CHAPTER 2: THE BENTLEY

The journey to the Free Cities lasted five days.

Exactly as Mikhal Korven had said it would.

I spent the first day without saying a word.

Seated in the back of the Voss family Bentley, still wrapped in my white wedding gown, I watched the world pass beyond the window. The Sterling Pack ledger rested beside me on the smooth leather seat. The Voss family pearls still circled my neck. The 1847 Voss wedding crown remained nestled in my dark auburn hair.

Outside, the orderly pine forests of Northern Hollow slowly disappeared behind us.

The rolling northern foothills followed.

Then came the wide, flat farmlands of the Middle Counties stretching beneath an endless sky.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t touch the sandwich Mikhal quietly left beside me late that afternoon.

I simply watched the landscape drift by.

And for the first time in the seven years I had spent engaged to Caelum Sterling, I allowed myself to think.

Really think.

On the second day, I opened the Sterling Pack ledger.

The book was covered in aged brown leather, stamped with the Sterling crest—a wolf’s head above three crossed silver arrows. Its pages were thick and handmade, records preserved since the pack’s founding in 1847.

Inside lay one hundred and seventy-nine years of financial history.

I started with the newest entries.

Six hours passed.

By the afternoon, I understood three things.

Three truths.

The first was simple.

The Sterling Pack was drowning in debt.

Over the previous five years, they had borrowed two hundred and thirteen million Free Cities credits from three separate lenders. According to the 2023 records, interest payments alone consumed forty-three percent of the pack’s yearly income.

Forty-three percent.

The second truth was even worse.

They had hidden it.

Under Northern pack law, every Alpha family was required to disclose its finances each year during the spring Alphas’ Council. Yet according to the ledger, the Sterling Pack had concealed every piece of Free Cities debt for five consecutive years.

Not a single creditor had been reported.

Not a single loan.

Then I found the third truth.

And suddenly everything made sense.

Caelum Sterling had married Isolde Voss for one reason.

Money.

My cousin.

My maid of honor.

The girl who had scattered flowers at my wedding.

According to the Voss family will my grandmother left behind in 2018, Isolde was second in line to inherit the Voss fortune.

I was first.

If I died…

If I were rejected…

If I somehow lost my place within the Voss bloodline…

Everything would pass to Isolde.

I stared at the figures again.

At the creditor schedules.

At the deadlines.

At the amounts due.

And I finally understood.

Caelum had not rejected me because he loved Isolde.

He had rejected me because a married Isolde Sterling would eventually inherit the Voss fortune.

And that fortune would save the Sterling Pack from collapse.

I closed the ledger.

Carefully.

Then I set it beside me.

The pale afternoon sunlight filtered through the Bentley window as I lifted my gaze toward the passing fields.

I did not cry.

Not even then.

But for the first time since standing in the Sterling Pack ballroom that morning…

I smiled.

On the third day, I asked Mikhal Korven to stop the Bentley.

We had reached Halversford.

The old market town sat quietly in the heart of the Middle Counties, and it held one person my family trusted.

Margarethe Lindholm.

A seamstress.

She had made my mother’s wedding gown in 1991.

And according to my grandmother, she had been waiting for me ever since 2018.

Ever since Grandmother died.

I stepped out of the Bentley wearing my white silk wedding dress.

The afternoon air smelled faintly of fresh bread, wood smoke, and summer grass.

Crossing the market square, I entered Margarethe’s shop.

The bell above the door chimed softly.

Once.

Margarethe looked up from an old Singer sewing machine.

She was sixty-one now, her silver hair braided neatly down her back.

Her eyes found mine.

Then the dress.

Then the pearls.

Then the crown.

She didn’t ask a single question.

Not one.

She lowered her sewing needle.

Slowly rose from her stool.

Then crossed the small shop toward me.

Sunlight spilled through the front windows, washing the room in pale gold.

She stopped in front of me.

Lifted both hands.

And gently cupped my face.

Her voice was soft when she spoke.

“Lady Voss.”

“Yes, Margarethe.”

“Take it off.”

My eyes closed.

For the first time since the ballroom, I allowed someone to touch me.

I reached up and removed the 1847 Voss wedding crown.

Then I unclasped the pearls from around my neck.

I laid both pieces carefully on the counter.

Without another word, Margarethe guided me into the small room behind the shop.

She drew the curtain closed.

Patiently, gently, she helped me out of the white silk wedding gown.

The same gown my mother had been buried in.

Once it was folded, she placed it inside an old cedar trunk.

Then she walked to a wardrobe.

From the highest shelf, she retrieved something wrapped in cloth.

A traveling suit.

One she had apparently been keeping for me since 2018.

The suit was charcoal gray wool.

Practical.

Tailored perfectly.

The kind of clothing meant for a Northern woman traveling alone through the world.

I put it on.

When I stepped back into the front room, I felt like a different person.

Not a bride.

Not anymore.

I picked up the Sterling Pack ledger from the counter.

Then the crown.

Then the pearls.

Margarethe handed me a small leather travel bag she had already packed, and I tucked the heirlooms safely inside.

When I looked up, she was watching me quietly.

“Margarethe.”

“Yes, Lady Voss.”

“Thank you.”

Silence settled between us.

Then I said, “You’ll hear from me again.”

For the first time, the corners of her mouth lifted.

A tiny smile.

A Northern smile.

Small enough to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

“I know, Lady Voss.”

She paused.

Then added quietly, “I’ve been waiting eight years to hear from you again.”

My eyes closed.

For the second time in three days, I allowed myself to be touched by kindness.

Then I lifted my chin.

Straightened my shoulders.

And walked back out into the Halversford afternoon.

The sunlight felt warmer now.

The air felt lighter.

I crossed the market square and climbed back into the black Bentley.

“Mikhal.”

“Yes, Lady Voss.”

“The Free Cities.”

He nodded once.

“Two more days, Lady Voss. That’s what remains of the journey.”

I looked through the window toward the pale sky above Halversford.

“Yes, Mikhal.”

A brief silence followed.

Then I smiled faintly.

“Two more days is exactly the right amount of time.”