CHAPTER 3

TIARA'S POV

Tears streamed down my face, my vision blurred as I stumbled through the dark corridors of the pack house. 

The sounds of laughter and music from the hall still echoed faintly behind me, a cruel reminder of the world I would never belong to. My heart pounded in my chest as I made my way to the only person I thought could give me answers: 

My father. Alpha Darius. 

It was true that he didn't love or want me, but for answers, he owed me. 

He was in his study, seated at the grand oak table with his beta, discussing matters of the pack. Usually, the parties were hosted by Victoria just so she could showcase Phoebe. The alpha hardly participated unless it was important.

The room smelled of leather and wood polish, but the air was heavy with the weight of authority. My father looked up as I entered, his expression turning cold as soon as his eyes landed on me.

"Tiara," he said, his tone sharp. 

"What are you doing here? This is no place for you."

I ignored his words. I clasped my hands as I dropped to my knees, the question in my eyes. 

My voice trembled as I spoke. 

"Father, please… why? Why do they hate me so much? Why am I treated like I don’t belong?"

His beta gave me a look of disdain, but I kept my focus on my father. His face remained unreadable, but there was no warmth in his gaze, no trace of the love I had desperately hoped to find.

"You bring this upon yourself, Tiara," he said finally, his voice firm and without pity.

My heart sank. 

"How? How is it my fault?" I asked, my voice breaking. 

"I do everything they ask of me. I stay out of their way. I endure everything they throw at me without complaint. Why am I treated like this?"

He sighed, leaning back in his chair as if he were tired of the conversation. 

"That mark on your neck," he said, his eyes narrowing. 

"It is a curse, Tiara. You were born with ill omens hanging over you. Your mother died because of you, and your existence has brought nothing but trouble to this pack. If it weren’t for the pack’s kindness, you would have been cast out long ago."

I stared at him, disbelief and pain washing over me in waves. 

"But I’m your own blood!" I cried, my voice rising in frustration and anguish. "Your own first daughter! How can you let them treat me like this?"

"Enough," he barked, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. 

"You will not raise your voice to me, Tiara. Guards!"

Before I could protest, the door opened, and two guards stepped inside. Their grips were firm and unyielding as they grabbed my arms, dragging me backward despite my struggles.

"Father, please!" I pleaded, my tears falling freely. "I’m your daughter! Please!"

"Take her away," he ordered, his voice cold and final.

The guards pulled me out of the room, their hands rough as they hauled me through the corridors. My cries echoed down the halls, but no one came to my aid. The last thing I saw before the doors closed was my father turning back to his conversation with the beta, as if I hadn’t been there at all.

I stumbled back into the servant’s quarters, my body trembling from exhaustion and despair. The room was as cold and empty as I felt inside. I collapsed onto the cot, burying my face in my hands as the sobs I had been holding back erupted from my chest.

The memories of the night played over and over in my mind: Victoria’s slap, my father’s words, the sneers of the pack members. Each one was a dagger to my heart, a reminder of the life I was forced to endure.

I thought back to my childhood, to the days when I still believed things might change. I remembered watching Phoebe twirl in her beautiful dresses while I scrubbed the floors in rags. I remembered standing at the kitchen door, watching the family laugh and talk at the dining table while I ate alone, standing by the sink.

I had never owned a dress of my own. Never been invited to sit with the family. Never been shown an ounce of kindness, except from Nina, who risked so much just to sneak me a meal.

There were days they made me work in the fields under the burning sun, my hands raw and bleeding from pulling weeds. Nights when I was sent to bed without supper, too hungry to sleep. And through it all, the whispers of the pack haunted me: Cursed. Damned. A sign of misfortune.

I wished for death sometimes, prayed for it, even. But it never came. I was still here, enduring a life that felt more like a punishment than an existence.

I sat up slowly, my tears drying on my cheeks. My hands moved to the ties of my dress, unfastening them with trembling fingers. The fabric fell to the floor, pooling around my feet as I stepped toward the broken mirror propped against the wall.

The glass was cracked and dusty, but it still reflected enough for me to see the mark on my neck. The star. The curse. I leaned closer, my fingers brushing over the raised skin. It was small, no bigger than a coin, but its impact on my life was immeasurable.

I stared at it, my chest tightening as a mix of anger and despair swirled within me. This mark had defined me from the moment I was born. It had stolen my mother, my family, my dignity. It had taken everything from me and left me with nothing but pain.

The tears came again, this time, unstoppable. I sank to the floor, my knees hitting the cold, hard surface as I sobbed into my hands. 

My voice was loud but I didn't care. 

The party was still ongoing and no one would notice that I was g

one anyway. 

I didn't want them to notice. I needed this time alone.