Third Person’s POV
+8 Pearls
Caelum Knox was known throughout the rogue territories as “the Reaper.” He once single–handedly infiltrated a cartelpound deep in the jungles beyond ckthorn Valley and eliminated every target without backup. A former warhound. <b>from </b>the Eastern Front, his legend was still whispered in rogue circles <b>with </b>fear.
After retiring from active service, Lucien Duskgrave had personally recruited him–not as a driver, though that was the title outsiders knew–<b>but </b>as the Shadow Enforcer of the Stormridge Pack. Whenever Lucien needed something done quietly. quickly, and without loose <b>ends</b>, Caelum was the one who moved.
Despite his quiet demeanor, those who understood Lucien’s true power knew Caelum was his sharpened fang, the one that struck in the dark.
Duke, Lucien’s second assistant, knew <b>his </b>Alpha well. The moment Lucien assigned the task to Caelum, Duke realized <b>this </b>time. Lucien was <b>truly </b>enraged.
If Caelum moved, secrets long buried–even from eight generations back–would be unearthed. The Ebonw <b>Pack’s </b>filth,nd everything the Vale family had done to Riley, would soon beid bare.
<b>Duke </b>slowly sat back down, and a heavy silence cloaked the entire room like thick fog. It wasn’t just the <b>calm </b>before a storm it was the feeling of breath being held, of judgment approaching
Riley sat rigid on the couch, her mind a storm of <b>chaos</b>. Her gaze swept across the people around her–each looking at her with eyes full of <b>sorrow</b><b>, </b><b>rage</b>, and pity.
Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, clenched by an invisible hand that wouldn’t let go. The <b>grief</b>, the betrayal, the shame -it surged through her like crashing waves, each one higher than thest.
She was suffocating.
She wanted to cry, to scream, but she clenched her jaw. She wouldn’t fall apart. Not here. Not now. She didn’t want to make anyone worry, Didn’t want them to see just how broken she truly was.
“I… I’ll head upstairs,” she whispered, her voice nearly inaudible.
She stood, but the world tilted. The air around her swirled, her vision blurred, and her knees buckled slightly.
Lucien, Duke, and Theo moved in unison, all three men rising instinctively to steady her.
Lady Duskgrave, Mrs. Beck, and Mia also took a step forward, concern etched into their faces.
But Riley forced herself to stay upright. Her pride, battered as it <b>was</b>, kept her <b>standing</b>.
She gave them a <b>strained </b>smile, her lips trembling. “I’m fine. Just stood too fast, that’s all.”
Her voice was hollow, the smile paper–thin. But she waved them <b>off </b>and turned toward the stairs.
“Miss Riley, Mia called gently, “breakfast <b>is </b>ready just a few bites, please?”
Riley caught the movement of Mia’s lips and shook her head. “No appetite. You all go ahead.”
Her steps were <b>slow </b><b>and </b>unstable, each one as though she were walking through fog.
Mia’s heart twisted as she watched her limp away, the scars of her past still etched into her every movement. The thought that someone—her own family–had not only neglected her but <b>stolen </b>a piece of her body…
It was unforgivable
Tears welled in Mia’s eyes <b>as </b>she turned away, <b>unable </b>to bear it.
But Riley didn’t return
349 PM P
+8 Pearls
She walked into the embroidery room–a <b>small</b>, sunlit space Lucien had chosen for her himself. “If you’re tired, he’d once said, “stand here, look at the <b>garden</b><b>, </b>breathe in the air. Let it soothe you. This room suits you.”
And it had Before.
Now, the sunlight felt <b>cold</b>. The scent of the blooming roses–fiery red<b>, </b>soft pink, snowy white–was nothing but noise. Even <b>the </b>fresh air couldn’t pierce the dark cloud <b>that </b>swallowed her.
She moved to the embroidery frame and stared at the unfinished Peony of Eternal Bloom she’d begun days ago. It was vibrant, detailed, <b>and </b>filled with hope when she started it.
Now it looked gray.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the needle. She forced herself to focus on the fine lines, the <b>colored </b><b>thread</b><b>, </b>the rhythm.
But on the third stitch, <b>a </b>single tear slipped from her eye andnded on the fabric.
Panicked, she wiped it <b>away </b>with her sleeve.
But more followed. She tried to stop them, swallowing <b>hard</b>, breathing fast–but her tears betrayed her, one after another, <b>falling </b>like broken <b>beads </b>of <b>pain</b>.
Then–stab.
She pierced her finger. Blood welled from the tip, red and furious, and bloomed on the silk like a cursed flower. It spread, mixing with the tears already staining the cloth.
And in that moment–her strength shattered.
Riley copsed over the table, shoulders shaking as she finally, fully broke down<b>. </b>Her sobs echoed in the quiet room, raw and unrestrained.
A storm <b>had </b>been building inside her for years–and <b>now</b>, it was <b>here</b>.
And no <b>garden</b>, no sunlight, no gentle breeze could save <b>her </b>from it.