Me at eighteen. Smiling too widely, teeth sharp, eyes bright with a wildness that hadn’t yet been trained into submission. Before marriage softened me into silence. Before obedience replaced fire. I closed the suitcase quickly, steadying my breath before my pulse could give me away.
The kitchen sat in darkness, thick with the scent of lemon cleaner and stillness. I filled a pot, set it to boil, cracked eggs, sliced bread. My hands worked without thought, the motions carved so deeply into me they felt ceremonial. Stir. Season. Turn. Serve. Feed.
Then footsteps.
Bare feet against wood.
Her laugh reached me first—sweet, syrupy, laced with poison. Then his voice, low and indulgent, like this place no longer belonged to me at all.
Camille floated into the kitchen wearing one of Thorne’s shirts, buttons undone, hair loose and tangled from sleep that smelled of skin and conquest. Thorne followed close behind, freshly showered, carrying the sharp scent of soap and betrayal. Side by side, they looked newly wed—glowing, satisfied, hungry.
“Coffee,” she said lightly, already settling into command. “His strong. Mine with cream. You remember how he likes it.”
I set the mugs down silently.
Thorne took a sip and smirked, eyes never lifting to acknowledge me. “Make bacon and omelets. Camille likes them the way I do. And don’t oversalt like you used to.” His mouth curled. “She actually takes care of herself.”
Camille leaned back against my counter as though it were hers, triumph shining in her eyes. “Some people prefer not to look like brittle twigs wrapped in misery, sweetheart.”
I smiled then—not out of submission, but because showing teeth was the oldest truth wolves knew. They missed it. They always had.
I cracked more eggs, let the oil hiss, and tuned them out as they reminisced—about the gala, the penthouse, the sheets soaked in champagne and arrogance. I existed to them only as background noise, a presence that lingered longer than desired. They forgot what shadows could do.
The front door slammed open soon after, laughter spilling inside. Julian strode in with Corinne, the twins trailing behind. Corinne flaunted a new purse and matching earrings—“gifts” from Camille—while Julian poured himself wine though the morning was barely awake. The boys lugged in a massive framed photo: the family portrait from the Starview Hotel.
Camille stood at its center.