Chapter 1: Stale Cookies and Worse Memories

Chapter 1: Stale Cookies and Worse Memories

(Nayla’s POV — First Person)

I was halfway through my second box of oatmeal cookies when Kayla flung open the living room curtains like she was staging an intervention.

“Get up,” she said, hands on her hips like some tiny, furious general.

I grunted from the couch, pulling the blanket higher over my head. “Go away.”

“No.” She marched across the room and snatched the cookie box out of my hands. “You’re one emotional binge away from starring in a My 600-lb Life: Werewolf Edition special. I’m saving you from yourself.”

I groaned and buried my face in a pillow.

It had been three weeks.

Three weeks since Nikolai had marked Alara as his Luna.

Three weeks since I stood in front of the entire pack, pretending my heart wasn’t being carved out of my chest with a rusted spoon.

Three weeks of oatmeal cookies, daytime TV, and ignoring the way my wolf sulked in the back of my mind like a wounded animal.

“You need fresh air,” Kayla said, yanking the blanket off me. “And alcohol. And possibly an orgasm.”

“Wow,” I muttered, sitting up. “Tell me how you really feel.”

She tossed me a tight red dress with a wicked grin. “Put this on. We’re going out.”

I stared at the dress like it might bite me. “There is no way my dignity and that dress are coexisting in public.”

Kayla rolled her eyes. “Nayla, your dignity packed its bags and left the night Nikolai chose Perfect Princess Alara. Time to stop mourning it and start living.”

I opened my mouth to argue.

Closed it.

Because somewhere under the blanket of self-pity, I knew she was right.

If I didn’t do something—anything—I was going to drown in my own grief.

And I was tired of drowning.

So I grabbed the dress and marched into the bathroom, muttering death threats under my breath the whole way.

The red silk clung to me like a second skin.

I glared at my reflection in the mirror, tugging at the hem uselessly.

It was too short. Too tight. Too much skin.

Too much like I was someone who still believed in fairytales.

Fairytales are dead, I reminded myself.

And still—

A memory slipped in before I could shove it away.

Flashback – Years Ago

I was seventeen.

Standing in front of the cracked mirror at the pack house, smoothing down the navy-blue dress I’d borrowed from one of the elder wolves.

It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t new.

But it was mine for the night.

Nikolai had asked me out days before, all cocky smiles and promises of forever.

“I don’t need fate,” he’d whispered against my hair. “I choose you.”

I’d believed him.

That night, I wore hope like perfume—thick and sweet and dizzying.

When he showed up at the door, hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets, his eyes had gone wide like he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

It had been the first time I really believed maybe… just maybe… I was enough.

Now

I blinked hard, snapping myself back into the too-bright bathroom.

I wasn’t that girl anymore.

Nikolai had made sure of that.

No more borrowed dresses. No more waiting for someone to choose me.

Tonight wasn’t about anyone else.

It was about me.

And maybe… just surviving.

I swiped a thick line of lipstick across my mouth, checked my reflection one more time, and opened the door.

Kayla stood there, already dressed in something short, black, and dangerous.

Her face split into a grin when she saw me. “There she is. Red hot and reborn.”

I snorted. “I feel like I’m being slowly roasted in public humiliation.”

“You look like vengeance wrapped in silk,” she said, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the door. “Now come on. Before you change your mind and crawl back under my couch.”

I shook my head, laughing despite myself.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t heal the past.

But it could at least remind me that I was still alive.