What Once Was Hers Novels & Stories

"Not of you. Of me. Of the part of me that still wants to control things. That still thinks if I don't have my hands on everything, I'll lose it." She went to stand beside him. "I know." "He's still in there. The old Alexander. He's quieter now, but he's still there." She took his hand. "He's in me too. The woman who was afraid of everything. She's still there. But she's not who I am anymore." He turned to face her. "Who are you?" She thought about it. The woman who had fled with nothing. The woman who had painted her way back to herself. The woman who had learned to trust again.

She thought: this is what continues. She thought: this is yours too. Not just mine. Not just ours. Yours, built into us, traveling forward. She looked at the number for a long moment. Then she looked at Grace, who was still watching the screen with the expression she had when she was feeling something completely. "My grandmother's estate," Grace said, quietly. "Yes," Zara said. "Someone finally named it," Grace said. "Nationally." "Yes," Zara said. "Nationally."

Today, the victory was hers alone. She took a detour on her way home, letting the city lights guide her steps. The wet pavement reflected neon signs, casting long, wavering patterns at her feet. She paused briefly at a quiet café tucked away on a side street. Inside, she ordered a chocolate pastry and a steaming cup of coffee, a small indulgence for a job well done. Sitting by the window, she let herself relax for the first time that day, flipping open her journal to jot down a single, sharp line:

"I need to get it back." It was a lie. It was just really hard to believe that she had just ghosted me. I was the one who was supposed to do the ghosting. I was Lucas Hart. Women don't just leave Lucas Hart. They get left. I was the prize. The catch. The ultimate bachelor. It was a blow to my ego. And I couldn't let it go.

A far cry from the luxury she once flaunted. Her manicured nails, now chipped and uneven, tugged open a suitcase she had not touched in years. Its brass clasps groaned in protest, much like her spirit as she stared at the remnants of her past: fur coats that once turned heads, stilettos with red soles, and designer bags no one dared question for authenticity. All worthless now. She had hawked the most valuable pieces already, fed months of rent into the landlord’s greedy hands, and kept herself fed by pawning memories.

Some recognition of what they had once shared, but that hope was now shattered. The Golden Moon Pack. She could barely bring herself to think of it. Once, it was her home, her bloodline. Now, she was nothing. She had been cast out, banished, as though she was a stain that needed to be scrubbed away. Ainsley’s words were a reminder of her past, of everything she had once been and of everything she would never be again.

"Look, Sydney. I've made sure your room is exactly the way it used to be. I also tracked down all your belongings and returned them to their original places. Do you like this surprise?" It had been so long since I last stepped foot here that everything felt familiar, yet unrecognizable at the same time. This was the same way I felt toward Zach. I shook my head and replied, "What's the point? It means nothing anymore. Even if you try to recreate our past, we will never return to the way things were."

With the rhythmic, violent grace of a warrior reclaiming a stolen sanctuary, she began to lay waste to the furniture. This villa had once been the "marital home" she shared with Nathan, but to her wolf instincts, it had never been a den. It was a cage. She had been a ghost in these halls, denied her own chamber, let alone the dignity of a dressing room or jewelry cabinet.

Dressed in a light beige blouse and linen trousers, her salt-and-pepper hair tucked behind her ears, she looked effortlessly elegant, though fatigue traced the corners of her eyes. It was subtle. But I noticed. Gone were the silk gowns and diamonds she once wore when we lived in the Moreau Mansion in Manhattan—before everything changed. Before we traded opulence for something quieter, something less public. She pulled me into a hug the moment she saw me. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered against my temple. “Why didn’t you come sooner?” I laughed softly, the guilt catching in my throat. “I missed you too, Maman. The company’s keeping me hostage these days.”

She did not wish anything him to change, she wanted him as he was. But all she wanted was that security he won't leave her ever or won't cheat. But that was hard. She knew these type of emotions won't go unless she feels like it. An hour passed, thinking all of it and she took a turn to enter the porch of the garage of Rathore mansion. Parking her car in her newly found position, she opened the door and coming out of it, locked the car. And there it was, the attention of all her tension. There stood Saraansh’s land rover range as well as Vihaan’s Porsche.