Packing my things wasn’t easy. I had spent so much of my life around the Blackwell family, so much of my heart had been given to Erwin. But now, I realized how much I had given up in the process. I’d let myself be consumed by their world, by Erwin’s world, without even realizing the dangerous path I was walking.
After my parents died—tragically, suddenly—I had no one but them. Sylvia Blackwell had taken me in, offering me comfort and a home when I was lost. But looking back, I could see how subtly and skillfully they’d drawn me in, how their influence had shaped my life without me noticing.
It was terrifying, the way it had all happened. What had started as simple gratitude had grown into a deep attachment, a reliance on them that had clouded my judgment. I had believed, for so long, that Erwin was my future. That he was my everything.
But now, as I packed away the remnants of a life I no longer wanted, I could see how blind I had been.
I was just about to put the final few things in a box when I heard a soft knock at the door.
“Elena,” Erwin’s voice called from the other side, muffled and hesitant. “Is your hand okay?”
I stiffened. His words, meant to be a form of care, were nothing more than a quiet plea. He was giving me a way out, offering me the chance to forgive him once again, as if I were some easily manipulated creature.
I knew him too well. I knew the way he worked, the way he always tried to coax me back into his orbit. But this time, I wasn’t going to fall for it.
Before I could answer, he opened the door and stepped inside. The look on his face was a mixture of concern and frustration, but there was something in his eyes—something almost desperate—that made me pause for a second.
I could feel my wolf stirring, sensing the tension in the air. He wasn’t just here for my hand. He was here because he knew I was leaving. And that scared him.
I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to see the pity in his eyes, the way he always thought I would come running back to him. So, I focused on my task, tearing through the photo album I had once kept so carefully. The album that chronicled our relationship, the one filled with pictures of us together, smiling and happy. It had all been a lie.
“Elena,” Erwin said again, his voice quiet, but sharp with frustration. “Are you still mad?”
I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. My emotions were a tangled mess, a storm of hurt and anger that I couldn’t unravel. But as I tore up the album, I felt something inside me break—a part of me that had once loved him so deeply, so desperately.
When I didn’t respond, Erwin’s eyes dropped to the torn pieces of paper scattered across the floor. His expression shifted from concern to confusion, then to anger.
“What are you doing?!” he demanded.
“These are all blurred,” I said flatly, not looking up from the torn pages. “I don’t want them anymore.”
His jaw clenched. “Are you trying to mess with me in some way?”
“Whatever you say is what it is,” I replied, my voice steady and cold.
I could see the anger building in him as he watched me discard everything I had once held dear. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. I was done with him, with all of it. But he wasn’t ready to let go.
With a harsh movement, Erwin turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed through the house, and I let out a slow breath, releasing the tension that had been building inside me.
But as soon as the door shut, the weight of it all settled over me again. I needed that box. I had to find it. The small box my parents had left me—the only thing I had left from them. The only thing that had ever felt like home.
I searched through my drawers, through every corner of the room, but it wasn’t there. Panic rose in my chest as I realized it was missing. I couldn’t leave without it. It was all I had left.
My heart pounded in my chest as I rushed down the hall to find Erwin.
“Have you seen my little box?” I demanded, my voice shaking.
Erwin barely glanced up from the couch, where he sat with Mina. She was holding the cat, her fingers trailing through its fur as if it were some precious possession.
“That pile of junk?” he said casually, as if it meant nothing.
I froze. My blood ran cold. Those were my parents’ things—my only keepsakes from them. How could he call them junk?
I stormed up to him, my hands shaking with rage. “Answer me! Did you see it?”
Erwin sighed, standing slowly. “I gave Kitty the toys. They’re probably in there somewhere.”
My mind went blank. “What?”
“I gave your junk to the cat,” he said with a shrug, as if it were no big deal.
The words hit me like a slap. I could feel my chest tightening, my wolf growling in the back of my mind. “Why would you give my things to the cat?” I demanded, my voice rising in pitch.
It was the first time Erwin had ever seen me like this. I felt like I was losing control, like the pieces of my world were slipping through my fingers.
Mina’s eyes widened as she looked at me, her hand tightening around the cat.
Erwin frowned, his voice dropping to a harsh growl. “What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy?”
Before I could respond, Mina appeared beside him, her face a mask of faux concern. She held the cat tighter, as though it were the only thing keeping her grounded.
The air in the room felt heavy, like a storm was brewing.
