Chapter 3: Funeral

And now I am home.

Really, I expected to be wowed the moment I arrived, some difference, some shift, something to prove that time had passed. But everything is still the same way I left it. The beautiful gates of the Steele family villa open with the same calmness they always have, as if they possess all the time in the world that no one else does.

I sit at the back of the hired car and watch them part. Deep in my chest it feels like a hand is opening me the same way—pulling me apart without asking. I notice that split right down the middle between my breasts, that line that never requests my permission before it acts. Yes, I know I have not been here for seven years, but is that enough reason for invisible hands to begin splitting me open from the center of my chest like gates?

Seven years. A full seven years of building walls, building a career, building a life that has no business with this place and its inhabitants. But Richard has brought me back because he is heavy in my hands, and I cannot let him slip away simply because I am avoiding coming home. And here I am, back at my genesis.

The villa rises into view and my throat tightens, as if my mouth has just dumped a disturbing bone that sits horizontally in between, one that even water would struggle to push through.

It is exactly as I remember it. The way your head sweeps memories down your eyes while you are still confirming what you are seeing—that is how I feel. The place is grand, cold, and beautiful. It feels like it was never built for warmth. The stone façade spreads wide and tall, making me feel small simply by standing before it. The manicured hedges that line the driveway are just as stunning as I always loved them. Not a single leaf is out of place. Of course. Appearance matters to the Steeles, even in mourning.

I smooth my black dress and breathe a little.

And about my boy, Ethan. That young promising man is safe. He is back in LA with Miriam, my personal assistant, who has worked for me long enough to cherish him like her own child. I kissed his forehead this morning while he was still half asleep, and he had somniloquy—something about me getting him waffles when I got back. I love my boy so much, and that memory is the only thing keeping me alive, hale, and hearty right now. I cannot wait to go back to him. I miss him already.

The car stops. The door opens. I step out.

“Here we go.”

The reception is already filled when I walk in, every inhabitant dressed in black, a fitting symbolism for what we are marking today. The death of Richard Steele. Quiet voices and focused faces turn toward me. The grief that settles here is so intense it almost blocks my nostrils from breathing. A chandelier hangs overhead, spreading soft gold light across an ocean of people I do not recognize: extended family, business partners, and old friends of Richard who perhaps have no idea that his second wife had a daughter she brought into the house.

The fact that I am more of a stranger than a homie here makes it even weirder. No one remembers me, really. I was always in the background—the quiet girl standing slightly to the left of the real picture itself.

Then I am relieved when an older woman clasps my hands and tells me Richard spoke fondly of me. I smile at the compliment and appreciate her. A man with grey hair in a grey suit offers his condolences, and I nod and thank him. I think I am good at appreciating little gestures. It is one of the few skills my mother’s house taught me that I am actually grateful for, a good moral I will also instill in my son.

As I move through the room, consciously keeping my composure intact—because that is the only thing I will not risk here—something unexpected happens.

My wolf stills within me.

The wolf within me is not calm at all. It goes completely still. You know that way an animal freezes when it catches the scent of its predator nearby? That is exactly how my wolf stills. Everything in me locks in place at once.

Then the scent hits me like a sniper shot.

It comes close before I even see him. My brain jolts awake in remembrance. I know this smell. I know this scent, dark and overwhelming to the core. My body reacts to the data before my mind can catch up and process it into information. My pulse shifts gear at once. My skin prickles from my arms to the back of my neck. A suffocating heat rises from beneath my collar, draining every strength I have left to control it.

“No,” I think firmly. “No, this must be a prank.”

My wolf has other opinions.

I turn my head slowly because the assumption in my chest has already shifted from possibility into confirmation…

And there he is.

Dominic Steele stands at the far end of the room, discussing with two men in suits, his posture alone sending a message of authority. He looks like nothing has stripped anything from him in seven years. Seven years have not been unkind to him at all. If anything, they have done the opposite. He is broader now, sharper in the jaw, more mature, extremely handsome, and fully grown. What a wonder he is.

He is not looking at me.

And then he is.

What I expect on his face is recognition, but what crosses it is far from recognition or even surprise. I do not know the right word for the look he gives me from across the room. He says nothing, yet his eyes carry a message I cannot read but can feel pressing through the space between us.

I do not say anything either. We just look at each other, locked in a moment that spans longer than it should.

Fuck.

He looks at me like I am nothing, like a tool he once destroyed and still wants badly.

I look away first, as usual. I am always the first to look away in every context.

I spend the next hour composed and completely fine. People keep sending their condolences, and I welcome them with a calmness that holds everything in place. His personal assistant is also around, and I ask if she needs my help with anything. I drink one glass of water and promise myself I am not going to track Dominic’s movement through the room.

I tell myself I will not.

But I am absolutely tracking Dominic’s movements through the room.