Chapter 2
Selena stepped closer.
Her signature scent reached me first: white lily, the exact fragrance from my previous life. Sickeningly sweet, it completely masked any wolf scent she was supposed to carry.
Because she had no wolf to begin with.
She was a Beta who had disguised herself as an Omega inside the Greyson family for eighteen years. She pulled that off through sweet-talking and forged pedigree papers, not luck.
Too bad I had to die in my first life before figuring that out.
"Ella?" She called out again, her voice dripping with rehearsed concern. "You look terrible. Are you feeling sick again? William mentioned you haven't been—"
"Mentioned what, exactly?" I cut in.
Selena's smile froze for half a second.
A split second.
Then her lashes fluttered downward, shifting into that hurt, timid act as if my sharp tone had wounded her.
"Ella, don't take it the wrong way. I'm worried about you. Your health has always been fragile, and William acts with your best interests in mind—"
A gust of wind cut her off mid-sentence.
It barreled down the alley from the Low-Pack Quarter, carrying the stench of rotting garbage and muddy water. Selena wrinkled her nose, pinching the collar of her coat as she retreated half a step.
She wore that same expression every time she came to "check on" me in my previous life.
It was pure disgust.
She was disgusted by where I lived, disgusted by the smell of poverty clinging to my clothes.
She never voiced it, though. She would stare at me with those pitying amber eyes, only to run back and tell William, "Ella is doing great. She told me not to worry."
It gave William the perfect excuse to wash his hands of me.
Meanwhile, I was left to survive like a stray dog in the Low-Pack Quarter, waiting for him to toss me a pity call.
"Why are you here, Selena?" I said.
That wasn't a question.
Selena dropped her hand from her collar. Her buffed, nude-pink manicured nails gleamed healthy under the light.
"William sent me to bring you back to the manor."
My heart skipped a beat.
Not because of the command, but because this encounter never happened in my previous life.
On March 17th of that life, I signed the paperwork, went under the knife, and surrendered half my liver. Selena waited outside with a bouquet, eyes red and teary, telling the nurses, "My sister is so nice to me."
No one ever came to the Low-Pack Quarter to pick me up.
The timeline had changed.
Tearing up those papers had shifted everyone's path.
"Back to the manor?" A cold smirk tugged at my lips. "Did those words actually come out of his mouth?"
Selena slipped her phone from her coat pocket, pulled up a text, and flipped the screen toward me.
Sender: William.
Content: [Bring her back. Don't let her cause a public scene out there. There's a Council of Elders dinner tomorrow.]
He didn't want me home.
He wanted to protect his image.
Deep in my consciousness, my inner wolf twitched, as if a faint prickle were stirring against her dormant state. Then she sank back under, dead silent.
She continued, "Ella, the car is waiting down the street. Don't make this—"
"I'll walk myself," I cut her off.
When I moved past her, Selena reached out to link her arm through mine.
I dodged her.
Her fingers caught empty air, manicured nails scratching softly against my sleeve.
She faltered for a second before hurrying after me, her heels clicking twice as fast as before. "Ella, are you holding a grudge against me? I know the contract rubbed you the wrong way, but Selena's liver is really—"
I stopped dead in my tracks.
She almost ran right into me.
"What did you say?" I asked.
Selena froze. "What?"
"You said 'Selena's liver.'"
Silence hung between us for three beats.
Under the streetlamp, her face cracked, confusion giving way to sheer panic before she slapped the innocent mask back into place.
"I said my liver, Ella. You misheard me."
I hadn't misheard.
She had slipped up.
The donor agreement listed Selena Greyson as the recipient, yet William had publicly claimed the surgery was for an anonymous relative.
She shouldn't have known her name was on those papers.
Unless she was in on the deal from the very start.
At the corner, a sleek black sedan sat idling, a cracked window venting a thin trail of smoke.
The driver's face remained cloaked in shadow, but the hand resting along the sill was unmistakable: long, lean fingers, with a faint silver scar running across the ring finger.
It was Damian's car.