Color drained from her face, her olive skin turning ghostly. Heavy silence saturated the air—I could hear the clock ticking on the far wall of my office.
I watched her face crumple so slowly it was painful to witness. While she seemed to come to terms with what I had said, I shuffled through the course of our lives, our experiences, our story, trying to pinpoint any moment, any time I might have alluded to our relationship being anything other than what it was. I searched for every possible instant I might have given her hope for something I could never give.
Everything about my life was in order—precision to the highest degree. Every detail accounted for, every variable anticipated, every risk calculated. And she had been my right hand every step of the way. We both lost so much to win, and every victory after that became ours to share, because we were all we had left.
She was the little sister I lost.
Yet, here she was, a foreseen variable I had not thought to calculate.
Her lips began to quiver, and the sight pulled at my chest. She had not cried since the day of the Alpha Duel, when she watched my mother slit her own throat while I fought for her sacrifice to be worth a victory.
My tone softened without my permission. "Vee..."
The first tear fell as she rounded the table to wrap herself around me. My arms refused to move as she sobbed against my chest. Her voice was muffled, a trembling whisper that still cut straight through my ribs.
"You’re all I have left... I feel so alone."
The words carried something I could almost name—familiar grief, raw and unvarnished. Yet beneath it, I could smell the faint, sour trace of manipulation. She knew which strings to pull, and I could hear them snapping in the back of my mind. Still, the ache in her voice was real.
And then, like a splinter under my skin, another voice rose unbidden in my head—my mother’s, quiet, steady.
"Take care of her, like you would have taken care of Anna."
For a moment, the room blurred. I could see the girl my sister might have been, standing where Veronique stood now. The same proud tilt of the chin. The same stubborn defiance against a world that had already taken too much.
My arms, which had hung stiff at my sides, finally moved. Tentatively at first, more a containment than an embrace. But when she broke entirely in my hold, sobs wracking her body, I drew her in.
It wasn’t wholly warmth. It was duty wearing the mask of comfort. But the longer I held her, the harder it became to tell the difference.
"You love me, don’t you?"
"I do," I whispered. "But never in the way you want me to."
Her sobbing turned into a jagged, choking sound. She held me tighter, and I kept her steady against the torrent of emotions ripping through her.
She never did know how to accept a no.
But this rejection, I knew, would bring a monumental change to our relationship. Nothing would ever be the same. Read complete versıon only at novel✦fire.net
My hands were the clammiest they’d ever been.
"Mistress," one of the ladies who had woken me this morning called, raising a shoe to show me. "Will you be comfortable in these?"
The heels could have been worn by Lady Gaga herself; they were horrifying. "I am so sorry, it’s too high."
The women exchanged a glance, one subtly rolling her eyes. I had to pretend not to notice, because it only shot my anxiety into high gear. The guards didn’t exactly fancy my presence, the gorgeous Beta wanted to gut me, the woman named Olya wanted my spine for her trophy case, and even the women sent to stuff my ass into a dress wanted me to eat glass.
I tucked my hands behind my back to hide the trembling. The shoes were still dangling in front of me when I pulled myself out of my thoughts.
"I think I’ll pass," I chuckled nervously. "Don’t want to snap my ankle." I tried to lighten the mood.
"Wouldn’t that be great?" the one with braided dark hair muttered under her breath.
I bit my tongue as the other woman laughed quietly in response. She put the shoe away, letting out a sigh just shy of annoyance.
It was better if I stayed quiet, so I let them choose for me. Every item they put in front of me, I gave a yes. The workers were so critical, I could not begin to imagine the Onyx Council.
They worked in practiced silence after that, fastening clasps, smoothing seams, tugging and adjusting until I looked like something they could at least tolerate presenting in public. The final brush of a palm down my skirt felt less like approval and more like they were dusting off an inconvenience.
"Done," one announced flatly, as if she’d just finished polishing silverware. She didn’t even look at me before heading for the door. The braided one gestured for me to follow, her face a mask carved from disinterest.
The halls of Wintercrest felt colder this morning. My footsteps echoed off stone as they led me down the winding staircase, each turn tightening the knot in my stomach. My dress whispered against the steps, the weight of it making me feel slower, smaller, like I was descending into something I couldn’t name.
At the bottom, the scent of tension hit me before the sight did—sharp, electric, almost metallic.
Vladimir stood at the foot of the stairs, broad and immovable as a wall, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Beside him, Veronique was a contrast in every way—elegance wound tight over something brittle, her spine too straight, her eyes too still.
They were waiting for me.
And from the way their gazes lifted in unison, it was very clear I’d just walked into the middle of something I hadn’t been invited to understand.
Veronique’s gaze was cutting, and as I stepped down the stairs, I noticed her eyes were slightly red-rimmed. She was still the vision of polished elegance, but something was off—even more than usual.
I looked away when her stare began to feel like a weight. Vladimir was ever the personification of composure, but even at a glance, I could see the shift in him.
His stance was as controlled as always—back straight, jaw set—but there was a tension in the set of his shoulders that hadn’t been there yesterday. A watchfulness in his eyes that made the air between the three of us feel like the moment before lightning struck.
I learned to look for cues when I lived with a family that would have set me on fire for burning breakfast.
My alarm bells were blaring.
I stepped off the last stair, my heel clicking against the stone. Neither of them spoke.
Veronique’s gaze lingered a beat too long, her eyes dragging over me like she was taking inventory for a fight she hadn’t decided on yet. Whatever had passed between them before I arrived was still raw—still sharp enough to cut. I could feel it in the way Vladimir’s eyes didn’t leave me, but also didn’t invite me closer.
"Come on," Vladimir said, offering a hand, which I took.
Veronique’s jaw clenched.
>"It’s about to be a very uncomfortable ride," Kaia muttered.