u/got7gemfot

Chapter 1
AURELIA'S POV
I found a letter written by my ten-year-younger self.
Across the envelope, a crooked line had been written with solemn determination.
Hello, dear Miss Aurelia.
“Hello,” I whispered, then continued reading the childish handwriting.
[You must have grown into an amazing person.
You and Celia probably get along now. Mom and Dad love you both, and Tristan always takes your side.
Celia played another prank today. She dumped a box of live centipedes onto my bed, and they bit me several times.
I was the one in pain, but she started crying.
Mom and Dad said she was wolfless and easily frightened, and that my Alpha aura had scared her when I got angry. Tristan said I was petty because I couldn't even protect my wolfless sister.
I'm too stubborn. I don't know how to yield or forgive.
But I hope you've learned.
I hope you're no longer difficult or resentful, and that you've become someone everyone likes.]
I closed the letter and stared at the torn acceptance letter on my desk.
Ravencrest Community Arts College.
It was a two-year school that admitted practically anyone who could pay tuition.
But I had scored 1570 on the SAT, and my portfolio ranked first in Ravencrest Pack's young artist review.
The place that should have been mine was the pack's only fully funded scholarship to the North American Lycan Academy of Fine Arts.
Now it belonged to Celia.
My father and Tristan had logged into my application account, withdrawn my enrollment confirmation, and changed my backup choice to the community college.
Because Celia's portfolio ranked second.
If I accepted the scholarship, she could not have it.
My parents had thrown me out a year earlier.
My mock-review score had been so high that Celia locked herself in the bathroom, sobbing that she would never catch up and might as well die.
Tristan had already blocked me and sworn he would never pay a dollar toward my college education.
Because I refused to forgive Celia.
I refused to forgive her for destroying my artwork.
For sabotaging my exams again and again.
And for letting our father and Tristan hand her my future.
I'm sorry, eight-year-old Miss Aurelia.
I failed at everything you hoped I would do.
I lowered my head.
A tear landed on the warped floorboards of my rented room.
The window screen was torn, and summer insects kept getting inside. My calves were covered in itchy red bites that kept me awake, so I spent the nights painting instead.
The day they sent me here, I had not even been allowed to pack my art supplies.
That day, I had placed first in drawing, color, and figure sketching across the pack.
My reviewer said that if I maintained that standard, I would certainly receive the academy's nomination.
Celia threw a fit that same night.
She locked herself in the bathroom.
When my parents broke down the door, she was crying on the floor, surrounded by my art supplies.
She had squeezed out every tube of paint I had saved for two years to buy, and ripped apart the piece I had prepared for the final review.
My mother hugged Celia, then turned and screamed at me.
“You know she doesn't have a wolf and can't handle emotional stress. Why did you bring your score report home and show it to her?”
I was still clutching the crumpled report.
But all I could see was my ruined painting.
“I only took the assessment.”
“I want to attend the best art academy. I wasn't trying to upset her.”
“Then get out!”
For the first time, my father released the full force of his Alpha aura.
The air pressed on my shoulders like solid iron.
But I carried Alpha blood too, and my wolf had already awakened. I gritted my teeth and refused to bend.
That only enraged him more.
“If you're so strong, go take care of yourself.”
“All you do in this house is hurt my daughter!”
My daughter.
I stood there for a long time, trapped inside those two words.
Then Tristan seized my arm and shoved me and my belongings through the front door of the Hartwell home.
The door slammed behind me.
I crouched on the steps, crying as I gathered the paintbrushes scattered across the ground.
The North American Lycan Academy had been my dream.
I stayed awake through countless nights to paint well enough to enter it.
To attend a portfolio workshop in New York, I worked extra shifts and saved for the cheapest flight I could find.
At the airport, I discovered that my ticket had been canceled.
Celia's name appeared on the refund request, and the money had gone into her account.
I could only buy a long-distance bus ticket.
For more than twenty hours, I sat in the last row, breathing disinfectant fumes from the restroom as the bus crawled stop by stop toward New York.
When I arrived, the instructor told me my registration fee had also been refunded.
“Someone claiming to be your sister called and said you wouldn't attend. She asked us to refund the original payment method.”
There was no need to ask where the money had gone.
I called my mother. Her tone was as indifferent as ever.
“Celia only wanted to test whether you're truly capable.”
“If you have real talent, you can finish your portfolio without a workshop.”
I swallowed my hurt while tears burned in my eyes.
“Last time, she poured turpentine into my paint and ruined the colors during the school review. You told me to prove myself without help then too.”
“Why do you hold grudges over everything?”
My mother sounded impatient.
“And stop calling. Hearing your voice upsets Celia.”
She hung up.
I looked at the gray New York sky and placed everything I had left on the final assessment and my portfolio.
In the end, I ranked first in the pack.
Everyone knew I was gifted.
My father knew.
Tristan knew.
Even Celia knew.
That was why they had to destroy my application first.
Only then could she win.

Chapter 1
Three weeks before the wedding, Kade said it over pasta. Not even good pasta. The kind from that overpriced midtown place he always picked because the lighting made him look distinguished. He twirled his fork, took a sip of wine, and said it like he was suggesting we try a new brunch spot. "I think Isla should be your maid of honor." I set down my fork. Not because I was about to cry. Not because I was shocked into silence. I set it down because something inside my chest went very, very quiet—the way a room goes quiet right before a fire alarm screams. "She never got to have that experience," he continued. His voice was smooth. Practiced. "Her first wedding was so small. It would mean the world to her. And honestly, Eva, it would show everyone how mature we are. How secure." I looked at him across the candlelight. His jaw was relaxed. His eyes were steady. He actually believed this was a reasonable sentence to say out loud to his pregnant fiancée three weeks before their wedding. "Sure," I said. "Let me think about it." He smiled and reached over to squeeze my hand. "That's my girl." I smiled back. Inside, every suppressed suspicion I'd carried for two years detonated, one by one, like charges set along a foundation wall. --- I didn't sleep that night. Kade was out before eleven, one arm thrown over his face, breathing slow and even. I lay beside him for exactly twenty-two minutes. Then I picked up his phone from the nightstand. His passcode was my birthday. He'd made a point of telling me that once, like it was romantic. I found the wire transfers in under four minutes. Monthly. Consistent. Two years of them. I pulled up the spreadsheet app on my own phone and started logging numbers. When I hit $180,000, I stopped and just stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then I opened his Venmo. There it was. A masterpiece of petty, meticulous accounting. A request for $2.13—*half of afternoon coffee, 3/14.* A request for $47.50—*calligraphy deposit, your half.* A request for $18.00—*wedding stamp book, split evenly.* I had paid every single one. Same day, usually. Because I loved him and I thought his frugality was just how he was wired. I sat in the dark bathroom on the cold tile floor and pulled up his archived hospital email on the shared cloud account he'd forgotten I had access to. I wasn't even looking for it. I was looking for anything. A receipt. A text chain. Proof that I wasn't losing my mind. I found the Mount Sinai incident report instead. Date: fourteen months ago. The night of my mother's emergency cardiac surgery. The night I sat alone in that waiting room for four hours because Kade had been called in as lead surgeon and I trusted him completely. The report was clinical. Bureaucratic. It didn't know how to be cruel. *Attending surgeon exited OR at 21:47 during critical phase of procedure. Junior surgeon Dr. Marcus Reeves assumed lead. Patient stabilized.* I scrolled to the attached voicemail transcript. Isla's voice, rendered in plain text. *Mochi got hit by a car. I need you NOW. Please, Kade. Please.* Timestamp: 21:44. Three minutes. He'd waited three minutes before walking out of my mother's open chest. I read it twice. Then I set my phone face-down on the tile. I pressed both palms flat against the cold floor. I breathed. My mother almost died on that table. And I had spent fourteen months being grateful to Kade for "being there" that night. I didn't cry. I made a list. --- By seven the next morning, I had called two people. First was Petra Voss, my attorney. Petra had the kind of mind that treated loopholes like personal enemies. She'd drafted our prenuptial agreement six months ago, and I'd let her be aggressive with the liability clauses because I thought we'd never need them. When I laid out what I'd found, she was quiet for exactly four seconds. "The clauses hold," she said. "Every one of them. Don't change a single thing before the wedding." "I won't," I said. "I just need you to confirm the cancellation penalty structure one more time." She confirmed it. Two point five million dollars, sole liability, non-negotiable, fully executable upon breach of contract or unilateral dissolution. Kade had signed it without reading past page three. I remembered watching him flip through it. He'd been on his phone half the time. The second call was to Simone Hartley, my closest colleague at Sotheby's. Simone had been auctioneering for eleven years. She had steady hands and a very short list of people she actually liked. I was on it. "I need the livestream contract locked in my name only," I told her. "Two million viewers minimum. Not a single clause changes hands." A pause. "Eva. What are you planning?" "The best auction of my career," I said. She laughed, low and sharp. "Tell me what you need." I told her everything. An hour later, I walked back into our apartment. Kade was in the kitchen in his robe, making coffee. He looked up and smiled. "Morning, beautiful. You sleep okay?" I crossed the room and kissed him on the cheek. His skin was warm. He smelled like expensive soap. "Like a baby," I said. "Have you eaten?" He hadn't. I made him eggs. I stood at that stove and I flipped them perfectly, and I thought about $2.13 and a voicemail and an operating room at 9:47 PM, and I smiled the whole time. Three weeks was plenty.

Chapter 1
It was freshman move-in day at State University, and my dad stopped us right in front of the main campus gates.
"Rowan, take a family portrait for us," he said, gesturing toward the entrance. "Make sure you get the school gates in the frame!"
I pulled out my phone, stepping back half a step to find the perfect angle out of sheer habit.
Through the viewfinder, my parents stood on either side of Skyler, their hands forming a coordinated heart shape around her while Garrett busied himself adjusting the hem of her dress.
Julian stood just behind her, flashing a bright smile and holding up a peace sign over her head.
Like always, nobody noticed that I was missing from the family portrait.
But right as I brought the camera into focus, my phone screen suddenly glitched and jumped over to a note in my memo app.
The timestamp at the bottom was dated five years into the future.
[I’m dying, and they all say this is what I owe my sister.
The day she drove drunk and killed someone, my parents got me wasted and shoved me into the driver’s seat, and Julian committed perjury to seal my fate.
Rowan Sterling, don’t be so stupid in your next life. Walking on eggshells will never win you their love.]
The afternoon sun was blinding, but a sudden icy chill swept through my veins.
Just because I was born healthy and strong while Skyler came into the world frail and weak, everyone had spent the last eighteen years acting like I owed her my life.
Even a simple umbrella had to be handed over, competition spots given up, and even my college applications and major choice had to be sacrificed for her sake.
I used to think that if I was just well-behaved enough, they would eventually love me a little bit.
But I was nothing more than a convenient scapegoat, ready to be slaughtered for Skyler at any moment.
"Rowan, hurry up and take the picture," Julian urged, his voice laced with impatience. "The sun is brutal today, and Skyler is going to get sunburned!"
I pressed the shutter, forwarded the flawless photo into the family group chat, and immediately logged into the university’s academic portal.
Without a second thought, I digitally signed and submitted my application to transfer to the Far North Campus.
If they wanted to keep their precious star revolving around them, then I, the speck of dust, would find my own place to settle.
******
Julian took a quick look at the photo on his phone, his eyes lighting up with approval.
"The gates and the hem of Skyler’s dress look perfect, and you caught the light beautifully," he said. "With these skills, Rowan, you could honestly be a professional photographer."
My mom chimed in with her own praise while Julian smoothly took the sun umbrella from Skyler’s hands to shield her.
In that perfectly composed frame, not a single person seemed to realize that the girl holding the camera wasn't in the picture.
Mom wiped the sweat from Skyler’s forehead with a tissue, her voice brimming with tenderness.
"This heat is killer. Our little Skyler has such delicate skin, she turns red so easily. Let's get to the dorms and turn on the AC."
Garrett had already hoisted Skyler’s massive suitcase, marching ahead of the group.
I silently pocketed my phone, grabbed the handle of my own bag, and trailed behind them.
At the freshman housing desk, the resident advisor checked our IDs against her roster.
"Skyler Sterling, Room 302. Standard quad."
She then looked up, her eyes widening slightly. "Rowan Sterling? You’re one of the top ten state scholars this year, right? The university pulled strings to get you a private studio on the top floor, Room 701."
The RA slid two different keys across the counter.
"Wow," Skyler murmured, her eyes shining as her voice dropped into a crestfallen whisper. "I’m so jealous Rowan gets her own place. It’s my own fault for being so useless. If only I were as smart as her."
Right on cue, my mom looked at the single-occupancy key in my hand and wrapped her fingers warmly around my wrist.
"Rowan, honey, you’ve always been so independent. You can take care of yourself no matter where you go."
She glanced over at Skyler before looking back at me. "But your sister can't. She’s too fragile for a quad. All those roommates will drive her crazy."
Dad clapped a heavy, approving hand onto my shoulder.
"She’s right, Rowan. You’ve always been the mature, understanding one."
"Just think of it as looking out for your sister and let her have the studio, okay? We know you’re a good girl."
They spoke as if they were listing Skyler's flaws, yet their tone was dripping with pure adoration.
Because I was mature, I was expected to suffer.
Because I was understanding, I was obligated to back down.
Skyler bit her lower lip, gently tugging at Mom’s shirt.
"Dad, Mom, forget it," she murmured. "I’ll be fine. I’ll just take some sleeping pills regularly, and I should be able to get through the day."
Garrett immediately frowned, shooting a sharp look in my direction.
"Rowan, look how much your sister considers your feelings. Do you really have the heart to watch her pop sleeping pills every day?"
Before I could say a word, Mom slipped the studio key out of my open hand.
I stared at my empty palm, my fingertips tingling with a sudden numbness.
The night before the state exams, I was the one running a high fever.
But to keep from disrupting Skyler’s study routine, my parents had locked me inside the hallway closet so I wouldn't pass the bug to her.
Delirious and burning up, I had survived that night by forcing down cold tap water entirely on my own.
And now, the academic honors I had nearly died to secure were nothing more than a bargaining chip for them to show how much they pitied Skyler.
My backpack suddenly felt like it was loaded with concrete, weighing down my shoulders until it was hard to breathe.
"Rowan?" Julian prompted softly from the side. "You’ve always been the best sister. You wouldn't make things difficult for your parents over something this small, right?"
I met Julian’s gentle yet entirely unyielding gaze, a bitter ache rising in the back of my throat.
When I was eight years old, Garrett had pushed me down, scraping my knee down to the bone.
As I sat crying alone in the corner of the yard, Julian had walked over, wrapped his handkerchief around the wound, and popped a peppermint into my mouth.
"You're such a good girl, Rowan," he had said back then. "I'll protect you from now on."
But somewhere along the way, his version of protection had turned into using the phrase "good girl" as a weapon to force my surrender.