In his mind, her path should always run parallel to his.
An old memory surfaced unbidden.
In the past, when their arguments had spiraled, Nathanie’s temper had sometimes crossed lines. And afterward—perhaps out of guilt—he would soften, offering concessions to smooth things over.
There had been one night in particular.
Olivia had called, saying she’d cut her hand while preparing dinner. It was minor—barely more than a scratch.
Adriana had asked Nathanie to stay.
“Can’t someone else handle it?” she had said then, exhausted from her own shift. “It’s just a small wound.”
He had gone anyway.
But before he left, the argument had escalated.
And when he returned later that night, anger still simmering beneath his calm exterior, he had struck her across the face.
“If you hadn’t delayed me,” he had snapped, “Olivia wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all.”
The words still rang clearly in her memory.
As if she had been the cause.
As if Olivia’s every misfortune could be traced back to her.
Sitting now in the dim bedroom, Adriana looked at the wolf she had once believed was her future.
And she wondered, not for the first time, how she had convinced herself that this was love.