Estella POV:

I packed. It didn't take long. I had nothing. A few threadbare tunics and pants provided by the institute. That was the sum of my worldly possessions after three years.

From beneath the thin mattress, I retrieved my only treasure. A single, folded photograph. It was worn at the creases, the colors slightly faded, but the image was still clear. It was me and Caleb, my twin brother, taken the summer before everything fell apart. We were sixteen, sitting on the dock by the lake, his arm slung around my shoulders. He was laughing, his head thrown back, the sun catching the gold in his hair.

The sight of his smile sent a sharp, stabbing pain through my chest. Three years. Three years without seeing him, without hearing his voice. In the darkest moments, when the silver prods scorched my skin and the drugs tried to steal my mind, the thought of Caleb had been the only thing keeping my wolf alive.

My thumb traced the outline of his smiling face. This picture, this memory, was the only thing that had kept my inner wolf from shattering completely. I carefully folded it and tucked it into the pocket of the worn jeans I was about to put on.

A guard entered without knocking, a rough-looking man with a permanent scowl. He tossed a brown paper bag onto the floor. "Your clothes," he grunted.

Inside were the clothes I had been wearing the night they brought me here. A simple cotton dress and a thin cardigan. They had been washed so many times they were nearly white, stripped of their original color, just as this place had tried to strip me of myself.

I changed quickly, the familiar fabric a strange comfort. It was a symbol. I was shedding the identity of 'patient'.

I walked out of my room for the last time. The hallway was silent, the doors to the other rooms all tightly shut. But I could feel their eyes on me through the small peepholes. Whispers of the crazy Blackwood girl who was finally being released.

Let them whisper. They didn't know that the girl leaving was not the same one who had arrived.

A guard escorted me to the admissions lobby. Declan was already there, waiting near the glass doors. His arms were crossed, and his finger tapped an impatient rhythm on his bicep. Dr. Price, my primary physician, stood beside him—a slender man with thin, gold-rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked like a benevolent academic, but I knew the cold, dead emptiness in his eyes.

The sight of him made my skin crawl. Dr. Price. The man who had personally administered more "treatments" than I could count. The man who watched me scream under silver-laced electricity with the detached curiosity of a scientist studying a lab rat.

As I approached, Declan turned a small, unlabeled pharmacy bottle over in his long fingers before slipping it into his jacket pocket. Plain white pills. No markings. No prescription label. He must have finished the discharge paperwork while I packed.

Dr. Price stepped forward, his lips stretched into a professional, meaningless smile.

He adjusted his glasses. "Well, Estella. I do hope we won't be seeing you again." He paused, his smile tightening just a fraction. "But you know, of course, that Crestwood will always have a room waiting for you."

The words were a silken threat. A chill, colder than the Aspen air, slithered up my spine. My stomach clenched as I remembered the feel of the silver-laced prods against my skin, the acrid smell of burning flesh, the way my bones had screamed.

I wanted to snarl at him. I wanted to tell him that I would die before I ever let them drag me back here. But I did none of that. Instead, I filed his face away in the dark corner of my mind where I kept my list of debts to be collected.

I dropped my gaze to the floor, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Declan saw my silence, my slight tremor, and misinterpreted it as a sign of my instability. It confirmed everything he already believed about me.

"Let's go," he said, his voice sharp. He turned and strode toward the heavy glass doors.

I followed, my legs feeling unsteady. Each step was a victory, a movement away from the suffocating scent of antiseptic and despair.

When I stepped outside, the sunlight was blinding. It was a physical blow, and I staggered, raising a hand to shield my eyes. For the first time in three years, the air didn't taste of bleach. It was crisp, clean, and filled with the scent of pine. It tasted like freedom.

I stood there for a heartbeat, letting the sun warm my skin, letting the wind touch my face. Three years of artificial light and recycled air. This—this was what living felt like. And I had almost forgotten.

A gleaming black Bentley was parked at the curb, a silent testament to the Blackwood family's wealth and power.

Declan walked to the driver's side and got in, not even glancing back. He didn't hold the door for me. I didn't expect him to.

I hesitated for a second before reaching for the handle of the front passenger door.

"In the back."

His voice was like a whip crack in the cold air.

My hand froze, hovering over the handle. Humiliation, hot and sharp, washed over me. I wasn't his sister. I was cargo. A problem to be transported.

Slowly, I retracted my hand, my cheeks burning. I walked around the car, opened the rear door, and slid onto the plush leather seat.

The door clicked shut with a heavy, final sound.

I stared out the window as the car pulled away, the imposing facade of the Crestwood Institute shrinking in the distance.

I had escaped one prison, only to be delivered to another. A much prettier one, but a cage all the same.

Estella POV:

The silence inside the Bentley was as thick and suffocating as the sterile quiet of my room at Crestwood. The rich scent of leather replaced the smell of antiseptic, but it offered no comfort. It was just another reminder of a world I didn't belong to.

Declan drove with focused precision, his eyes fixed on the winding mountain road. He hadn't spoken a word since his command for me to sit in the back. I was an unwelcome ghost in his expensive car.

I watched the snow-dusted pines blur past the window. Three years. The world had kept spinning without me, and now I felt like a stranger in my own life, a foreigner in the landscape of my childhood.

Declan's phone buzzed, and the car's Bluetooth system instantly connected the call. Yara's voice, sweet as honey laced with arsenic, filled the car.

"Declan? Did you get ... her? Is she ... okay?"

That voice. That saccharine, calculated voice. My wolf snapped to attention, a low growl rumbling in my chest. Yara. The puppet master pulling strings while hiding behind a porcelain smile.

That deliberate pause. The careful use of 'her' instead of my name. It was a masterful performance of feigned concern and subtle distancing. She was painting me as a fragile, dangerous object, not a person.

Declan's voice, which had been so cold and hard, softened instantly. "I have her, Yara. Don't worry. Everything is under control."

"I just ... I just hope she doesn't hurt herself again," Yara said, her voice catching with a practiced sob. "Or hurt anyone else. Tonight is so important to me. Spencer is going to be there, and..." She let her sentence trail off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

Hurt myself. The cleverness of it made my blood boil. She wasn't just calling me crazy—she was planting the seed that I was a danger to myself and others. Setting the stage. If anything went wrong tonight, it would be my fault. It was always my fault.

"Yara, I'm here. Nothing will go wrong," Declan soothed, his tone gentle and protective. "I promise. Tonight will be perfect for you."

I listened to the exchange, a block of ice forming in my stomach. To them, I wasn't a sister returning home. I was a live bomb they had to carefully manage.

The call ended, and the silence that returned was heavier, colder than before.

Declan's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. They were filled with a stern warning.

"You heard her, Estella. Don't you dare ruin Yara's night. Your apology needs to be sincere. It's the very least you can do for this family after the shame you've caused."

The shame I had caused. The words were so absurd I almost laughed. The shame of being drugged. The shame of being framed. The shame of surviving three years of torture while they lived their perfect lives. Yes. Such shame.

I didn't answer. I just turned my head and stared back out the window, watching the familiar landmarks of Aspen Creek slide by.

My silence was a defiance he couldn't tolerate.

He slammed on the brakes.

The Bentley screeched to a halt on the shoulder of the road, the tires protesting against the asphalt. I was thrown forward by the momentum, my hands shooting out to brace myself against the back of his seat just in time.

Declan twisted in his seat, his face a mask of fury. His eyes were blazing. "I am speaking to you! Did three years of therapy teach you nothing about respect?"

I slowly turned my head to meet his glare. And for the first time since leaving Crestwood, I let him see it. The fire. The hatred. The absolute refusal to break.

"Respect?" I said, my voice quiet but sharp as a blade. "You want me to respect the people who threw me away like garbage? You want me to respect the sister who framed me? You want me to respect the brother who left me to rot?"

Declan's face went pale, then red. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard I heard the leather creak in protest. For a moment, I thought he might actually strike me.

"You ungrateful—"

"Careful, Declan," I cut him off, my voice still calm, still deadly. "You need me tonight. You need me to play my part in your little theater. Hit me, and I won't be able to speak my apology. What would dear Yara think of that?"

The silence that followed was electric. He stared at me, and I stared right back. It was the first time in my life I had ever stood up to him. And we both knew it.

Finally, he turned back around and stomped on the accelerator. The car shot forward, the engine roaring in protest. He was driving too fast now, venting his anger on the machine.

I leaned back in my seat, my heart pounding but my face serene. My hand in my pocket found the worn edges of the photograph. I squeezed it, the image of Caleb's smile a shield against the storm in the front seat.

One small victory. The first of many.

Soon, the imposing iron gates of the Blackwood Estate came into view. The sprawling mansion sat atop the hill, its many windows glittering like cold, watchful eyes. Everything was just as I remembered—manicured, perfect, and utterly without warmth.

But the car didn't turn toward the grand, sweeping driveway that led to the main entrance.

Instead, Declan steered the car around to the side of the estate, down a narrow, gravel path I hadn't used since I was a child playing hide-and-seek.

He pulled to a stop in front of a small, unassuming door set into the stone wall of the west wing. The servants' entrance.

He cut the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. "Get out. Go in through here."

I stared at the narrow door. The message was brutally clear. I was not worthy of walking through the front door of my own home. I was no better than the staff.

"Your room is in the attic," he added, his voice flat. "Don't come down until the party starts."

I pushed the door open and stepped out. The early winter wind was sharp, and it cut through my thin clothes, making me shiver. The air here smelled of money and old trees.

Declan didn't get out. He just rolled down his window.

"Remember your promise, Estella," he said, his voice a low threat. "One wrong move, and Dr. Price will be thrilled to welcome you back."

With that final warning, he pressed the accelerator. The Bentley's powerful engine growled, and the car sped away, leaving me standing alone in the biting wind, a plume of exhaust marking its departure.

I looked up at the main house. It was ablaze with light, and I could hear the faint sound of music and laughter drifting on the wind. A perfect party for a perfect daughter.

None of it was for me.

But that was fine. I wasn't here for the party. I was here for Caleb. And I was here for revenge.