8

LEAH’S POV 

Leonardo holds her elbow as if she might snap in half if she takes a step too quickly, while Augustine keeps a warm, protective hand hovering over her shoulder, his Beta presence flaring softly around her like a warm blanket.

Willow glides down the steps, wearing a lovely dress of soft cream silk that clings to her narrow waist. It is a dress meant for a noblewoman, paid for with the pack's central funds under the order of her devoted father. 

The moment her small leather slippers touch the last wooden step, she flows directly into Bea’s open arms with a delicate, ringing laugh that echoes through the foyer.

"Oh, Mother, look at my dress! Leonardo helped me clasp the back ribbon," Willow trills, her voice sweet as honey, thick with exaggerated innocence.

Bea instantly forgets her confusion with me. A bright, fond smile bursts across her face as she gathers Willow into her arms, smoothing down the cream silk with gentle, trembling fingers.

"You look stunning, my sweet girl," Bea whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "A true Rosante."

Ha. A true Rosante? 

Augustine chuckles warmly from behind them, his chest puffing out with pride, and even Leonardo lets out a rare, relaxed laugh, his dark eyes glowing with brotherly affection.

"No one at the Alpha's table will match you tonight, Willow," Leonardo adds, patting her hair gently. "You'll be the jewel of the evening."

They look like a portrait of a perfect, loving family. A family that spent eighteen years incomplete, now finally made whole by the return of their true blood.

This is the first time I am laying eyes on all of them gathered like this since I died and went back in time.

A sudden, violent heat blazes behind my ribs. My jaw tightens so hard my teeth ache. Looking at Willow’s cheerful, porcelain face, I can barely keep my fingers from twitching at my sides. 

Every single instinct inside me screams to leap across the narrow space, wrap my bare hands around her delicate, pale neck, and squeeze until the laughter stops for good.

I want to kill her.

I want her to burn in a fire just as hot and agonizing as the one she put me in. I want Willow to watch her skin blister, to feel her throat char into ash, to suffer every single ounce of agony she forced upon me, and then some. 

I want to strip that cream dress off her body and wrap her in the flames that devoured me.

As if sensing the violent storm brewing in my mind, Willow steps back from Bea’s embrace. She turns her head, her bright, clear eyes locking directly onto mine.

Instead of shrinking back, she puts on a warm, loving smile and takes two gentle steps in my direction, her stupidly silk skirts swishing softly against the wood.

"Leah! You look so nice tonight," Willow says softly, clasping her hands together near her chest. She gazes down at my simple green dress, her eyes lingering on the slightly frayed hem. "That color really suits you. I'm so glad you kept that dress, even after we had to clear out your old bedroom."

It is a subtle, vicious thrust wrapped in a compliment. She knows perfectly well that this simple green dress is the only decent garment I have left. 

When they stripped my old bedroom, Augustine had thrown most of my clothes into the furnace, claiming they were bought with Rosante coin that belonged to his real daughter. 

The few nice dresses that survived were claimed by Willow, who wore them once, declared they didn't fit her taste, and threw them into the trash bin rather than returning them to me. She wants me to remember that I am wearing scraps.

I say nothing, keeping my face completely blank.

Willow takes another half-step forward, tilting her head with an expression of pure, sisterly affection. "I'm just so happy we're going together, Sister."

The word hits the room like a physical blow.

Sister.

Augustine instantly stiffens. Leonardo’s smile vanishes, his jaw setting into a hard line as he glances sideways at me, preparing himself to intervene. Bea winces, her fingers twitching nervously against her dress. The entire family freezes on the spot, waiting for the explosion.

They expect the old Leah.

In the past, whenever Willow uttered that word, I reacted like a cat whose tail had been brutally stomped on. I hated Willow with every fiber of my being, and I made no effort to hide it. 

I couldn't stand her being near me. Whenever she was around, somehow, through her gentle sighs and quiet tears, I was always framed as the bitter, jealous villainess.

And more than anything, I loathed her calling me sister. Knowing the dark, twisted history between Clara, Bea, and Augustine—knowing that my birth mother tried to steal Bea's husband and ended up stealing her child—hearing Willow call me 'sister' felt like a backhanded slap to the face. 

It felt like she was rubbing my mother's sin into my skin, forcing me to bear the shame of Clara's obsession every single time she opened her mouth.

Willow knew that. She knew it drove me insane. That was precisely why she never stopped using the title. She used it when we were younger, she used it when the pack was watching, and she used it up until the very day I died in the fire.

She weaponized it to show everyone how 'forgiving' she was, and how hopelessly malicious I was for rejecting her love.

This time, I don't yell. I don't snap. I don't throw a fit.

Instead, I slowly lower my head. I let my shoulders slump forward, making myself look small, fragile, and utterly defeated. I press my tongue against the back of my teeth, forcing liquid to gather in the corners of my eyes until thick, heavy tears brim over my lashes.

Oh Willow, I love how you’ll never change. 

I lift my face back up, letting my family see my watery, bloodshot eyes and my trembling lower lip. I make sure the candlelight catches the moisture on my cheeks.

"Willow... please," I say, my voice cracking softly, sounding small and pitifully frail. "Don't call me that."