Meanwhile, the Unspoken gown was a deep cerulean gown that showed the night my father’s mistress was revealed and my mother was locked away for ‘causing a scene’.
After that, the Inheritance gown, a midnight black gown embroidered with thorned vines, the strength she passed to me through pain.
Last but not least was the Resurrection gown. It was a bright scarlet, sharp and fierce, the fire she had lit in my soul.
The pack applauded, howling in approval. But when the final gown appeared, my chest froze. Gwyneth stepped onto the stage. Wearing it.
The gown I had sewn with trembling hands, tears dripping onto the fabric. It held a piece of my mother. Her hair woven into the brooch at the collar. Her heartbeat. Her essence.
I gasped, horror slicing through me.
“No!” I stumbled forward, trying to stop her.
“She cannot wear that! She can’t! No!”
Before I could reach the stage, a hand gripped my wrist, bruising. I spun around. It was Gareth. His fingers dug into my skin. His eyes were unreadable, like a wolf who had already claimed its prey.
“Let go of me!” I hissed, trembling with rage.