With a jolt I wake.

The first thing that registers is disappointment. I'm no longer in my bedroom in the Steel mansion seven years ago. I'm currently in my luxury loft studio in the heart of Los Angeles surrounded by art, supplies and the kind of serenity that cannot be purchased in the market. Things have changed now. I am no longer the dewy-eyed, self-effacing teenager that once upon a time used to be obsessed with her stepbrother. The one who was always walking on eggshells, afraid to offend anyone, dimming her shine so that no one had cause to squint their eyes at how exceptional she was. I am successful, independent, unapologetic and most importantly over the crush that had spiralled my life out of control nearly a decade ago. I have everything I need now– a successful career, a home, cars, a child of my own. I am accomplished. Yet I can't help but feel a nag of emptiness like something is missing– a need I haven't quite come to terms with. It's obvious in how much my cheeks are flushed, how my heart thumps, beating a drumbeat I know all too well.

Unwilling to engage with the current trend of my thoughts, I push them aside and get on my feet. Money is what matters now– it's what drives the world, not emotion, love or unnecessary sentiment– and I'm about to make some more. I turn to the half-complete sketches I had been working on before I fell asleep and grab my tools to finish them, noting that I am running behind schedule. The designs need to be ready for tomorrow’s showcase and I have quite a number to make. Already I have buyers queuing and I'm not even finished yet. There's work to do. No, I am not the Sophie of yesterday. This here, is a woman who built her business from scratch seven years ago, rose from the ashes of heartbreak, rejection and penury to become a force to reckon with.*I am almost done with my current project when my little boy runs into my workspace looking too cute to even belong to this world.

“Mommy! Mommy! I'm sooooo hungry!" He announces self-righteously like I hadn't offered him some cookies earlier. The same ones he rejected just to stay longer in front of the TV. But I humour him anyway. "And what would my little prince like to eat for dinner tonight?”He pretends to mull over it.

“Ice cream?”

“Try again. You know you can't eat that this late at night. It's not healthy for you." Now he does some real thinking.

"Pasta.”

“That's a good boy. Do you want veggies too?"

“Do I have to?" “Yes, my love. What did I say about eating healthy?”

"You said to," he replies guiltily. I smile. “I did. Now will you make sure to finish your serving?”

"I will, Mommy.”

“Great.

Give me a few minutes to finish my work and we will go out for dinner, okay?”He nods and busies himself, rifling through the papers and million little items on the center table next to my station. I am still putting the finishing touches on the dress before me when he runs over, clutching a booklet tightly to his chest.

"Mommy! Mommy!”

"Yes, my dear?” I peeped down to see what has him so excited and notice the cover page of the magazine in his hand. On it is a portrait picture of Dominic Steele, first son and heir to the Steele business empire. “Why does he have my kind of eyes?" Ethan asks, looking up at me like he is genuinely confused.

“They're so grey like mine." For a moment I can't decide what to say.

“Well."

“Who's this Mommy?"

“He's the CEO of Steele Resources," I answered. This isn't a lie of course, though it is not the whole truth. “What does CEO mean, Mommy?" “It means Chief Executive Officer,” I answered patiently. "He's the Boss of the company I mentioned earlier.”My little boy nods sagely. "So do we know him? Is he a friend of yours? You're also a boss Mommy. Do all bosses know each other?”

"No, they don't. We don't know him. Now go and put on your shoes so we can get you a very gigantic bowl of Spaghetti Bolognese.”

Dinner takes two hours. Soon after Ethan is so full he can hardly breathe, too tired to ask for a bedtime story. We rush through his bath and then I tuck him in. Now I'm lying on his bed, simultaneously patting him to sleep and trying to make the hardest decision I've ever had to make in such a long time– returning home. Only some thirty minutes ago my assistant had forwarded an email to me. My step father is dead and his burial has been fixed. I am required to show up for it; pay my last respects and I want to. Richard Steele has always been kind to me. Never condescending, overbearing or difficult. We weren't as close as a biological father would be with his own child because I never really saw him in that light but the few moments we spent together, I saw the effort he made to make me feel welcome in his home. He never spoke to me harshly once when I lived at the Steele family villa and he made sure I never lacked anything. Now he's gone… my former stepfather and one of the few members of that family I don't totally despise to the moon and back. I have to go there, attend the funeral. I owe him. Beyond the gratitude I feel, it is courtesy on my part. He was my father too and though he wasn't perfect he tried his best. But am I ready for what I will face back home? Only one letter brought a flood of emotions surging through me. Imagine what going back to the place it all started would do. Heaven knows I am not prepared for it.

My gaze goes to Ethan again and my chest tightens like it would burst. I don't think he's prepared either for the truth. The real one.

And now I am home. And really, I am expecting to be wowed the moment I get here with any difference or whatever, 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, like they have all the time in the world that no one else possesses.

The observant me sits at the back of the hired chair and watches them part, and deep down in my chest, it feels like a hand is opening me the same way the gates open, pulling me apart without asking. I notice that split right down the middle between my breasts, that line that never requests my permission before action. 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 though… 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 off simply because I am avoiding coming home. And here I am, back at my genesis.

The villa rises into view and my throat tightens, like my mouth just dumps a disturbing bone that sits horizontally in between, one that even water would have struggled to push through.

It is just exactly as I remember it in my head. Like, do you know how your head sweeps memories down your eyes while you are still confirming what you are seeing? That is the same way I feel. The place is grand, cold and beautiful, and it feels like it was never built for warmth. The stone facade spreads wide in width and tall in height, and you need to see how this structure makes me feel small just by staying inside it. And what about the manicured hedges that line the driveway, just really stunning the way I love them. And around, not a single leaf is out of place. Yes 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. And I cannot just wait to go back to my Ethan. 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, all its inhabitants dressed in black, a fitting symbolism for what we are marking today. The death of Richard Steele. Besides that, quiet voices and focused faces turn toward me like I am Santa Claus. The grief that settles here is so intense and it almost blocks my nostrils from breathing. A chandelier hangs overhead, spreading soft gold light across an ocean of people I do not recognize, made up of 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.

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

But 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 I 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'll also instill in my son.

And as I am moving through the room consciously, keeping my composure intact as that’s the only thing I would not risk here, then 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 within me. Everything in me locks in place at once in a blink.

Then the scent hits me like a sniper shot.

It comes close before I even see him. And 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 processes it into information. My pulse shifts gear at once, my skin prickles from my arms to the back of my neck, and 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 alternatives opinions.

I roll my head slowly because an assumption in my chest has already shifted from its assumed position 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 not….

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 to me, yet his eyes carry a message I cannot read but can feel pressing through the space between us. I do not say anything to him as well. We just look at each other, locked in a moment that spans longer than it should.

Fuck!

He looks at me like I'm nothing, like a tool he once destroyed and still wants badly. I looked away first as usual. I'm always the first to look away in every context. I spent the next hour composed and completely fine. People keep sending their condolences, and I welcome them with 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 I 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.

Evening comes fast like the clock is running a race it refuses to lose. The guests begin to thin out and I am finally directed to my old room. I am so exhausted, like the world has been placed on my body, and this has nothing to do with the flight.

One thing that strikes me most is the room is still the same as I left it, its pale walls and high ceiling remain unchanged. I look at the window and I am back in those old good days, sitting on the ledge as a teenager, pretending I am somewhere else. And the dresser, I see fresh flowers on it, I guess someone bought them and placed them there. White roses. I stare at them for a while and look away before I find myself pulled back into the beauty they radiate effortlessly.

Then.

I sit on the side of the bed to calculate my decision clearly.

I will simply be civil. I will be distant, composed and formal. I will attend the final funeral burial tomorrow, and I will pay my last respects to the only Steele who was ever sincerely kind to me. Afterwards, I will get into the car and go back to my life, the real life I left before coming here to stir memories of the life I have buried in my mind. The real life I constructed from scratch with my own two hands.

My wolf makes a sound at the back of my mind to get my attention. A low, unimpressed sound.

I ignore it immediately and lie down.

To sleep feels like war. Sleep feels so distant from my eyes, miles away, as though I have to struggle just to take part in the natural blessing given to the living. My body wants it, but my wolf resists it, restless and awake when I should be slipping under the soft arms of sleep, singing its warmth in my ears.I drift in and out of a thin imagination, very aware of the house around me. The sounds, the creaks, the silences. And the way the corridor outside my door carries footsteps if one listens closely enough. Even then, I am not sure I am the only one listening.

And I think that is why, at a time I am sure is past midnight, I hear them.

One step at a time, moving slowly like a snail, creating the rhythm of a gentle walker who is not lost, a walker who knows exactly where they are heading.I know those footsteps like a hunter knows the walk of their prey.

My wolf is already vigilant, standing on its feet inside me, and my heart rate climbs like the wolf within has pushed the gear to a very high speed. I sit up in the dark, waiting, until the footsteps stop outside my door, and what follows next is…

Silence.

And immediately, I get up like I am conditioned to act rather than by my own will. I do not know why I get up or what I am meant to do, or if I am simply refusing to admit it out loud. My hand finds the door handle in the dark and I pull it open.The corridor is dark, and the only source of light comes from a wall lamp burning at the far end, casting everything in an amber shadow. And there he is, Dominic Steele standing close enough for my nostrils to catch his scent again immediately, cedar and a warmer aroma underneath. His jaw is tight, alongside his unpredictable eyes. From the way he is looking, I would not be wrong to say he has been standing outside that door for a while, arguing with himself, and now he has finally lost.

He opens his mouth.

And pronounces my name.

That's all.Just, “Sophie.”

“I needed to be sure you were real.”

That is what he utters next after pronouncing my name like he is the priest in charge when I was christened, standing in my doorway at midnight like he has lost an argument with himself. The sentence falls from his mouth, gentle and flat, with no iota of explanation attached, no apology. And he makes it seem like it is the most normal thing in the world to show up outside my door at midnight after a good seven years of nothing and express himself here like it is supposed to wow me.I stare at him.

He holds my look in his eyes for a while. Then he suddenly deviates from what I expect from him. He turns and walks away without saying goodbye. I am about to respond to his statement, but as it stands, he is leaving without a dramatic exit. I hear his footsteps moving back down the dark corridor. The darkness swallows his visibility. I am standing all by myself in my doorway, holding the door handle like it is the only thing I have got to survive what just happened right now.I shut the door behind me. .Then. I stand with my back against the door, using it as support, resting into it. I press my palm flat on my breasts, trying to calm this restless breathing of my heart.

Regardless, it does not stop.

I find sleep, but sleep does not find me. While I am searching for it, I lie on top of the covers, stare at the ceiling, watch the hours run.

wolf walks within me throughout the whole night, back and forth, unrelenting, cool to a degree I have no patience to manage. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. I imagine the way he looked at me in the doorway like I am a prodigal wife who left him, whom he has been searching for, and now that he has found me, he is quite amazed he did.

“I needed to be sure you were real.” What does that even mean in the first place? What is a man of high calibre like Dominic Steele doing with a thought like that for seven years?I forced myself to bury the thoughts in the grave of my mind.

And exactly at 6am in the morning, I give up on sleep totally. I sit up, run my hands through my hair and breathe in and out. The burial is today. The plan is simple: I get through today, I get into the car and go home to my beloved Ethan.

Then.

I grab my wash bag and move before I can think too hard about it.

The east wing family bathroom is still at the exact spot I left it in my memory. It is seated at the end of the corridor, past the linen cupboard and the narrow window that overlooks the garden. I remember I used to come here as a teen because it had the best water pressure in the whole house and because nobody noticed or ever used it. The Steeles had their own en suites, and the east wing bathroom was always my possession by default, a corner of the house I had owned to myself.

Childhood old habits.

Well, I do not think much of it, I just go on.

The door opens like it is expecting me. The room is cool, still, and smells faintly of old stone and a floral soap someone left on the ledge. I turn the shower on and wait for it to warm up, leaning on the sink and watching my own face in the mirror. I look tired. And I am about to feel a bit relieved in this bath..

And like a flash, the dream replays in my head repeatedly, the one I had two nights ago in my studio, making my whole body heavy. I think briefly of the dream, then I think of the steam, the shower curtain, and the way everything here feels unavoidable.

I dismissed it. It was a dream. Dreams can be foolish, or dangerous.