Chapter 54

The morning sun cast golden streaks across the lavish bedroom as Lillian stirred beneath silk sheets. Her fingers brushed against the empty space beside her—Sebastian had already left for his early meeting. A faint trace of his cedarwood scent lingered on the pillow, making her heart flutter.

Downstairs, the mansion buzzed with activity. Giselle, the head maid, directed staff with quiet efficiency while Lucien, the flirtatious head chef, whistled as he prepared breakfast. The aroma of freshly baked croissants and rich coffee filled the air.

Lillian dressed quickly, opting for a simple yet elegant navy-blue dress. As she descended the grand staircase, she spotted Oliver in the foyer, his small hands clutching a sketchbook.

"Morning, sweetheart," she greeted, ruffling his hair. "What are you drawing?"

Oliver beamed. "A surprise for Papa!" He flipped the book to reveal a rough sketch of their family—Sebastian towering protectively beside Lillian, Oliver grinning between them, and even Victoria in the corner, though her expression was less than enthusiastic.

Lillian’s chest tightened. Family. The word still felt foreign yet achingly precious.

Her phone buzzed—a message from Beatrice:

"Emergency gossip session. Café Noir. 10 AM. DON’T be late."

Lillian chuckled. Beatrice’s "emergencies" usually involved campus drama or new crushes. Still, she texted back: "On my way."

The café was bustling when she arrived. Beatrice waved from their usual corner booth, her auburn curls bouncing. "Finally! I’ve been dying to tell you—" She froze, eyes widening. "Oh no. She’s here."

Lillian followed her gaze. Cassandra, her rival, sauntered in with a group of snickering friends. Their eyes met, and Cassandra smirked before deliberately brushing past Lillian’s chair, nearly spilling her latte.

"Oops," Cassandra drawled. "Clumsy me."

Beatrice’s grip on her cup turned white-knuckled. "I swear, one more ‘accident,’ and I’ll—"

Lillian placed a calming hand on hers. "Ignore her. What’s your news?"

Beatrice leaned in, lowering her voice. "Rumor has it Donovan and Evelyn are already having problems. Apparently, he’s been sneaking out at night."

Lillian’s stomach twisted. Donovan, her ex-fated mate, had chosen Evelyn, but his restless behavior didn’t surprise her. He’d always been impulsive.

Before she could respond, her phone rang—Sebastian’s name flashed on the screen.

"Lillian," his deep voice was tense. "We need you at the packhouse. Now."

Her pulse spiked. "What’s wrong?"

A pause. Then, grimly: "Victoria’s gone."

The packhouse was in chaos when Lillian arrived. Sebastian stood at the center, his alpha aura crackling with barely restrained fury. Marcus, his beta, was barking orders to warriors.

Sebastian’s gaze snapped to her. "She left a note. Said she couldn’t ‘live under your shadow.’" His jaw clenched. "She took Julian’s car."

Lillian’s mind raced. Victoria had always resented her, but this? "Where would she go?"

Sebastian’s eyes darkened. "To the one person reckless enough to help her defy me."

The unspoken name hung between them like a storm cloud: Donovan.

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit motel room, Victoria scowled at her phone. Donovan’s last text read: "Stay put. I’m handling it."

She tossed the phone onto the bed. "Useless," she muttered.

The door creaked open. But it wasn’t Donovan who stepped inside.

Evelyn’s smile was razor-sharp. "Hello, little runaway."

Victoria’s blood turned to ice.

Evelyn held up a syringe. "Donovan sends his regrets."

The house was eerily silent when I returned from dinner at Sebastian's mansion. These days, silence had become its permanent resident.

With my mother locked away in her room, the emptiness pressed down on me like a weight. I hung my coat on the hook and climbed the stairs, pausing outside her door. No light seeped from beneath it. I wasn’t even sure if she was awake—but I had to see her. I had to know she was still breathing.

The door creaked as I pushed it open, the stale air thick with neglect. My stomach twisted at the sight of the unmade bed, the untouched meals, the suffocating darkness.

"Mom?" My voice cracked as I flicked on the light.

She lay motionless, her frail body barely making an impression on the mattress. Panic clawed at my throat as I rushed forward, pressing my hand to her back. Relief flooded me when I felt the faint rise and fall of her breathing.

"Mom," I whispered, shaking her gently. "Have you eaten anything today?"

The plate from this morning sat untouched on the nightstand, the food congealed and cold.

She lifted her head, blinking sluggishly. "Oh... Lillian. When did you get home?"

"A while ago," I murmured, swallowing the lump in my throat. "You can’t keep doing this. You haven’t left this room in days. You need to eat."

"Not hungry," she mumbled, sinking back into the pillows.

I dragged a hand through my hair, frustration and fear warring inside me. "You have to, Mom. Dad wouldn’t want this for you."

At the mention of my father, she flinched. Then, her dull eyes sharpened slightly. "You saw him?"

I nodded. "He’s... okay." The lie tasted bitter. I couldn’t tell her about the bruises, the hollow look in his eyes. "Please, just come downstairs. Eat something with me."

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then, with a sigh, she let me help her up. She clung to my arm like a ghost, her steps unsteady as we descended the stairs.

The kitchen felt like a battlefield. I moved mechanically, pulling out pasta, sauce, frozen meatballs—anything quick, anything easy. My mind was a storm of worry, of helplessness.

My mother was fading. Her wolf was shutting down. The thought made my vision blur.

I grabbed the orange juice from the fridge, hands trembling. The bottle slipped, crashing to the floor in a sticky, neon explosion.

And just like that, I shattered.

Tears spilled over as I sank to my knees, the mess around me a perfect mirror of the chaos inside.

"Damn it, Lillian."

The voice snapped my head up. Donovan stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t wait for an answer. In two strides, he hauled me to my feet, then grabbed a towel and started cleaning without a word.

I wiped my face, watching in stunned silence as he mopped up the juice, poured a fresh glass, and shoved it into my hands.

"What are you doing here?" My voice was raw.

His gaze flicked to mine, sharp and assessing. "Saving you from drowning in orange juice, apparently."

I huffed, but the fight had drained out of me.

He saw right through it.