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.

Louise's POV

My fingers quivered as I brought the chilled glass of water to my lips, struggling to suppress the sobs threatening to rise. Across the room, Phyllis stood in the kitchen, casually preparing my favorite dish. He smiled, completely unfazed, as though nothing significant had happened—as if he hadn’t just torn my world apart moments before with a painful truth I never wanted to hear.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you for five years, Louise,” he murmured, calling me by the nickname only he ever used.

He carefully placed the grilled beef on a plate, dusting it with spices and nestling a perfectly done sunny-side-up egg beside it. “You should eat more. You’ve grown so thin.”

I kept my gaze fixed on the plate, my fingers tightening around the glass like it was the only thing keeping me grounded. Inside me, my wolf stirred with fury, urging me to lash out, to scream, to demand the truth. But I didn’t give in. I just swallowed the sob building in my throat.

The scene I had witnessed earlier haunted me. The words I’d overheard—each one soaked in betrayal—did more than hurt. They wrecked me completely.

In that instant, I would have chosen death over this unbearable reality.

My hands were still unsteady as I lowered the glass and approached the table. My eyes momentarily locked on the knife. A sharp, dark thought crossed my mind—I could stab him, force him to feel just a fraction of the torment he and Charlene had caused me.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I picked up the fork, cutting into the beef with trembling hands as hot tears finally escaped, sliding down my face without restraint.

Phyllis noticed immediately. “Louise, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

He reached out, his warm hands resting gently on my shoulders, lifting my chin until our eyes met. “Did something happen? What’s going on?”

His tenderness, his concern—it made me want to scream until I lost my voice. He brushed away my tears with such care, and it tore me apart inside. I wanted to believe this was a nightmare. A cruel illusion conjured from my years of pain and loneliness.

But this was real.

I had always loved Phyllis. Loved him so deeply, it hurt to even breathe near him.

“I love you,” I said quietly, voice trembling, thick with agony.

He smiled, gentle and affectionate. “That’s all you wanted to tell me? You scared me,” he said with a soft laugh of relief before kissing my forehead, then the tip of my nose. His lips lingered, hovering just over mine, closing the distance—

I moved away.

The image of him kissing my brother’s wife flashed through my mind, turning my stomach.

“I’m just hungry,” I said quickly, lying through my teeth as I forced a bite of food into my mouth. My hands still wouldn’t stop trembling. Prison had broken parts of me I didn’t even know could crack. But throughout all those years, what kept me holding on was the hope that Phyllis cared—that he was still waiting, that the truth would somehow save me.

Now, I wished the darkness of prison had swallowed me whole.

Earlier, I had hidden nearby, listening in horror to their conversation.

“Louise’s in the house. We can’t let her know about us,” Phyllis had whispered to Charlene, brushing her cheek with a familiarity that stabbed me in the gut.

Charlene leaned into him like she belonged there. Like she had always belonged there.

“You’re right. It’s best to stay quiet until everything is settled,” she’d replied, voice heavy with guilt. “I miss Chelsea every single day. I wish Louise wasn’t the one responsible—but the evidence says otherwise. I still care for her. She’s like my own sister.”

She had spoken of me as if I had already been condemned. As though there were no doubt left.

“I wish things were different too,” Phyllis had sighed. “They’ve reopened the investigation, and someone’s digging up more evidence. But there are still pieces that don’t align. I just want to help you find Chelsea. I know how much you ache for your daughter. But Louise knows what she did with the body.”

“Yes,” Charlene’s tone had hardened. “She does. And you need to get her to reveal where it is. Chelsea trusted her. If she really loved her, she would come clean.”

“I’ll get the truth, Anna. I promise.”

Those words cut deeper than any prison sentence.

Charlene had never trusted me. None of them had.

Now, Phyllis poured a glass of my favorite berry wine and handed it to me with a smile. “Thanks,” I mumbled, doing everything I could to pretend nothing was wrong.

“I’ll make it up to you, Louise,” he said, noticing my hands still trembled. He gently took the knife and began slicing my beef for me. “I regret not coming to see you. The pack... there were too many obligations.”

“Why are your hands shaking like that?” he asked, concerned, eyes narrowing.

“My time behind bars wasn’t exactly kind,” I answered, my voice flat and hollow as I sipped the wine. “There were nights I wanted to end everything. But thinking of you kept me going. I clung to the thought that one day, the truth would surface.” I met his gaze directly. “That one letter you sent? I must have read it thousands of times. It was the only thing that gave me a reason to live.”

Phyllis froze. His knife stopped midway through the meat. His expression darkened with something unreadable. “What happened to you in there?”

I paused, unsure if I should even answer.

Other inmates had whispered cruel things to me. That someone had paid to ensure my suffering. That Phyllis Brennan—and my own family—wanted to see me broken beyond repair.

I hadn’t wanted to believe them.

But now? I saw how blind I’d been.

Before I could speak, a booming voice shattered the moment.

“What are you doing here?”

My father.

He barged into the kitchen, fury written all over his face. His angry eyes flicked from me to Phyllis, then to the plate of food in front of me.

“And you, Phyllis! Why are you giving her wine and a good meal? She doesn’t deserve anything close to kindness!”

Louise's POV

I tipped the wineglass and drained its final drop, placing it back down with a soft clink. My fingers quivered as I released it.

"She's still your flesh and blood, Alpha Derick," Phyllis declared, rising in my defense. If I hadn’t personally witnessed his hesitation before, I might’ve made the mistake of thinking his concern was genuine. "She looks frail—barely holding herself up. She needs proper nourishment. The council even acknowledged there were inconsistencies in the case. There’s still a chance she didn’t take Chelsea… or end her life."

My father’s fury exploded like wildfire. "You can buy the illusion of truth with enough silver!" he snapped, his voice sharp and venomous. "Louise can spin all the lies she wants, but reality always claws its way to the surface! And it has! I’m sickened—utterly disgusted to be the father of someone who could kill her own sister!"

The way his glare seared into me felt like a knife slicing straight through my chest.

"I want you gone from my presence!" he roared, jabbing a finger toward the doorway like it was a weapon. "Get out, you filthy murderer!"

My throat tightened with emotion, but I refused to let myself cry. I forced my chin up, keeping my gaze fixed on him with as much strength as I could muster.

"Alpha—"

Phyllis tried again, but I cut him off before he could say more.

"You don’t have to stand up for me, Phyllis. I’ll follow his orders."

Without looking back, I turned and exited the room.

Phyllis remained behind.

When I stepped into what used to be my bedroom, I came to a halt. My mother was seated on the edge of the bed, her back stiff and her expression unreadable.

She stood as soon as she noticed me.

"This room no longer belongs to you," she said coldly. "It’s not appropriate. A servant will handle your belongings and move them to a more… suitable space."

I parted my lips, instinctively wanting to call her Mom—but I hesitated. Her earlier declaration echoed in my mind. She didn’t want that title from me anymore.

"Alright," I whispered quietly.

She strode toward the door, pausing just before she crossed the threshold.

"In three days, we mark Chelsea’s birthday," she said, her voice devoid of affection. "You will kneel at her empty grave and admit where you buried her body. Confess. Maybe then we can begin to mend the devastation you brought upon us." She paused, her eyes briefly shimmering with something I couldn’t decipher. "If Kian were still alive, he would’ve made sure you paid for what happened. He’d never have forgiven you—just like we won’t."

Then she left, the sound of the door closing behind her like a final verdict.

That was when the tears finally broke free. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the floor, the cold stone against my skin offering no comfort. My sobs were quiet but violent, wracking my body with sorrow too deep for words.

I no longer had a family.

There was no love left for me in this world.

Nothing remained.

Except—my wolf.

She hadn’t surrendered. She still burned with the desire to survive. To unearth the truth.

But how much longer could I endure this?

The wounds were too deep.

And soon, my vision would be lost forever. The attack from that day—acid splashed across my face, my head cracking against stone—had left damage my wolf couldn’t repair.

And Phyllis... If he had truly cared, maybe I wouldn’t feel this shattered.

They relocated me to a small, cramped space near the servants' quarters. I nearly laughed. That’s how low I’d sunk in their eyes. They had never truly seen me as one of their own.

Still, there was a bed.

It wasn’t like the ice-cold cell where I’d once been caged, forced to lie on the floor and wait for the end. Even during the harshest winters, my parents hadn’t spared me a blanket.

The only source of warmth had come from someone anonymous. A thick winter coat. A heavy wool blanket.

"The comfort of a killer? Not deserved," the guards had sneered.

A killer.

Was I truly one?

Some nights, I almost believed it. Almost wished it were real. Because then at least the suffering might have some justification.

But the pain never stopped.

I barely slept. This new room wasn’t freedom—it was just a prettier cage.

Why stay here?

Nobody wanted me.

I stared at myself in the cracked, foggy mirror mounted on the wall. My reflection gave me a bitter grin.

Tomorrow would be Chelsea’s birthday.

I missed her so much.

Her laugh, her light, her innocence.

Who did this to you, Chelsea?

Who took you away?

That question haunted me endlessly—from the day she vanished, from the moment we saw that horrifying photo of her bloodied, lifeless body. No one had located it. No one admitted to sending it. But still, they pointed fingers at me.

How could anyone hurt such a pure, joyful soul?

I couldn’t breathe in that suffocating room a moment longer.

As I walked through the halls, whispers trailed after me like ghosts. Murderer. Monster.

I kept my eyes low, my vision warping until I collided with a table and a vase toppled. It crashed to the floor, scattering in jagged shards. I knelt quickly to clean it, my head spinning. My left eye gave me nothing but a hazy blur. I blinked, trying to focus—

"You!"

That voice froze the blood in my veins.

My father.

"How dare you show yourself!" he bellowed, advancing on me. "You murderer!"

He seized my arm violently, pain shooting through it like fire. His grip felt like it would shatter bone. Then he shoved me away with loathing.

"I didn’t mean to—" I tried to explain, but my words were faint.

My stomach twisted with dread.

The vase I’d broken… it wasn’t ordinary.

It had held Kian’s ashes.

His urn.

"I—No—I didn’t know—"

The slap landed so quickly I didn’t even see it coming.

The sound echoed. My ears rang.

"You destroyed him! Just like you destroyed Chelsea!" he thundered.

I reached for my cheek, already feeling the sting of blood from where his ring had split my skin. My hand trembled.

I stared at him—the man who once held me as a child.

And for the first time, it became devastatingly clear.

I was no longer his daughter.

Not now.

Maybe not ever again.