Chapter 3: In the Shadows of a Perfect Life

A few days later…

The grand Vanderwilson mansion looms ahead like a castle pulled from a fairytale, its tall towers and ornate windows gleaming under the evening sky. But I can’t feel the magic. My heart races with every step I take toward the ballroom doors. It’s been years since I last set foot in a place like this, and I’m not sure I even belong here anymore. My hands tighten around the delicate folds of my gown as I stand just outside the massive double doors.

The icy violet fabric cascades around me in soft waves, sparkling in the dim light with its intricate gold detailing that snakes down the bodice and fans out along the hem. The gown is beautiful, like something out of a dream, but it feels wrong on me, like a costume I’m forced to wear. I’m no longer the girl who used to attend these grand events with my family. That girl died long ago, the night I watched my father’s life slip away.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside me. My heart pounds so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear the muffled music from the ballroom. I haven’t seen these people in years—the people of the Vanderwilson pack, the aristocracy of our world. What will they think of me now? The girl who never got her Lycan, the girl abandoned by her own sister, the girl living in the shadow of Nick’s abuse.

I push the thoughts away and force a smile onto my lips. I have to look like I belong. I have to look like I’m okay.

With one last breath, I push open the ballroom doors.

The moment I step inside, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer size of the room. Crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, casting a soft glow over the crowd of well-dressed Lycans and werewolves. The air smells of expensive perfume and polished wood, a scent I remember from my childhood. People are laughing, talking, mingling as if the world outside these walls doesn’t exist.

I glide into the room, my gown whispering against the polished marble floor as I move. Heads turn as I pass, and I can feel their eyes on me, some curious, some judgmental. I keep my smile fixed, though it feels like it’s cracking at the edges. I give polite nods, exchange pleasantries with strangers who pretend to remember me. I barely recognize anyone. The only person I want to see is my sister, Lilly.

But after an hour of mingling, she’s nowhere to be found.

The weight of my forced smile starts to drag me down. My stomach twists as I scan the room once more. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of blonde hair, and my breath catches in my throat.

Lilly.

She’s standing near the grand staircase, talking animatedly with a group of people, her head thrown back in laughter. The sight of her is like a punch to the gut. She looks… perfect. Her long blonde hair falls in soft waves down her back, and her gown—a deep emerald green—hugs her figure like it was made for her. She looks every bit the future Luna of the Vanderwilson pack. Every bit the golden child she’s always been.

My chest tightens, and I suddenly can’t breathe. It’s like the walls are closing in around me, the air in the room turning too thick, too heavy. My vision blurs as I watch her laugh and smile, surrounded by people who adore her. People who have no idea what she left behind.

I swallow hard, trying to push the rising panic back down, but it’s no use. The sight of her, so happy, so carefree, while I’ve been drowning in misery—it’s too much. How can she stand there, smiling like nothing’s wrong, when I’ve been left behind in that hell? And then I see him. Nick. Standing just a few feet away from Lilly, laughing, talking with others like he’s the perfect father.

I feel sick.

The sight of him, with his fiery red hair and smug grin, is the final straw. The memories of his fists, his cruel words, his control over my life—it all comes crashing back in an overwhelming wave of rage and betrayal. I can’t stay here. I need to get out.

Without thinking, I turn on my heel and push through the crowd, heading for the nearest exit. I don’t care if anyone sees. I don’t care what they think. I just need air. I need to breathe.

I burst through a side door and found myself in the garden. The cold night air hits me like a slap, and I gulp it down, my chest heaving as I try to calm the storm inside me. The garden is breathtaking, sprawling out before me like something out of a dream. Lanterns hang from the trees, casting a soft glow over the vibrant flowers and lush greenery. It’s beautiful—a perfect mixture of greens, violets, blues, pinks, yellows, and… red.

I freeze, my heart hammering in my chest. The sight of the red flowers sends a wave of nausea crashing over me. The color red—it reminds me too much of my father’s blood, of his mutilated body lying cold on the ground. And it also reminds me of Nick. His full head of fiery red hair, his bloodshot eyes as he raised his fist.

I tear my gaze away from the flowers and walk in the opposite direction, deeper into the garden. I just need to get away from the memories, from the pain. The further I go, the quieter it becomes, the distant sound of the party fading into the background. I breathe in the scent of the flowers, trying to calm myself, to focus on something other than the storm raging in my mind.

But then, I hear something. A noise, faint but distinct, coming from deeper in the garden.

I pause, my heart skipping a beat. It’s stupid to go toward it. I should turn around, head back to the mansion, but I can’t. The noise pulls me in, a distraction from everything I’m trying so hard to forget. I remind myself why I’m even out here in the first place—because I need to escape. I need to stop thinking, stop feeling, before I lose my mind.

I follow the sound, my feet moving quietly over the stone path. As I get closer, the noise becomes clearer. It’s the sound of something hitting wood—hard. Thwack. Thwack. The rhythm is violent, relentless, like someone is taking out their anger on something solid.

I push past a thick hedge and freeze.

There, in a small clearing, stands a man—a tall, broad figure with his back to me. He’s shirtless, his muscles rippling under the moonlight as he brings his fist down on the tree in front of him with a force that makes me wince. Thwack. Thwack. The tree shudders under the impact, but somehow, it stays standing.

I watch, mesmerized, as he continues to hit the tree, over and over again, his body moving with a kind of raw, primal strength. The sheer force of it is impressive, almost terrifying. I should turn around. I should leave before he notices me.

But I can’t move.

There’s something about the way he moves, the intensity of his actions that holds me in place. He looks like he’s fighting some kind of inner battle, like he’s trying to destroy something inside himself. And for a moment, I understand. I know what it feels like to be consumed by anger, to want to hit something, anything, just to feel a release.

Suddenly, the man stops. He stands there, breathing heavily, his hands still pressed against the tree trunk. For a moment, the garden is silent; the only sound is the rustling of leaves in the breeze. And then, slowly, he turns.

Our eyes meet.

My breath catches in my throat as I take in his face—sharp features, a strong jaw, and eyes so dark they seem to pierce right through me. There’s something familiar about him, something that stirs a memory deep within me, but I can’t quite place it.

For a moment, neither of us moves. The tension in the air is thick, heavy with something unspoken. And then, without a word, he turns back to the tree, his fists clenching at his sides.

I stand there, rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do. Part of me wants to run, to flee back to the safety of the mansion. But another part of me—the part that’s been running for so long—feels drawn to him, to the intensity of his presence.

And for the first time in years, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, I’m not the only one fighting a battle I can’t win.