Chapter 3: In the Shadows of a Perfect Life

A few days later…

The Vanderwilson mansion towers before me like a massive, overdramatic birthday cake, all glowing lights and pointy towers. Fancy. Way too fancy for someone who spent the last decade dodging flying plates and Nick's fiery temper. But here I am, clutching my violet gown like it might sprout legs and run for the hills. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame it.

The dress is stunning, sure—violet with gold details swirling across the bodice and spilling over the hem. It makes me look like a princess. Scratch that, it makes me look like a princess trying too hard. I feel like an imposter standing outside these double doors, about to face the pack of wolves—literally and figuratively—that make up the Vanderwilson aristocracy.

With a breath that’s way too loud in my own ears, I push open the doors.

Cue the movie soundtrack! Crystal chandeliers? Check. Gown-wearing Lycans and werewolves who look like they moonlight on magazine covers? Double check. Everyone pretending the world outside doesn’t exist? Oh, absolutely.

The room smells like rich perfume and polished wood, a scent I’d almost forgotten. I glide in—no, I awkward shuffle in—my gown whispering against the marble floor. Heads turn. I feel their gazes land on me like sticky gum on a shoe. Some people look curious, others look downright bored.

“Oh, that’s the sister?” I can practically hear them think.

“Yes, the one who didn’t get her Lycan. How tragic.”

Polite smiles. Nods. Strangers pretending we go way back. I want to scream. Or better yet, vanish. The only reason I’m here is Lilly. Where is she?

After a good hour of polite “Yes, thank you, it’s been a while,” and “Oh no, I don’t drink,” she’s still a no-show. My cheeks hurt from all the forced smiling. I’m starting to feel like a doll someone left too close to a fireplace—pretty on the outside but melting fast.

And then, I see her.

She’s standing near the grand staircase, glowing like a living, breathing emerald. Her gown hugs her like it’s in love with her body. Her laughter rings out, sparkling above the murmurs of the crowd. Lilly winter fall, future Vanderwilson, future Luna, golden child extraordinaire.

Meanwhile, I’m over here feeling like a P*******t craft project gone wrong.

The air feels too thick to breathe. She’s so radiant, so… fine. And here I am, barely holding my cracked smile together. How does she do it? Look this perfect? How does she stand here surrounded by admirers while I’ve spent years crawling out of the mess she left me in?

And then I see him.

Nick.

My throat tightens. His fiery red hair catches the light, and that smug grin of his makes my stomach churn. The memories hit me like a freight train—his fists, his words, his suffocating presence. And there he is, laughing, acting like the perfect father figure. The audacity is staggering.

I need air. Now.

Without thinking, I spin around and push through the crowd, ignoring the surprised stares. I don’t care. My vision is blurry, my heart pounding as I shove open the nearest door and step outside.

The garden is cool and quiet, the air hitting my face like a splash of water. Lanterns hang from the trees, casting a soft glow on the flowers. It’s stunning. Absolutely breathtaking. And completely wasted on me because all I can think about is Nick and Lilly and the suffocating weight of my own past.

I take a shaky breath, trying to calm the storm inside me. My eyes scan the garden, landing on a patch of bright red flowers. My stomach twists.

Red. Blood red. My father’s blood. Nick’s flaming hair. The memories hit like a sledgehammer. I tear my gaze away and keep walking. Deeper into the garden, further from the mansion, further from the suffocating crowd of fake smiles and champagne glasses.

The further I go, the quieter it gets. The music fades, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of crickets. My breathing slows, the fresh air working its magic.

And then I hear it.

Thwack. Thwack.

It’s faint at first, but it grows louder as I move closer. Something—or someone—is beating the life out of something wooden.

I should turn around. Normal people don’t walk toward ominous noises in the dark. But curiosity gets the better of me. Besides, anything is better than thinking about Nick or Lilly right now.

I step around a hedge and freeze.

A man. Tall. Broad shoulders. Shirtless.

He’s hitting a tree. Not with an axe—no, that would make sense. This guy’s using his bare fists, slamming them into the trunk like it owes him money. The tree trembles with every blow, but somehow it’s still standing.

I should leave. I should absolutely leave. But my feet have other plans.

His muscles ripple under the moonlight, each punch carrying a raw, primal force that’s equal parts terrifying and mesmerizing. He’s angry—no, furious. And it’s not just at the tree. This is the kind of anger that comes from something deep, something that eats you alive if you don’t let it out.

I get it.

Suddenly, he stops. His fists rest against the bark, his shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. The silence is deafening, broken only by the rustle of leaves.

And then he turns.

Our eyes meet.

My breath catches. His face is sharp, his jawline could probably cut diamonds, and his eyes… Dark. Intense. Like they’re looking straight through me.

For a second, I forget how to breathe. He stares at me like I’m an unexpected puzzle piece in his carefully chaotic night.

“Enjoying the show?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

I blink. My brain struggles to find words, but all it manages is a brilliant, “Uh… yeah?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re either brave or lost.”

“Both,” I blurt out, and immediately want to slap myself.

His lips twitch, almost like he’s amused. He turns back to the tree, his hands flexing like he’s debating whether to punch it again.

“Careful,” I say before I can stop myself. “You might knock it over. Pretty sure the tree didn’t insult your mother.”

That earns me a glance over his shoulder. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or annoyance.

“Why are you out here?” he asks, his tone softer now but still guarded.

I shrug, suddenly hyper-aware of how cold the air feels against my bare shoulders. “Needed to escape. You know, the usual—crowded ballrooms, awkward small talk, family drama.”

He huffs a laugh, low and almost bitter. “Guess we’re both running from something.”

There’s a pause, heavy but not uncomfortable. For the first time in years, I don’t feel completely alone in my mess.

“So,” I say, gesturing to the battered tree, “do you always take your anger out on unsuspecting plant life?”

His lips curve into a smirk, and my heart does an embarrassing little flip.

“Only when it deserves it,” he says, turning to face me fully.

And just like that, the weight on my chest lifts—just a little.