By dusk, the house emptied itself of sound and warmth. Alpha Thorne emerged freshly shaved, his silver-threaded hair slicked back, the expensive cologne clinging to him—the one he only wore for funerals, blood pacts, or occasions that mattered. He looked powerful again, broad and imposing, the Alpha the pack once feared and revered. He straightened the twins’ collars with proud hands while Julian fussed with his suit jacket in the mirror.
“Remember this,” Thorne told them, voice firm and commanding. “Camille does these things out of love. She’s family.”
The boys laughed together. “That’s why we like Camille more than Grandma Nyx.”
No farewell. No pause. Not even a thought spared for me. The door closed with a final, hollow thud, sealing the house behind them like a tomb.
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was loud—echoing, accusing, heavy with neglect. It hurt more than shouting ever could.
I stood there in my old slippers, a basket of unfolded laundry pressed to my chest. My stomach twisted with hunger, but I hadn’t made food. Ghosts didn’t need to eat.
Out of sheer defiance, I turned on the television.
And there they were.
The Starview Hotel glittered on screen, drenched in light—crystal chandeliers, gold-trimmed tables, violins humming softly in the background. Camille stood radiant in a white fur wrap, Alpha Thorne at her side. Julian and his wife smiled with practiced elegance. Ken and Nolan lifted soda flutes in perfectly tailored tuxedos.
The reporter spoke reverently. “Tonight’s private gathering celebrates the Darkhowl Pack—hosted by Camille Hartclaw. The family behind one of the nation’s most influential shipping empires.”
I wasn’t there.
Not on screen.
Not in name.
Not even as an afterthought.
They raised champagne. I swallowed cold, bitter coffee.
They laughed beneath gold and crystal. I wiped fingerprints from the glass door.
Then came the moment that sliced deepest—Camille leaned toward Thorne, murmured something in his ear, and they both laughed. Julian joined them. I didn’t hear the words, but my wolf bristled hard enough to ache. Some things don’t need sound to be understood. Insults travel through bone and instinct.
Much later—well past midnight—the front door creaked open.
For a heartbeat, foolish hope sparked. Maybe Julian had come back.
But it wasn’t him.