Chapter 36
Ellie's POV
Samantha emerged like she was stepping onto a red carpet—pink sweater perfectly coordinated with a white skirt, blonde hair styled in soft waves that caught the sunlight. Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass.
I found myself actually looking at her—really looking—for the first time in months.
She'd changed. Completely transformed from the girl I'd met in high school. Everything about her now screamed careful curation: the cashmere sweater that probably cost more than most students' monthly budgets, the designer bag hanging from her elbow, the subtle but expensive jewelry at her wrist and ears. Even her skin had that polished glow that came from regular spa treatments, not drugstore products.
There was no trace of the struggling orphan anymore. No hint of the girl who'd allegedly scraped by on charity and willpower.
Theater major, I thought, the irony crystallizing. Of course. The tuition for the drama department was notoriously higher than standard programs—all those production costs, costume budgets, specialized training. And Samantha hadn't earned any academic scholarships that I knew of.
Lucas must have been covering the difference. Maybe all of it.
Not that I could entirely blame him—in his world, a girlfriend's appearance was part of the package, part of the image you projected. And for a theater major, looking polished wasn't vanity, it was practically a professional requirement. They were supposed to be camera-ready, stage-ready, always performing.
But watching Samantha smooth her already-perfect hair, adjust her already-flawless outfit with the practiced grace of someone perpetually aware of her audience, I couldn't help the bitter thought that formed: She's already living the entertainment industry playbook. Method acting her way through college. By the time she graduates, she'll slide right into that world—she's been rehearsing this performance for years.
The girl who cried poverty while wearing cashmere. The orphan who somehow always had the latest everything. The struggling student who looked like she'd stepped off a magazine cover.
What a production, I thought coldly. And Lucas bought a front-row ticket.
"Oh, Ellie!" She leaned against the car door, tilting her head with mock surprise. "Lucas didn't mention you'd be joining us."
Of course he didn't.
My grip tightened on my overnight bag's strap. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around and walk away, but that would give her exactly what she wanted—proof that I cared, proof that this bothered me.
Lucas cleared his throat, moving around the hood of the car. "Samantha needed to get back to Mapleton to handle some things at her... at Margaret's place. I'm just giving her a ride. She won't be at the dinner."
"How convenient," I said, my voice colder than I'd intended. "A ride."
"It's literally on the way," Lucas insisted, his brow furrowing. "It doesn't make sense for her to take a bus when—"
"I get it." I cut him off, not interested in hearing his rationalization. The word literally hung in the air, a perfect echo of casual college speak that somehow made the whole situation feel even more absurd.
Samantha's smile widened, triumphant. She knew exactly what this looked like—knew how it would feel for me to climb into a car where she'd already claimed the front seat, already marked her territory.
But I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of seeing me retreat.
I pulled open the back door and slid in, placing my small bag on my lap with deliberate care. The leather seat was cool against my back as I fastened my seatbelt, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead. If I had to endure this ride, I'd do it on my terms—silent, unmoved, completely indifferent.
Lucas got back in the driver's seat, his jaw tight as he started the engine.
The highway stretched ahead, an endless ribbon of asphalt cutting through farmland and scattered woods. Lucas turned onto the interstate, and the silence in the car became suffocating.
After ten minutes, he broke it.
"So, Jackson Wilson." His hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly. "I've been noticing you two have been... close lately."
I stared out the window, watching trees blur past.
"He's not what he seems, Ellie. I've heard things about him. People say he's got... ulterior motives with the girls he gets close to."
Oh, this is rich. Lucas Miller, defender of Samantha Grey, warning me about someone's character.
Instead of responding, I reached into my bag and pulled out the wireless earbuds. I put them in slowly, deliberately, letting Lucas watch in the rearview mirror as I closed my eyes and leaned back against the seat.
Message received. I wasn't interested in his opinions about my life.
"Really?" Samantha's voice cut through, light and mocking. "Lucas, don't bother. Some people just don't appreciate good advice."
She turned in her seat to glance back at me, her blue eyes glinting with satisfaction. "You know what they say about leading a horse to water."
I kept my eyes closed, my expression completely neutral. Let her talk. Let her think she'd won something.
For a few minutes, blessed silence. Then Samantha shifted in her seat again, angling herself toward Lucas.
"Oh, that reminds me—last weekend was so much fun." Her voice took on a dreamy quality, designed to carry to the back seat. "I still can't believe you took me to Oak Square Mall. That new coat you got me is perfect."
Through my closed eyelids, I could sense her watching for my reaction.
"And remember when we were looking at apartments? You were so patient, helping me measure everything, making sure the lighting was good..." She paused, a calculated beat. "That landlord kept asking if we were a couple. It was sweet how you didn't correct him."
My jaw tightened imperceptibly. She was painting a picture, building a narrative of domestic intimacy, of shared futures and couple activities.
"Last Thursday night was... special." Another pause, heavier this time. "We stayed out all night—good thing the dorm manager was too busy with that leak in the sophomore wing to notice we never came back." A soft laugh. "We would've gotten written up for an overnight violation."
The implication hung in the air like smoke—thick, obvious, designed to make me picture exactly what she wanted me to imagine.
My eyes opened.
Through my heightened wolf senses, I could detect the subtle tension in Lucas's shoulders, the way his fingers flexed against the steering wheel. Uncomfortable. Caught.
But more importantly, I needed to verify something.
My gaze shifted to Samantha's exposed neck—the low-cut sweater revealed pale skin and delicate collarbones. I let my wolf vision sharpen, searching for what I feared most: a mark.