His closet was a disaster—suits tangled with shirts, shoes buried beneath dirty socks. A grown man with the habits of a spoiled pup who believed himself a ruler.
I began folding his clothes anyway, smoothing fabric with hands that felt numb. Then my elbow brushed the side table, and a folder slid free, scattering its contents across the floor.
Cruise tickets.
I read the names once.
Then again.
Each letter cut sharper than the last.
Thorne Darkhowl.
Camillerette Hartclaw.
Julian.
Corinne.
Ken.
Nolan.
My name was nowhere to be found.
The journey I had carried in my chest for three decades—the promise whispered into my hair when I was eighteen—had been handed to Camille as casually as tossing a bone to a favored hound.
It was for her birthday.
He remembered hers.
He never remembered mine.
I folded the tickets slowly, carefully, as though paper could bleed if mishandled. Then I packed his suitcase anyway. Shoes buffed. Shirts pressed. Cufflinks gleaming like silver fangs. Julian barged in without knocking, beer in hand, and ordered me to pack for him too. And the twins. Corinne’s perfume. Snacks with neat labels. They dropped their needs at my feet and left without a word of thanks.
I complied.