Novah’s POV
The drawing room. Camilia. The thought offered a sliver of… not hope, but perhaps a brief respite from the Alpha’s glacial disapproval. Camilia tried. She wasn’t Meredith, but she wasn’t my father either. Her scent, when I hesitantly pushed open the drawing room door a while later, was a gentle wave of jasmine and vanilla, a deliberate contrast to the house’s austerity. She sat perched on the edge of a brocade sofa, her posture elegant, her expression carefully neutral as she looked up from a book.
“Novah,” she greeted, her voice warm, though her eyes held a flicker of concern as they took me in. I’d splashed cold water on my face, tried to tame my hair, but the redness around my eyes and the lingering pallor were undeniable. “Come in, dear. Sit down.”
I obeyed, perching on the very edge of an armchair opposite her, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. The room was opulent, filled with expensive, uncomfortable-looking furniture and art that felt impersonal. It smelled fain
