Chapter 17 17

Chapter 17 17
Odette

It had been exactly seven days since the incident in the medical wing, and I had not seen Alpha Kael once.

He had exposed me, completely stripping away the armor I had tried so hard to build. He had branded me a liar, a manipulator, and a monster who was only acting sweet to trick his dying mother. And then, he had vanished.

He stopped coming to the penthouse. He stopped sleeping in my bed.

The suite that had felt so warm on our wedding night now felt like a freezing, empty tomb. I ate my meals alone at the long glass dining table. I slept alone in the center of the giant bed, shivering despite the warm blankets. I was completely isolated in a city of thousands. I had no pack to fall back on, no family to call, and every single warrior and maid in the Mad Keepers pack looked at me with deep suspicion. To them, I was the wicked island bastard who had tricked their Alpha.

But the silence wasn't the worst part. The rumors were.

Yesterday, while walking past the kitchen, I heard two maids whispering in hushed, excited tones. They said Alpha Kael had been seen walking the pack borders late at night with Zara.

Zara. The tall gorgeous former mistress who had promised me that Kael would get bored of my fragile body.

When I heard her name, an agonizing pain had ripped through my chest. It was so sharp I had to lean against the wall to keep from collapsing. I told myself it was just the mate bond reacting. It was just biology. I didn't actually care about him. I didn't care if he went back to his mistresses, just like he always intended.

But as I sat alone in the dark bedroom that evening, staring at the empty space beside me, a hot tear slipped down my cheek. 

I could not stay in this penthouse for one more second. If I did, I was going to suffocate.

I stood up, wearing a simple cotton dress I had brought with me from the island. I didn't bother grabbing a jacket, and I completely ignored the row of high heels lined up in the closet.

I walked out to the living room, my bare feet padding softly against the cold marble floor.

"Luna?"

Beatrice looked up from dusting a glass shelf. She frowned, taking in my pale face, my empty eyes, and my bare feet. She looked out the window.

"Luna, where are you going?" Beatrice asked, her voice laced with genuine concern. "It is beginning to drizzle outside, and the sun is setting. You should put some shoes on."

"I am just going out," I said, my voice entirely hollow.

Before she could stop me, I stepped into the private elevator and hit the button for the ground floor.

When I stepped out onto the city streets, the evening air was cool and damp. A light, misty drizzle was falling from the dark sky, coating the pavement in a shiny layer of wet reflection. The hyper-modern city was in its full vibrant bloom. Neon signs buzzed and flashed in bright pinks and blues. sports cars roared down the avenues, and tall and beautiful wolves walked the sidewalks, laughing and huddling under umbrellas.

No one paid attention to the tiny, barefoot girl walking aimlessly in the rain.

The wet concrete was rough and freezing against the soles of my feet, but I didn't care. It grounded me. It reminded me that I was still real, still alive, even if I felt like a ghost.

I walked for blocks, letting the cold drizzle soak my hair and plaster my thin cotton dress to my skin. I didn't know where I was going until a bright elegant marquee caught my eye.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

It was a grand and classical theater, completely out of place among the glass skyscrapers. And plastered right outside the velvet doors was a poster.

A Night of Classical Ballet.

My heart gave a painful and desperate flutter. Ballet. The only thing in the world that had ever truly belonged to me. The passion my father had exploited and my ex-mate had mocked.

Without thinking, I walked up to the ticket booth. I handed the clerk a crumpled bill I had found in the pocket of my dress. He gave my bare, dirty feet and damp clothes a highly judgmental look, but he slid a ticket under the glass anyway.

I slipped into the theater just as the house lights began to dim. The venue was packed with wealthy pack socialites draped in fancy furs and sparkling jewels. I kept my head down, avoiding their curious, disgusted stares, and found an empty seat in the very back row, hiding myself in the deep shadows of the balcony.

The red curtains parted, and the music swelled.

For the next two hours, the cold and cruel world completely faded away. I was mesmerized. On the stage, a man and a woman danced together in perfect and breathtaking harmony. They leaped and spun, defying gravity, communicating entirely through the arch of their backs and the extension of their limbs.

It was so beautiful. I watched them, my eyes wide, tears mixing with the dried raindrops on my cheeks. I missed it so much. I missed the pain of the pointe shoes, the strict discipline of the barre, the freedom of leaving my miserable life behind the second the music started.

As the final tragic note of the symphony played, the two dancers fell into their final pose.

The crowd erupted into a standing ovation. The wealthy wolves clapped and cheered, throwing roses onto the stage.

I clapped too, my hands stinging, completely pulled out of my depression by the  magic of the art.

The male and female dancers bowed. Then, the male dancer stepped aside and gestured toward the wings of the stage.

"And now," the theater announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, "please welcome the brilliant mind behind tonight's performance. Our esteemed choreographer and director!"

An older woman walked out from the curtains. She was dressed in a sharp and elegant dress. Her hair was pulled back into a strict and flawless bun. She carried herself with the regal poise that only a lifelong ballerina could command. She was older, lines of experience marking her beautiful face, but she was radiant.

The moment the stage spotlight hit her face, my entire body froze.

The breath was violently punched from my lungs. My hands stopped clapping, freezing mid-air. I gripped the armrests of my chair so hard my knuckles turned blindingly white.

"No..." I whispered out loud, the sound completely drowned out by the cheering crowd.

I leaned forward in my seat, my eyes widening in earth-shattering shock.

I knew that face. I had stared at it in faded, hidden photographs every single night when I was a little girl. I had inherited her delicate jawline and her brown eyes. My father had beaten me for resembling her too closely, while holding onto a sickening obsession because he couldn't let her go. He made me learn ballet so he could be closer to her. The only reason he supported his daughter dancing was because he was looking for his mistress. 

I had been told my entire life that she died shortly after I turned six.

But standing right there on the stage, smiling gracefully at the cheering crowd of the Mad Keepers pack, was my mother.