Chapter 3
Stella
Every step down the staircase felt like descending into an abyss. My mind replayed the scene through that bedroom door—Chloe's body beneath Liam's, his hands gripping her with a passion he'd never shown me.
"Your scent smells so good, baby. Honestly, I'm so sick of Stella's disgusting smell."
"I'm so fucking tired of it."
The words echoed with each step. I felt like a corpse walking, my body moving on autopilot while my mind shattered.
My hand trailed along the wall for balance, my torn feet leaving bloody smears on the marble.
But what about me?
Every time I'd brought up marking, Liam had the same excuse: he wanted a proper ceremony, something formal and beautiful. Back then, I'd believed he treasured me, that he wanted to give me a perfect coronation—a moment where I'd be crowned as his chosen mate in front of everyone who mattered.
Now I understood it was just another lie.
He'd never intended to mark me. He'd been waiting for someone better. Someone whose scent didn't repulse him. Someone like Chloe, with her Full Moon scent.
And I'd waited like a fool, believing his promises.
I reached the foyer without remembering how. I stumbled down the villa's walkway and collapsed onto the curb before my legs gave out.
I buried my face in my hands as the sobs tore free. The sound was raw and animal, a keening wail that belonged to something wounded beyond repair. I cried for the life I'd thought I was building, for the man I'd believed loved me, for the family that had sold me like livestock.
Tonight was my darkest hour. I had nowhere to go, no one to turn to.
I was so lost in my despair that I didn't even notice when a car pulled to a stop right in front of me.
"Oh my dear, Stella!"
A voice drifted down from above me, gentle and concerned. "What are you doing out here, sweetheart? Why aren't you inside?"
I lifted my head slowly, blinking through tears, and found myself staring up at Eleanor Sinclair—Liam's mother, the woman who had shown me more maternal warmth in three years than my own mother had in my entire life.
The sight of her kind face broke something inside me. A fresh wave of sobs tore from my throat.
"Oh, you poor thing," Eleanor murmured, kneeling beside me on the pavement as she gathered me into her arms. Her embrace smelled faintly of her signature scent, something floral that had always made me feel protected. "What happened, my darling girl?"
"You..." I managed between sobs, my voice breaking. "How are you here? It's so late..."
Eleanor's hand stroked my hair soothingly. "Liam hasn't been feeling well lately," she said, her tone gentle but matter-of-fact. "I found the most authoritative werewolf doctor and had him prescribe some medicine. I was just bringing it over." She pulled back slightly to look at my face, her expression shifting to concern. "But never mind that now—sweetheart, what's happened? Why are you out here like this?"
I wanted to tell her everything—how my parents had arranged for Whitmore to assault me, how I'd run here desperate only to find Liam fucking my sister. But the words stuck in my throat, tangled with shame and fear.
How could I tell her that her son had betrayed me? What if she didn't believe me? What if I lost the only person in this city who'd ever treated me like I mattered?
But I couldn't hold it in anymore. The grief was too overwhelming, and Eleanor's arms felt like the first safe harbor I'd found.
So I collapsed against her shoulder and wept.
"Come on, sweetheart," Eleanor said softly, helping me to my feet. "Let's get into the car. I'm bringing you home. You can tell me everything."
She guided me to her vehicle, supporting most of my weight. Eleanor wrapped a cashmere blanket around my shoulders and pressed water into my trembling hands.
"Now," she said gently, taking my hand. "When you're ready, tell me what's happened."
The words came haltingly at first, then faster as the dam broke. I told her about Whitmore, about my parents' cold calculation, about their threats to replace me with Chloe. I told her how I'd found Chloe's shoe on the stairs and followed the sounds to the bedroom door.
"He was with her," I whispered. "Liam was... they were in our bed, Eleanor. And he was saying awful things about my scent, about how tired he was of me. And Chloe was asking him to mark her instead, and he said yes."
I kept my eyes fixed on my lap, waiting for Eleanor to pull away, to defend her son.
But her grip on my hand only tightened. When she spoke, her voice was cold in a way I'd never heard before.
"That ungrateful little shit."
My head snapped up in shock. Eleanor's face was composed, but her eyes blazed with fury.
"Eleanor?" I ventured.
She turned back to me, her expression softening slightly though anger still simmered beneath. "I'm sorry, darling. That was unladylike of me. But I will not have my son treating you with such disrespect and cruelty."
The car had pulled through massive gates. The main Sinclair estate sprawled before us. Eleanor's driver stopped at the entrance, but she made no move to get out yet.
"Stella," she said, taking both my hands. "What happened tonight is not your fault. None of this is because of your scent or any imagined inadequacy. This is about other people's greed and weakness."
Eleanor before me was the only light in this desperate night. I looked at her with grateful tears streaming down my face.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"It's alright, sweetheart. This is what I should do," she said firmly. "Now, no more of that. Right now, I need to get you inside, get those feet tended to, and get some food and rest into you. Then we're going to figure out exactly how to handle this situation."
"I'll make sure he's taught a proper lesson," she said, her voice cold and precise.
She helped me out of the car and up the stone steps. A housekeeper appeared, eyes widening at my disheveled state.
"Draw a bath in the blue guest suite," Eleanor instructed. "Bring the first aid kit, some warm food, and clothes in Miss White's size. And Maria—not a word of this to anyone, understood?"
Eleanor guided me through hallways that seemed endless. We reached a bedroom twice the size of my room at home. Steam was already rising from the bathroom.
"Go on," Eleanor said, giving me a gentle push. "Get cleaned up."
I nodded and stumbled into the bathroom. I turned on the shower and stood under scalding water, trying desperately to wash away tonight's memories.
When I emerged, I sat on the bed in the borrowed nightgown Eleanor had left. A moment later, she appeared carrying a glass of warm milk.
"Here, sweetheart," she said softly. "Drink this and get some rest. When you wake up tomorrow, everything will be better. I'll have Liam come back here, and I'll make sure that bastard gets what he deserves."
I took the glass and drank deeply, the warm liquid soothing my raw throat.
Almost immediately, drowsiness washed over me. I barely managed to set the empty glass down before collapsing onto the bed.
When I opened my eyes again, the room was pitch black. My head felt thick and foggy, my limbs strangely heavy.
Then I heard it—the sound of a door opening.
Footsteps crossed the room, and a man's voice cut through the darkness, low and edged with fury.
"Who the hell let you in here?"
I froze. What? This was the guest room—why was there a man here?
Before I could respond, iron fingers clamped around my wrist. I was yanked upright and hurled aside. My body hit the carpet with a sickening thud, pain exploding through my shoulder.
"Get out," the voice snarled.
Through the faint light under the door, I made out unfamiliar shapes—a massive bed, sleek furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows. This wasn't the guest room.
Where the hell was I?
I tried to push myself up, but my arms felt like lead. I collapsed back onto the carpet.
"I... I can't get up," I whispered.
But the sound came out soft and breathy. Heat flooded my face. Oh God, he was going to think I was doing this on purpose—
Suddenly, the man moved. One moment he was standing over me, the next he was crouched beside me, his hands gripping my arms with startling urgency.
"It's you," he breathed, his voice transformed—shocked, almost elated.
His face dropped closer, and I felt him inhale deeply near my neck. Then he went completely still.
Not the stillness of someone pausing to think. Something else—something involuntary, like a predator that had scented something it couldn't yet name and didn't know what to do with that knowledge. His grip on my arms didn't loosen, but the quality of it changed, the brutal certainty replaced by something that felt almost like uncertainty. One of his hands moved—barely an inch, a fractional shift—and then stopped, as if he'd caught himself mid-reach and didn't understand why he'd reached at all.
When he finally exhaled, it came out slow and unsteady in a way that didn't match the controlled fury of moments before.
"No, you don't understand—" I tried to explain. "You've got the wrong—mmph—"
