The cold stone floor of the wine cellar pressed against my cheek, but I couldn't feel it anymore. I floated three feet above my own corpse, watching the blood pool beneath my head grow sticky and dark in the dim light filtering through the basement window.

My neck was a mess of torn flesh where fangs had ripped through skin and muscle. The wine rack I'd crashed into still bore traces of my blood, dark droplets staining the expensive bottles my father collected. Three hours. I'd been dead for three hours, and no one had even noticed I was missing.

Above me, the main house blazed with light and laughter. Through the floorboards, I could hear the clink of champagne glasses and the murmur of congratulations. Father was throwing Ivy her Luna announcement party—my little sister was finally getting everything she'd ever wanted. The Alpha of the neighboring pack had chosen her as his mate, and tonight was her moment to shine.

I tried to move toward the stairs, but my spirit felt tethered to this basement, to my broken body lying in its pool of congealing blood. The irony wasn't lost on me. Even in death, I was trapped in the shadows while my family celebrated upstairs.

The basement door creaked open, and heavy footsteps thundered down the wooden stairs. My brother Conner's familiar scent filled the air—pine and aggression, always aggression.

"Harper!" His voice echoed off the stone walls. "Where the hell are you hiding now?"

I watched him scan the wine cellar, his eyes passing right through my translucent form. He didn't even glance at the dark corner where my body lay crumpled between two wine racks. The shadows were too deep, and he was too focused on his anger to look carefully.

"Typical," he muttered, turning to stomp back upstairs. "Playing her stupid disappearing act on Ivy's big night."

I followed him up, my spirit drifting behind his solid form. The main floor was a stark contrast to the dark basement—crystal chandeliers cast warm light over elegant guests in formal wear. The scent of expensive perfume and catered hors d'oeuvres filled the air. Pack members from both our territory and the neighboring one mingled freely, their voices creating a pleasant hum of conversation.

Ivy stood in the center of the living room, radiant in a flowing silver gown that caught the light with every movement. Her dark hair was swept up in an elaborate style, diamond earrings—our mother's earrings—sparkling against her neck. She was everything a future Luna should be: beautiful, confident, beloved.

Conner pushed through the crowd toward my bedroom. I drifted after him, watching as he shoved open my door without knocking. My room was exactly as I'd left it that morning—bed unmade, clothes scattered across the chair, my journal lying open on the desk.

He grabbed the leather-bound book, his eyes scanning the page. I'd been keeping track, marking off days like a prisoner counting down to freedom. Today's entry was simple: the number 99.

"What kind of weird shit is this?" Conner flipped through several pages, all containing nothing but numbers in descending order. 100, 99, 98, 97... He didn't understand. How could he? He'd never bothered to pay attention to my life when I was alive.

With a disgusted snort, he tossed the journal to the floor. The pages fluttered open, revealing months of my careful countdown. Ninety-nine days until my eighteenth birthday. Ninety-nine days until I could legally leave this pack and never look back.

Now I'd never see that day.

Conner pulled out his phone and hit my number. Somewhere in the wine cellar, my cell phone buzzed against the stone floor next to my lifeless hand. Up here, he heard nothing but my voicemail greeting.

"Harper, you little bitch," he snarled into the phone. "I don't know what game you're playing, but you better cut it out right now. Ivy wants her blueberry macarons—you know, those fancy French cookies you're always making to show off? She wants them for her Luna night, and you're going to make them."

He paced across my small room, his boots leaving muddy prints on the carpet. Through my window, I could see more cars arriving, their headlights sweeping across the front yard.

"I'm giving you one hour," Conner continued, his voice rising with each word. "One fucking hour to get your ass back here and into that kitchen. This is Ivy's night—the most important night of her life—and if you do anything to ruin it, I swear to the Moon Goddess, I will make you regret it for the rest of your miserable existence."

He ended the call and stormed back toward the party. I tried to scream at him, to tell him I was dead in the basement, but no sound emerged from my spectral form. I was nothing but a silent observer now, watching my family continue their celebration while my body grew cold below their feet.

Back in the living room, Father had climbed onto a chair, raising his champagne glass high. Beta Marcus Mills commanded attention even in a room full of powerful wolves. His silver hair was perfectly styled, his expensive suit tailored to perfection.

"Friends, family, honored guests," he began, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. "Tonight we celebrate not just my daughter Ivy's engagement, but the strengthening of bonds between our packs."

Applause rippled through the room. Ivy beamed up at him, her future Alpha standing proudly beside her with his arm around her waist.

"Some of you may have noticed that my other daughter isn't here tonight," Father continued, and my spirit tensed. "Harper has always been... difficult. Prone to dramatic gestures and attention-seeking behavior."

A few guests chuckled knowingly. They'd all heard the stories—Harper the troublemaker, Harper the disappointment, Harper who never quite fit in.

"But tonight isn't about her tantrums," Father said firmly. "This time, no one is going to chase after her or beg her to come back. Let her sulk wherever she's hiding. Let her miss this important family moment. Maybe a little hunger and loneliness will teach her some respect."

More murmurs of agreement from the crowd. I watched Ivy's face—did I see a flicker of concern there, or was it just the champagne making her eyes bright?

"She'll come crawling back tomorrow morning," Father concluded, raising his glass higher. "They always do. Now, let's toast to Ivy and her bright future!"

The crowd cheered and drank, and I felt something inside my spirit break all over again. Even dead, I was still the family disappointment. Still the one they could dismiss and ignore.

But Father was wrong about one thing. Tomorrow morning, when the guests were gone and the house was quiet, someone would finally venture down to the wine cellar. They'd smell the sweet, sick scent of decay drifting up through the floorboards.

Then they'd find me, and they'd realize that some disappearances aren't just teenage rebellion.

Some disappearances are permanent.

I watched my sister float across the room like a ghost herself, her silver gown catching the chandelier light as she moved toward Father. The crowd was still buzzing from his toast, champagne glasses clinking in celebration of Ivy's perfect future. But something in her expression made my spectral form drift closer.

"Dad," Ivy's voice was soft, barely audible above the party chatter. She placed a delicate hand on Father's arm, her eyes wide with what looked like genuine concern. "Don't say those things about Harper. What if something really happened to her?"

Father's expression softened immediately. He'd always been putty in Ivy's hands—we all had been. "Sweetheart, you know how your sister is. She's probably holed up somewhere feeling sorry for herself."

"But what if she's not?" Ivy's voice trembled with the perfect amount of worry. She pulled out her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen. "Maybe I should text her? You know Harper and I have always been close. She might answer me even if she won't answer Conner."

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with being dead. Close? When had we ever been close? But the guests around them were nodding approvingly, murmuring about what a sweet sister Ivy was.

Father squeezed her shoulder. "If it makes you feel better, princess. But don't let her drama ruin your special night."

Ivy's thumbs moved across her phone screen with practiced ease. I drifted closer, peering over her shoulder at the message she was typing. The words made my spirit recoil in horror:

*Those rogues fuck you good? Party's amazing, thanks for not showing. Wish you'd just die already.*

My sister—my baby sister who I'd protected from bullies, who I'd helped with homework, who I'd covered for when she snuck out—had just typed those words. But before I could process the full impact, she deleted the message with quick, efficient swipes.

Then her fingers began typing again, this time crafting something entirely different:

*Harper, are you okay? We're all so worried about you. If you're mad at Dad or Conner, take it out on me instead. Please just come home. I love you.*

She turned the phone toward Father, letting him read the message before she sent it. "See? I'm trying to reach out."

"That's my girl," Father said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Always thinking of others."

Ivy hit send, and somewhere in the wine cellar, my phone buzzed against the cold stone floor next to my lifeless fingers. The sound was swallowed by the thick walls and the noise of the party above.

Mother appeared at Ivy's other side, her Luna presence commanding even in the crowded room. Diana Mills was everything a pack leader's wife should be—elegant, composed, fiercely protective of her family. Her dark hair was streaked with premature silver from years of pack politics, but it only made her look more distinguished.

"What's wrong, darling?" Mother asked, immediately sensing Ivy's distress.

"I texted Harper, but she's not responding," Ivy said, holding up her phone to show the delivered but unread message. "I'm just worried something might have happened to her."

Mother's arms wrapped around Ivy instantly, pulling her close in a protective embrace that I'd rarely received in life. "Oh, sweetheart. You're always so good to her, even when she doesn't deserve it."

"But what if—"

"No." Mother's voice was firm. "This is exactly what Harper wants. She wants us all worried, wants to steal attention from your big night. Well, I won't let her manipulate us anymore."

I watched my family comfort each other over my supposed selfishness while my actual corpse lay rotting in the basement. But it was Ivy's performance that truly chilled me. The way she leaned into Mother's embrace, the perfect tremor in her voice, the concerned furrow of her brow—it was all so convincing.

Because I was starting to remember.

The memory came back in fragments, like pieces of a shattered mirror slowly fitting together. This morning—was it really just this morning?—I'd been in my room, getting ready for something important. Something I'd been looking forward to for weeks.

The Crescent Medal ceremony.

It was the pack's highest honor, awarded only every two years to the member who'd shown exceptional service and dedication. At seventeen, I would have been the youngest recipient in pack history. All those late nights helping with pack security, mediating disputes between younger members, organizing supply runs to neighboring territories—it had all led to this moment.

I'd planned to slip away quietly during Ivy's party, accept the medal in a small ceremony with the pack elders, then return before anyone noticed I was gone. I didn't want to overshadow Ivy's Luna announcement. I never wanted to overshadow Ivy.

But I'd never made it to the ceremony.

Instead, three rogues had been waiting for me in the garage. They'd grabbed me before I could shift, dragged me kicking and screaming into the house through the back entrance. Down the stairs to the wine cellar, where no one would hear my cries over the party music.

I remembered their leader—a scarred wolf with yellow eyes and breath that reeked of cheap whiskey. He'd smiled when he saw my fear, showing teeth filed to points.

"Nothing personal, kid," he'd said. "Just business."

Business. Someone had paid them to kill me.

And now, watching Ivy's perfect performance, I remembered something else. Something that made my spectral form feel like it was drowning in ice water.

The rogues' leader had pulled out a set of keys while his companions held me down. Car keys, house keys, and hanging from the ring like a trophy—a small silver wolf charm. Ivy's charm. The one she'd worn on her keychain since she was twelve, the one she claimed was her good luck piece.

I'd seen those keys in his hand right before everything went dark.

My sister. My baby sister who was currently accepting sympathy and praise for her "concern" about my disappearance. She'd hired those rogues. She'd arranged my murder.

The perfect daughter, the beloved princess, the future Luna—she'd wanted me dead.

And she'd gotten her wish.

Three hours earlier, I'd been standing in front of my bedroom mirror, smoothing down the soft gray-blue fabric of my dress. It was simple, understated—nothing that would draw attention away from Ivy's big night. The Crescent Medal ceremony was supposed to be a quiet affair anyway, just me and the pack elders in the small meeting room behind the main hall.

My hands trembled slightly as I fastened the silver bracelet Mom had given me for my sixteenth birthday. The irony wasn't lost on me—in a house where I was constantly overlooked, I was about to receive the pack's highest honor. At seventeen, I'd be the youngest recipient in history.

Downstairs, I could hear the catering staff setting up for Ivy's party. The clink of champagne glasses, the rustle of tablecloths, the low murmur of early arrivals. My sister's Luna announcement was the event of the year, and rightfully so. She deserved this moment.

I checked my phone—6:47 PM. The ceremony was at seven. I'd slip out through the back, accept the medal, and return before anyone even noticed I was gone. Perfect.

That's when I heard the crash downstairs.

Glass shattering. The back door splintering off its hinges. Heavy boots on the kitchen tile.

"She's here," a rough voice called out. "Second floor, end of the hall. Just like she said."

My blood turned to ice. Three sets of footsteps thundered up the stairs, moving with purpose. Not random break-in. Not opportunistic theft. They were here for me.

I lunged for my phone, but the bedroom door exploded inward before I could reach it. Three men filled the doorway—rogues, their scent wild and unwashed, their eyes glowing with predatory hunger.

The leader was massive, scarred from countless fights, his teeth filed to sharp points. "Harper Mills," he said, like he was checking my name off a list. "Right on time."

"What do you want?" I backed toward the window, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Nothing personal, sweetheart." He pulled something from his pocket, dangling it in front of my face. Keys. Car keys, house keys, and hanging from the ring like a accusation—Ivy's silver wolf charm. The good luck piece she'd worn since she was twelve.

My world tilted. "How do you have those?"

His smile was all teeth and malice. "Don't worry about that. Worry about this—nobody's coming to save you. Your whole family's downstairs celebrating your sister's big night. Nobody gives a shit where you are."

I tried to scream, but one of his companions was already moving. A hand clamped over my mouth, another grabbed my arms. I thrashed wildly, my dress tearing as they dragged me from the room.

"Careful with the merchandise," the leader laughed. "We need her conscious for the photos."

Photos. My stomach lurched as they hauled me down the back stairs, past the kitchen where catering staff worked obliviously, down into the wine cellar where the party music was just a distant thrum overhead.

They threw me against the stone wall, and pain exploded through my shoulder. The leader pulled out his phone, the camera flash blinding in the dim basement light.

"Smile, princess. Your sister wants proof."

Rage gave me strength. I lunged at him, claws extending, but I was still human-form and they were ready. The second rogue backhanded me across the face, splitting my lip. Blood filled my mouth, metallic and warm.

"Feisty," he chuckled. "I like that."

They took turns. Hitting me, photographing the damage, making crude comments about what the "spoiled little rich girl" looked like now. I fought back with everything I had, but three against one in an enclosed space—the math was simple.

During one desperate struggle, I broke free for a split second. Scrambled toward the stairs, toward help, toward life. But the leader caught me by the hair, yanked me backward with such force that I flew across the room.

The wine rack rushed up to meet me. The sharp corner of the wooden frame caught me just above my left ear, and the world exploded into white-hot agony. Blood poured down my face, warm and sticky, pooling on the stone floor beneath me.

"Shit," one of them whispered. "That's a lot of blood."

"Is she dead?" The youngest rogue sounded panicked.

The leader knelt beside me, checking my pulse with rough fingers. I was conscious but barely, my vision swimming in and out of focus. "Still breathing. But we need to go. This wasn't supposed to get this messy."

They fled, their footsteps echoing up the stairs and out through the broken back door. I heard a car engine roar to life, tires squealing on asphalt. Then silence, except for the distant sound of laughter from Ivy's party.

I lay there in the spreading pool of my own blood, my head throbbing with each heartbeat. The gray-blue dress was ruined now, soaked crimson. My phone had fallen from my pocket during the struggle, skittering across the floor just out of reach.

Using every ounce of strength I had left, I dragged myself across the cold stone. My fingers were slick with blood, making it hard to grip anything. But somehow, I managed to pull the phone closer.

The screen was cracked but functional. With my tongue—my hands too shaky to work properly—I managed to swipe to my contacts.

Mom first. The phone rang and rang before going to voicemail. "Hi, you've reached Diana Mills. I can't come to the phone right now..."

I tried Dad next. One ring, then nothing. He'd declined the call.

Conner. Please, Conner. My big brother who'd always protected me when we were kids, before everything changed.

The call went straight to voicemail, but a text popped up immediately: *Again with the fake emergency bullshit? We're done playing your games, Harper. Dad, Mom and I already cut our pack bond with you. Stop being such an attention whore.*

Pack bond. Cut. The words hit me harder than any physical blow. They'd severed their connection to me—no wonder no one had sensed my distress, my pain, my terror.

I was truly alone.

With trembling fingers, I scrolled to the last contact. The one I'd been avoiding for weeks, the one that hurt most to see.

Ryker. My fated mate. The Alpha who'd rejected our bond the moment he realized his political future lay with Ivy, not me.

The phone rang once. Twice.

"Harper?" His voice was sharp with irritation. "What the hell do you want?"

"Ryker," I whispered, my voice barely audible. Blood was filling my throat now, making it hard to speak. "Help me. Please. I'm dying."

A long pause. Then a disgusted sigh.

"Harper, cut the dramatics. Today is Ivy's Luna announcement. Your attention-seeking has got to stop. I told you I'd get you a graduation present later, okay? We can talk then."

"No, you don't understand—" I tried to explain, but the words came out as a gurgle.

"I understand perfectly. You're jealous of your sister and you're acting out. Well, I'm not falling for it anymore. Grow up."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone screen until it went dark, my reflection ghostlike in the black surface. Above me, the party continued. Laughter. Music. The sound of people celebrating while I bled out in the basement.

My lips curved into something that might have been a smile. How fitting. Even dying, I was still the family disappointment.

The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering against the stone. My vision was fading now, darkness creeping in from the edges. But I could still hear them upstairs—my family, my pack, my fated mate—all of them celebrating the future that would never include me.

Ninety-nine days until my eighteenth birthday.

I'd never see eighteen now.