"You still stand by the woman who took our only son’s child from us?" my father barked. "Are you blind, Alpha Phyllis?"
Phyllis clenched his jaw. “Is love that easy for you to discard, Alpha Derick? She is your daughter. I still care for her.”
“You care?” My father let out a cruel laugh. “You have feelings for a murderer?”
Whispers stirred among the pack—wolves from allied clans and neighboring territories—all murmuring my name like it was filth. The disgrace of Night Owl.
“She’s no daughter of mine,” my father declared, venom lacing every word. “She killed Chelsea. Her death would be justice!”
That was when I saw it.
Phyllis’s face turned red—not with anger, but humiliation.
Not because of me.
Because of himself.
Because he wasn’t standing beside me out of loyalty or love—he was doing it to save face in front of the others.
He didn’t love me.
Because if he did, he would’ve stayed. He would’ve believed in me.
I had thought Phyllis understood me more than anyone ever could. But I had been wrong.
No one truly knew who I was.
With slow, heavy steps, I walked toward the casket.
I lowered myself to my knees.
A shocked gasp spread through the crowd like wildfire.
Then came silence.
They were all watching.