that.

Besides, he had bigger worries. Like booking appointments to take care of his little one or trying to find shoes that didn’t aggravate his feet. (He’d decided stilettos were out the window after he’d almost taken a tumble down the stairs a couple weeks back.)

Or the fact that the doctor he’d seen in Johannesburg had recommended more testing. Rupert was reluctant to broach the subject with Winston; the alpha had been out, so Rupert had gone to the appointment alone. The doctor had been … decidedly disparaging. Rupert had done his utmost not to fall to pieces in the middle of the man’s office—he didn’t deserve a second more of Rupert’s time or emotion—but his weight had always been a sore spot for him, and listening to the old bastard prattle on about it had not been helpful.

Rupert was trying to remind himself that the man was not one of his regular practitioners, but it was difficult to discount what seemed like sensible advice. After all, the doctor had a license to practice medicine. Rupert was just a nurse. What the hell did he know by comparison?

A lot, he thought sometimes, but it was always hard to tell with just one interaction. Some doctors did know quite a bit, like Dr. Arendse or Morgan. Sometimes, those who offered him kind words and a sympathetic ear were more incompetent than those who were hard-nosed and rude. And it went the opposite way about half the time, so Rupert never truly knew where he stood.

So, as much as he wanted to dismiss Vilkensen as being full of hot air, an outmoded piece of dust who didn’t know what he was talking about, it was hard to do when Rupert found himself agreeing with the man.

But then, he also knew that he was inclined to agree with that sort of assessment of his weight. He’d always been a tall, broad omega, and that usually put him on the higher end of most measures for “healthy” omegas.

He hadn’t thought much about it over the last two years; he’d lost a good deal of weight during his illness, and, despite that having always been a goal of his, he’d found that he looked decidedly unhealthy as a Victorian waif, which wasn’t much good for his self-esteem either.

Being pregnant reminded him of all his insecurities. He felt them more acutely every time he reached for a dress or a pair of slacks, only to find they didn’t fit him around the middle. He was nearing midterm, but that only reminded him that he had more than twenty weeks of this to go.

If Winston had noticed, he said nothing about it; Charli had made a few remarks, although they were mostly harmless—things like needing to pack differently and maybe seeing the tailor or perhaps needing to add a few new items to his wardrobe.

Normally, he didn’t have any issue with that, but he wasn’t sure if new clothes were the answer to feeling self-conscious. Pregnancy attire seemed stuck somewhere between medieval nun and thot about to go clubbing. Rupert didn’t see the appeal of either at the moment, but then, if one was uncomfortable in one’s own skin, how could they be comfortable in clothes?

That was his own issue to work out, though. Winston couldn’t do much about it, and Rupert didn’t want to worry the alpha with more negative what-if scenarios, even if Rupert himself was worried. Charli was likely very right; he needed to talk to his therapist about getting his meds adjusted. But that was another wrench; what if he had to take higher doses or switch meds? He’d been on at least a couple that had made him prone to gaining weight, so he could only imagine how that might go over at this stage.

What a quandary. He raked a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. There was also the small matter that he hadn’t felt anything yet. The doctor had at least tried to reassure him that was normal, especially with a first pregnancy, but Rupert didn’t think he could be blamed for being worried.

He kept his worries to himself though, dutifully helping Winston pack up the evening they were supposed to head out to Durban. Rupert wasn’t looking forward to the trip at all; getting bigger wasn’t his only complaint about being pregnant. He ached everywhere, and his feet seemed permanently swollen.

If he complained, though, what would Winston do? Tell him to grin and bear it? After all, he’d asked for it, now hadn’t he?

Of course, there was always the chance the alpha would say something else. Something Rupert wanted to hear even less.

He stewed as they went through their evening routine. Stewed when Winston kissed his cheek goodnight and crawled into bed with him. And he stewed while he laid there on his side, staring at the wall, wishing sleep would come much, much sooner than it did.