Chapter 2 - Caps, Gowns, and Coffee Stains

The alarm blared like it was personally offended by my existence. I slapped at it, missed, slapped again, and finally sent it tumbling to the floor. Good riddance.

“Happy Graduation Day to me,” I muttered, stretching across my bed with all the grace of a dying starfish.

My tiny apartment smelled faintly of last night’s pizza and coffee grounds. Classy, I know. The whole place was smaller than most people’s walk-in closets, but it was mine. The cracked mirror on the wall caught my reflection: wild blond curls I hadn’t bothered to tame, dark circles that screamed “waitress + finals week,” and curves that my thrift-store dress couldn’t quite hide. I tilted my head and gave the mirror a smirk.

“Valedictorian chic. Eat your heart out.”

The robe was folded neatly over my chair, the cap perched on top like a smug little crown. Seeing it there made my stomach flip. After years of juggling shifts, textbooks, and late-night breakdowns, I’d actually done it. Clara Hale: waitress, secret wolf, broke as hell… and graduating top of her class in management and finance.

Take that, life.

I pulled on jeans and a sweater, stuffing my gown into a tote bag so I wouldn’t spill anything on it before the ceremony. Which, let’s be real, was a statistical certainty if I wore it now.

As I locked the door behind me, Pinewood was waking up. The little town always smelled of pine needles, cinnamon from the bakery, and occasionally wet dog - the last one being a little too on-the-nose considering what lurked under my skin.

The campus was only a ten-minute walk, tucked between the town library and the sports field. I waved at Mrs. Donnelly watering her flowers, dodged a cyclist who clearly hated pedestrians, and ducked into Moonlight Café long enough to grab a latte.

“Graduation girl!” my boss called. “Try not to trip on stage, yeah?”

“Confidence inspiring as always, thanks,” I shot back, clutching my cup like it was a lifeline.

By the time I reached campus, clusters of students in half-buttoned robes and crooked caps filled the courtyard, snapping selfies and shrieking about the future. My best friend, Cassie, spotted me immediately.

“There you are!” she yelled, barreling through the crowd in heels that could double as weapons. “Do you know how much we have to do today? Photos, speeches, me pretending not to cry…”

I grinned and handed her my tote. “You forgot one: keeping me upright on stage.”

“Right,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “My most important job.”

We found our group, professors herding us like caffeinated sheep toward the auditorium. Everyone buzzed with excitement, but beneath it all, my wolf shifted uneasily inside me.

Like it knew something was coming.

I shook it off, tugged on my gown, and pasted a bright smile across my face. Today was about me. Clara Hale. The girl no one ever noticed - until now.

And absolutely nothing was going to ruin it.

The auditorium buzzed like a hive, everyone packed shoulder to shoulder, caps bobbing, tassels flicking, parents waving phones like paparazzi. A sea of black gowns shimmered under the too-bright lights, and I, Clara Hale, stood right at the front of it all.

I clutched the little note cards I’d written my speech on - though I knew every word by heart - and tried not to look like I was about to faint.

“Valedictorian,” Cassie whispered, nudging me from her spot in the row behind. “You’re a rock star.”

“More like a rock about to be thrown off a cliff,” I muttered back.

The dean droned through opening remarks, talking about futures, challenges, bright horizons. The words blurred together. My pulse pounded in my ears. My wolf prowled under my skin, restless, like it hated being trapped in this gown as much as I did.

Finally, my name was called.

“Valedictorian, Clara Hale.”

Applause thundered as I walked across the stage. My legs felt like noodles, but I kept my chin high, my smile fixed. Cassie hollered something embarrassingly loud, and a ripple of laughter followed me up to the podium.

The microphone loomed. I set my cards down, took a breath, and let my heart do the talking.

“Good morning, everyone. If I trip over this gown and face-plant, just remember me as I was: brilliant, clumsy, and deeply caffeinated.”

The audience chuckled, the tension in my chest easing.

“I stand here today as someone who grew up in a small town, with small pockets, and big dreams. I didn’t have the money for a fancy university in the city. I worked shifts. I spilled more coffee than I served. But I studied. I studied until my eyes burned, until my brain felt like it might split in half. And somehow, here I am - proving that you don’t need the perfect circumstances to do something great. You just need grit. And maybe coffee. Definitely coffee.”

Laughter again, but soft, warm. Encouraging.

“I know a lot of us don’t have all the answers yet. Some of us don’t know what comes next - and that’s okay. What I’ve learned is that the future doesn’t belong to the loudest voice in the room, or the person with the fanciest last name. It belongs to the ones who refuse to quit. The ones who dare to dream a little bigger, even when it feels impossible. People like us.”

A lump rose in my throat. My wolf stirred again, a low hum of pride or warning, I couldn’t tell.

“So today, when we walk off this stage, don’t just think of it as an ending. Think of it as proof: we’ve already survived the hard part. Now we get to live. To fail, to try again, to fight for something bigger than ourselves. And if life knocks us down-” I glanced at Cassie, grinning, “-we’ll just spill a little coffee on it and keep going.”

Applause burst like fireworks. People stood, clapping, cheering. Heat rushed into my cheeks as I stepped back, trying not to cry or combust.

The dean shook my hand, muttering congratulations, but I barely heard him. Because that’s when I saw them.

Four men.

Sitting near the back, a row apart from the crowd, as if they didn’t belong - because they didn’t. No caps, no gowns, no proud-parent smiles. Just sharp suits, tailored to perfection, the kind of fabric that whispered money with every shift.

They were too young to be professors, too polished to be parents. Late thirties maybe, the oldest brushing forty, the youngest just past thirty. All of them broad-shouldered, predatory, the air around them vibrating with authority.

And they were staring at me.

Not politely. Not casually.

Hungry. Assessing.

My wolf lunged inside me, claws scraping against my ribs. My breath caught.

One of them leaned back in his seat, dark eyes locked on mine. His jaw was sharp, expression unreadable. Another tilted his head, studying me like a puzzle piece he’d been missing.

My fingers tightened around the diploma until the paper crinkled.

Who were they?

Why did they look so… familiar?

And why did my wolf suddenly feel like it recognized them?

Applause still rang in my ears, but all I could hear was the pounding of my heart.