Chapter 155

The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves as Lillian stepped onto the campus quad. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her backpack, the weight of her textbooks grounding her. The morning sun cast long shadows, painting the world in hues of gold and amber.

She spotted Donovan across the courtyard, his arm draped possessively around Evelyn’s waist. A pang of something bitter twisted in her chest, but she forced her gaze away. He’s not worth it, she reminded herself.

"Lillian!" Beatrice’s voice cut through her thoughts. Her best friend jogged toward her, cheeks flushed from the cold. "You won’t believe what just happened."

Lillian arched a brow. "What?"

Beatrice leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Cassandra tried to sabotage your research paper again. Professor Sinclair caught her red-handed."

Lillian’s lips curled into a smirk. "Karma’s a bitch."

Beatrice grinned. "Exactly. But that’s not all—Sebastian’s in town."

Lillian’s breath hitched. "What?"

"Yeah, Oliver mentioned it this morning. He’s back from his business trip early." Beatrice wiggled her eyebrows. "Someone’s excited."

Lillian rolled her eyes, but her pulse betrayed her. "Shut up."

The bell rang, signaling the start of classes. As they headed inside, Lillian’s phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number lit up the screen:

"We need to talk. It’s about your mother."

Her blood ran cold.

Sebastian Blackwood stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, staring down at the city below. The skyline glittered under the midday sun, but his mind was elsewhere.

Theodore Whitmore entered quietly, clearing his throat. "Sir, the meeting with Alpha Harrison has been rescheduled."

Sebastian didn’t turn. "Cancel it."

Theodore hesitated. "But the alliance—"

"I said cancel it." His voice was steel.

Theodore nodded. "Of course. Also, Miss Fontaine called. She’s expecting you at the gala tonight."

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. "Tell her I’ll be there."

As Theodore left, Sebastian’s phone vibrated. A photo notification—Oliver, grinning in his school uniform. A rare smile tugged at his lips.

Then another message came through, this one from Marcus Grayson:

"We found her. She’s at the university."

Sebastian’s grip on his phone turned lethal.

Lillian’s combat class was brutal. Professor Montgomery paired her against Odette Marchand, a lithe, vicious opponent who fought like a storm.

Sweat dripped down Lillian’s temple as she dodged another strike. Odette smirked. "Too slow, little wolf."

Lillian bared her teeth. "Try harder."

She feinted left, then swept Odette’s legs out from under her. The girl hit the mat with a grunt, and the class erupted in cheers.

Professor Montgomery clapped. "Excellent technique, Lillian."

As she caught her breath, her phone buzzed again. The same unknown number:

"Midnight. The old chapel. Come alone."

Lillian’s stomach churned.

That evening, Sebastian arrived at the gala in a tailored black suit, drawing every eye in the room. Isabella Fontaine glided toward him, her crimson gown shimmering under the chandeliers.

"Sebastian," she purred, looping her arm through his. "You’re late."

He offered a polite smile. "Business."

Her fingers tightened. "You’re always working."

His gaze flickered over the crowd, searching. Then he saw her—Lillian, standing near the balcony in a simple emerald dress, her presence like a shock of lightning.

Isabella followed his stare and scowled. "What’s she doing here?"

Sebastian didn’t answer. He was already moving.

Lillian turned as he approached, her eyes wide. "Sebastian?"

Before he could speak, the lights flickered. A scream pierced the air.

Then the windows shattered.

"Lillian! We're absolutely thrilled you chose to join us here," Eleanor cooed as she welcomed us at the grand entrance. Arabella stood beside her, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her icy glare piercing through me. I averted my gaze, my stomach twisting into knots. This mansion was the last place I wanted to be, and the less I had to interact with them, the better.

"Like I had any say in the matter," I muttered under my breath before I could stop myself.

My mother, Vivienne, jabbed me sharply in the ribs, shooting me a warning look.

"She’s just teasing, of course," Vivienne said with a laugh so forced it made my skin crawl. She swept forward to embrace Eleanor, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. "We’re so grateful for your generosity."

"Think nothing of it, darling. That’s what family does," Eleanor replied smoothly, though her eyes darkened as they flicked toward me over Vivienne’s shoulder. "Shall I show you to your quarters?"

"That would be wonderful," Vivienne agreed, glancing at the luggage we’d left by the door.

"Don’t trouble yourself. The staff will handle it," Eleanor assured her, nodding at the butler, who immediately collected Vivienne’s bags.

As Eleanor guided my mother away, she cast a meaningful glance at Arabella.

"Be a dear and show Lillian to her room, won’t you?" Eleanor said, her tone sweet but her gaze sharp.

Arabella’s lips curled into a smirk that sent a chill down my spine.

"With pleasure," she purred, winking at her mother before turning to me, her eyes glinting with malice. "Follow me."

I swallowed hard and grabbed my own bags, trailing behind Arabella through the opulent halls of the Winslow estate. The silence between us was suffocating. When we neared the servants' wing, I wasn’t surprised—I’d expected nothing less.

She shoved open a heavy door, leading me through a dimly lit laundry room reeking of detergent and damp fabric. On the other side, we entered what could barely pass for a living space. The air was thick with mildew, the flickering overhead lights casting eerie shadows. The couch looked salvaged from a landfill, and the kitchen appliances were relics from another era, rusted and barely functional.

Stained rugs and peeling wallpaper completed the dismal picture—a stark contrast to the mansion’s lavish grandeur.

A few maids froze when they spotted Arabella, immediately straightening their postures, their eyes downcast.

Arabella sneered at them as if they were nothing more than dirt beneath her designer heels.

"What do you think you’re doing?" she hissed, her voice venomous. "The foyer is filthy, and you’re lounging around like you own the place? Do I need to remind you of your place again?"

"N-no, Miss Arabella," one maid stammered, trembling. "We were just resting—we’ve been working since last night without—"

"Do I look like I care?" Arabella cut her off, her voice a whip-crack of cruelty. "Get back to work, you worthless rats!"

The maids scurried away, their fear palpable. I gaped at Arabella, disgust twisting in my gut. She was only eighteen, yet she wielded cruelty like a seasoned tyrant. This behavior had to be learned—likely from Eleanor herself.

The urge to snap at her burned in my throat, but I bit my tongue. Starting a fight wouldn’t help—not when my mother’s position here was already precarious.