Settled In

The sunlight streamed through the half-open blinds, scattering across the small kitchen, landing on a half-eaten cereal bowl and a pair of sneakers randomly placed by the door. 

Whitney Cole groaned, burying her face in her hands. “How is it seven already?” she muttered, her silver hair fell across her face as she glanced at the clock, her twins had already been awake for an hour, and she hadn’t even managed a sip of coffee yet.

“Mom! Liam took my tablet!” a hurried voice called from the living room.

“And he stole my sandwich!” Oliver shouted seconds later.

Whitney threw a cushion in the general direction of the bickering, only to hear it bounce back and land on the floor with a soft thud. “Really, you two? It’s Monday. Let’s try a tiny bit of civilization, shall we?” she shouted, her voice slightly strained but carrying a note of playful annoyance.

Upon saying that, the twins froze for a second, then burst out laughing, Whitney pinched the bridge of her nose. “I swear, some days I don’t know if I’m raising children or tiny wolves in disguise,” she muttered to herself as she walked into the living room, where Liam, her eldest, was trying to wring the tablet from Oliver’s hands. “Liam! Leave your brother alone!” she commanded, stooping to grab both of their arms. 

At the same time, the boys wiggled and giggled, but Whitney held firm.

“You know the rules,” she reminded them. “One tablet each, breakfast eaten before anything else, and no teleports to school before I say so.”

“Teleport?!” Oliver squealed, mimicking a superhero pose. “I can do it, Mom! Watch!”

Whitney, who was already losing it, groaned again, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You wish, Oliver. You’ll be walking like normal humans, thank you very much.”

After a few more minutes of wrangling, breakfast was finally under control, though Whitney had a distinct feeling that at any moment the twins would find some new way to test her patience. Her red eyes softened as she watched them shove cereal into their mouths, hair sticking up in all directions and tiny flecks of milk covering their shirts. “God, I love these little monsters,” she murmured under her breath.

Once the twins were fed, Whitney started multitasking, packing their school bags, checking her own notes for the fashion competition, and mentally reviewing the designs she would present. 

Her apartment was modest but cozy, filled with sketches, fabric swatches, and a small corner for her sewing machine. 

It had been a few days since she’d left Milan, yet she had built a semblance of stability here, enough to feel like this was her life, at least for now.

As she zipped up Liam’s bag, a soft knock suddenly sounded at the door, at the same time, Whitney’s head jerked toward the sound, instantly alert. “Who could that be?” she muttered and carefully, she moved to the door and opened the door slightly only to find a courier standing outside, holding a small package. “Delivery for Ms. Whitney Cole,” he said politely, handing over a neatly wrapped box and a folded note.

With a furrowed brow, Whitney accepted it with cautious fingers. “Uh…thanks,” she said, eyeing the man suspiciously, and was confused about who must’ve sent her a parcel as she had just moved back and a parcel was sent to her. 

Meanwhile, the moment the door closed, she examined the note and it read, “Some things from the past have a way of finding you. Watch your step.”

Whitney staggered, unintentionally dropping the parcel as her heart skipped a beat.

Her hands trembled slightly as she grabbed the parcel again, staring at the words. “Great,” she muttered, her voice barely audible. “Just what I needed, reminders that running away doesn’t erase the past.” She uttered internally, tightening her grip on the parcel. 

On the other hand, Liam and Oliver peeked from behind the couch, eyes wide. “Mom, is everything okay?” Liam asked.

Whitney approached them and knelt before the two with a forced smile. “It’s fine, my love. Just some adult things. Now, finish your breakfast so we can get to school on time.” She said and the boys nodded. 

In the next moment, she directed the twins to put on their shoes, even at that, Whitney’s mind raced as she had spent years building a new life for herself, keeping her twins safe and away from the shadow of the Bloodmoon pack and Aiden. Yet somehow, the world seemed determined to pull the past back into her life.

Not long after dressing the boys up, they left and after dropping the boys off at school, Whitney returned to her apartment, trying to shake the gnawing sense of unease. 

She poured herself a cup of tea and stared out the window at the quiet street below, meanwhile, the city was peaceful, unaware of the danger lurking in the lives of one silver-haired woman and her children.

She took a deep breath and whispered to herself, “No one’s going to hurt them. Not today, not ever.”

However, even as she said it, a chill ran down her spine, as if someone or something was watching her. 

At that moment, Whitney Cole, despite her hard-won independence, felt the old tension she had tried to bury creep back into her bones as the past seemed not to have finished with her yet.

On the other hand, the apartment was still, the early morning light slanting across the wooden floors, catching on dust motes that drifted lazily in the air. Whitney slid the studio door open with her elbow, her hands full of fabric rolls, a sketch pad, and a handful of pins she kept clamped between her teeth as she nudged the door closed behind her with her foot.

Her little studio was cramped but full of life, spools of thread arranged in a rainbow, half-cut patterns pinned to a mannequin, colored pencils scattered across her drafting table like fallen soldiers.

Yet, nothing in the room pulled her eyes as strongly as the small white note sitting right beside her sketches.

‘Some things from the past have a way of finding you. Watch your step.’ She mentally repeated the words, her jaw tightening. 

Whitney set her things down with more force than necessary, the pencils rolling off the table and hitting the floor one by one. “Great,” she muttered under her breath. “Start the day with cryptic threats. Fantastic productivity booster.”

She picked up a piece of soft ivory fabric, brushing her fingers over it. Its texture was smooth, expensive, and perfect for the gown she was designing, a gown she desperately needed to win this competition, but her gaze kept darting back to the note.

She inhaled slowly, willing her heartbeat to settle into something normal, and humane, but nothing helped as the studio still smelled faintly of lavender detergent and him, even after so many years. 

Whitney forced her mind away, cutting a clean line across the fabric with practiced precision, but even the sound of the scissors seemed too loud in the stillness.

‘Focus, Whitney. You’re not that girl anymore.’ She expressed with a big frustration internally. 

She pinned the cut fabric onto the mannequin, stepping back to see how it fell. It should have calmed her as designing always did, creating beauty from ruins was the one thing she could control.

However, the second she reached for her sketchbook, her fingers brushed the edge of the note again.

At that point, Whitney squeezed her eyes shut hard, remembering the last time she’d felt watched four years ago in the Night Walker pack, Aiden’s shadow swallowing her whole, his voice still clung to her memory, deep and quiet and dangerous.

Thinking of those moments made her breath hitch, she shook her head as if physically dislodging him from her mind.

“Not today,” she whispered sharply, stabbing a pin into the mannequin. “I have deadlines, two children, and absolutely no patience for supernatural nonsense.”

She set her sewing machine whirring, the steady heartbeat of the engine filling the studio, the rhythm steadying her while every so often her eyes drifted to the table.

To that single note that didn’t belong and the reminder that her past was not as far away as she had prayed.

The sewing machine hummed on, stitching her design together one line at a time, while Whitney Cole tried to convince herself that the only things watching her were her mannequins.

Despite lots of convincing, she still didn’t fully believe it, but she kept on grinding.

Several hours later……

The apartment door slammed open so hard the doorknob dented the wall. Whitney flinched mid-stitch, nearly sewing her finger as she snapped her head up as two small bodies barreled into the studio like twin storms.

“Mom!” Liam’s voice wobbled.

Oliver hovered behind him, his eyes glossy and wide, clutching his backpack strap like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Whitney immediately dropped her fabric. “What happened?” she asked, her voice that sharp, but laced with softness only mothers had.

“We’ve missed you so much Mommy, the school is boring, can we not go,” Oliver said, and Whitney scoffed. 

“You naughty boys, I thought it was something serious.” She uttered and was about to hit them when they ran off, screaming dramatically. 

Whitney laughed and went back to work, shortly after she slipped out of the studio, closing the door softly as if noise alone might summon whatever presence her instincts kept whispering about. 

The hallway felt cooler, and quieter, as she rubbed her palms against her jeans and forced herself to breathe normally.

“Okay,” she muttered, scooping up her tote bag from the couch. “Branch office meeting, and competition brief, just pretend life is normal.”

She grabbed her keys, and called out, “Boys, I’m heading out for a bit!”

A muffled pair of voices answered from their shared room. “Don’t eat anything weird!” she added automatically.

“Define weird!” Oliver shot back.

Whitney sighed heavily and exhaled. “If it moves, don’t eat it.”

Saying that, there was a pause that lasted for some time before their voices came again. 

“We weren’t going to!”

‘Lies, absolute lies.’ Whitney said to herself, but she didn’t have time to investigate what they were experimenting with today.

She stepped outside, locking the door behind her, the afternoon hot air nipped softly at her cheeks, carrying the distant smell of wet leaves and coffee from the shop down the street. 

Her boots clicked against the pavement as she started walking, her pace brisk, her mind still hitching on that note from earlier.

She tucked her chin down and moved faster as the Moschino branch office was only a fifteen-minute walk, close enough to feel convenient, far enough that she could talk herself out of turning around and hiding under a blanket.

Shortly, the building came into view: sleek glass windows, clean white signage, the kind of modern simplicity that screamed expensive taste. 

Her pulse quickened, this was her world now, and reality with no curses, Lycans, or bloodlines. Just fabric, deadlines, and overworked artists.

Inside, the lobby buzzed with soft conversation and clacking heels, the receptionist with a perfect bun and sharp eyeliner perked up as Whitney approached.

“Good morning,” Whitney said, adjusting the strap of her tote. “Whitney Cole, designer for the Fashion Buzz competition. I was asked to check in?”

Saying that, recognition flickered in the receptionist’s eyes, not fame, but the kind of familiarity from a name she’d seen on an email thread. “Ah, yes. Welcome, you’re a bit early, but that’s perfectly fine. Go right ahead to Room 204. The coordinator is preparing materials.”

Whitney thanked her and headed down the hall, the building smelled faintly of expensive perfume and ironed fabric, comforting, in its own strange way.

Room 204 had its door propped open and Inside, a few other designers were setting up their portfolios, flipping through garment bags, or nervously clicking pens. A large screen displayed the competition logo in bold lettering at that moment, her heart made a small, anxious flutter.

‘Two days, just two days I’ll be done with this and head back to Milan.’ She uttered and immediately found an empty table and set her things down. The coordinator, a lean man with sharp glasses and a polite but exhausted smile, handed her a folder.

“Whitney Cole, correct?”

“Yes.”

“These are your briefing documents, runway order, theme requirements, updated judges’ list, oh, actually…” He flipped through another stack. “The final judge is still confidential, but we’ll reveal the full panel at rehearsal tomorrow.”

Whitney paused mid-motion upon hearing that, her fingers brushing the edge of the folder.

‘Confidential judge?’ Her stomach tightened, yet, she offered a small smile anyway. “Thank you.”

At the same time, the coordinator nodded briskly and stepped away to help the next designer.

Whitney sat down, flipping open the folder, scanning details she already knew but reread anyway, anything to distract herself from the cold coil of unease settling in her stomach.

Meanwhile, her fingers tapped restlessly against the table, thinking about the hidden judge, a warning note, and a prickling under her skin that refused to fade.

‘I’m just overthinking things, these two things can’t correlate.” She took a slow breath.

“You’re fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re here to work. That’s all.” She said to herself, but even as she traced the runway schematic printed on the page, her instincts whispered something else, ‘What if he has already found you?’ She shook it off, burying her attention fully into the file.

If something was coming, she would face it later, right now, she had two days, just two days to prove herself and she wouldn’t waste a single second.