Louise's POV
Snow blanketed the ground as I stepped out of the car, its engine fading into the distance, leaving only silence and the sting of winter air. I stood motionless before the Night Owl Pack’s gates—an outsider returning to the place that had once been my home.
It had been three long years. Yet the past clung to me like frost, sharp and unrelenting. I could still hear the echo of my mother’s voice:
“You deserve to rot in prison and die! You’re not my daughter anymore!”
Her words, as cold as the snow falling around me, had shattered me more than the prison walls ever could.
I remembered begging—desperate and trembling—“Mom, please, I love Chelsea! I would never hurt her!” But my pleas had fallen on ears too hardened by rage and shame. Even my father, usually so restrained, had raised his hand against me that day, sealing my fate in front of the entire council.
Only two people had stood beside me. Charlene, my sister in all but blood, and Phyllis. He had promised to fight for me, swearing we’d be together no matter what.
The court had sent me away, branded as a child killer.
But fate had turned. New evidence came to light. I hadn’t taken Chelsea. I hadn’t killed her. Someone else had. My name was cleared, and I was released—but no one from my family came to meet me at the gates. No one even called.
Still, I hoped. I hoped it was Phyllis who’d posted my bail. I hoped he’d be the one waiting beyond the gate, arms open. He had once been my lifeline, the reason I hadn’t given up in that hell.
Instead, the family car pulled up hours later, headlights glaring through the snowfall. My heart leapt, foolish and fragile. The door opened, and my father emerged—rigid and emotionless.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “I have no daughter like you. Leave.”
His voice held no anger now. Just absence.
Then came my mother. Her eyes found mine, and for a heartbeat, I saw softness—regret, even.
But she turned away.
“The council’s letter arrived,” she said to my father.
“She won’t be staying here,” he replied. “She’ll be relocated soon.”
Just like that, they left. Again.
Tears pricked my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. I was done begging.
I entered the pack house quietly. Conversations died. Faces turned. Whispers ignited like dry leaves in fire. I didn’t need to hear the words—I could feel them. Judgement. Suspicion. Disgust.
Then my gaze caught him.
Phyllis.
He was standing by the staircase with Charlene, a smile still playing on his lips from whatever they’d been laughing about. But when he saw me, his expression froze.
Charlene rushed forward. “Louise!” she cried, pulling me into a fierce hug. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to be there. You know how our parents are... they wouldn’t let me go.”
“It’s okay,” I whispered. I didn’t have the energy to resent her.
Phyllis stepped closer. My breath hitched.
“You look… okay,” he said flatly. “Not like in your last letter.”
That letter—filled with my worst fears, my hopes, the longing for someone to still believe in me—had never been answered.
Something in him had changed. Or maybe something had died.
He carried my bag to the room I used to call mine. Everything looked just as I’d left it, like time had paused in my absence.
I wanted to ask him to stay. Instead, he left.
Restless, I went looking for him. His car was still outside. My feet carried me down the hallway, past sleeping portraits and cold stone, until I reached the library. Voices leaked through the door—low, intimate.
I reached for the knob. Then froze.
Through the gap, I saw Charlene perched on Phyllis’s lap, her fingers twining in his hair as their lips met—slow, familiar, certain.
My breath hitched. My heart shattered.
The one person I had clung to in the dark—was never really mine to begin with.
