The bus hissed to a stop in front of the old pack village– Ebyrafalls. The air was thick with damp earth and the faint scent of pine, a far cry from the Moonstone Pack's sprawling, luxurious estate. I adjusted the strap of my bag, steeling myself for what was to come. My hometown had never been a place of solace, but I needed to retrieve a few things before moving forward.
As I approached the modest wooden house, my mother stood in the doorway. Her eyes scanned the empty road behind me, and when she realized I was alone, her face fell into a scowl.
"Where's Julius Crane?" she demanded, her voice sharp.
I tightened my grip on the bag. "He’s not coming. And he won’t be coming here again."
Her eyes narrowed, and before I could react, her hand flew across my face. The sting was instant, but it was the familiar weight of humiliation that hit harder.
"You ungrateful little wretch!" she spat. "Do you have any idea how much shame you’ve brought on this family?"
I staggered back as she grabbed a nearby broomstick and swung it at me with alarming force. Each blow came with venomous words that cut deeper than the wood.
"You couldn’t even give your husband an heir!" she yelled, her voice carrying through the still village. "A useless Luna who can’t continue the bloodline. Do you think Julius will waste his life on a barren woman like you?"
Her words hit a raw nerve. My throat tightened as memories surfaced—of the sleepless nights I’d spent agonizing over my inability to give Julius a child. At first, he had comforted me, telling me it didn’t matter, that our bond was enough. But as the years passed, his patience thinned. Every argument somehow circled back to my “failure,” a sharp knife he wielded to cut me down.
Her words hit a raw nerve, and I could feel the tightening in my throat, the dull ache that memories always brought with them. It wasn’t just about Julius anymore; it was about me, about everything I wasn’t.
I thought back to the nights when I’d lain awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of failure pressing against my chest. Failure as a woman, as a wife, as whatever society demanded me to be. Those sleepless hours bled into days, then years, the quiet hope inside me dimming until it was nothing but an ember I’d tried to ignore.
Julius used to hold me during those nights. He’d whisper into my hair that it didn’t matter, that I was enough, that we were enough. And I believed him because I needed to. I clung to his words like a lifeline, even as doubt coiled in the back of my mind, whispering truths I wasn’t ready to face.
But comfort has an expiration date, doesn’t it? Love, I learned, was conditional. Over time, his patience began to fray. It wasn’t immediate—it started small, with sighs when he thought I wasn’t looking, a trace of disappointment in his eyes he wouldn’t acknowledge. Then came the words, the accusations, the blame he didn’t dare to voice at first.
“Maybe if you tried harder…”
“Have you thought about why this keeps happening?”
“You don’t want this enough, do you?”
Each phrase was a dagger aimed at the softest parts of me, designed to make me bleed without a single drop visible to the world. And every time, I stayed silent, nodding along because I thought I owed him that. I owed him everything.
When did love turn into obligation? When did the arms that once held me become the cage that trapped me? I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but somewhere along the way, Julius stopped seeing me as his wife and started seeing me as his failure. His burden.
And I let him
"And let’s not forget," my mother continued, "you’re the reason your father’s dead! That accident was your fault, Isolde. Your fault!"
Her words pulled me out of my thoughts like a slap. The old accusation, buried but never forgotten, resurfaced with a vengeance. My chest tightened as I struggled to breathe, the memories of that terrible day clawing their way to the surface.
Rain began to fall, heavy droplets soaking us both. My mother finally relented, panting from her tirade. She shoved me back and threw my childhood belongings into the muddy yard.
"You’re not my daughter anymore," she said coldly. "Go die in the woods for all I care. Just don’t come back here without Julius. Or better yet, with his heir!"
I bent down, ignoring the blood dripping from my forehead as I gathered my scattered belongings. A childhood trophy landed at my feet, its sharp edge cutting into my palm as I clutched it.
A sleek black car pulled up, its tires splashing mud onto my soaked shoes. The door opened, and Julius stepped out, holding an umbrella. My heart sank further when I saw who was with him: Lana, Amaya’s closest friend.
"Isolde," Julius said, his tone sharp as he grabbed my arm. "Get in the car. We’re going home."
Lana stepped out, her stiletto boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. She gave me a cursory glance, her lips curling into a mocking smile.
"Julius," she said sweetly, "are you sure she can handle riding in the same car? She looks a little... rough around the edges."
I froze, anger simmering beneath my skin, but Julius ignored her comment. He tugged me toward the car, his grip firm and unyielding.
"Enough, Lana," he said, though there was no real reprimand in his tone. "Isolde, you’re embarrassing yourself. Get in."
As he pushed me into the backseat, the scent of Amaya’s perfume clung to his coat. It was suffocating.
Lana climbed into the passenger seat, glancing back at me with a sly smile. "Hello, Isolde, I'm Amaya's friend. I’ve heard so much about you, Isolde. Julius talks about how devoted you are. It's... inspiring."
