Chapter 312
Three hundred and fourteen
Isabella POV
The taxi pulled away, leaving me standing outside my father’s familiar white duplex.
It had only been a month since I last stood outside this house, yet my chest tightened as though years had passed.. The freshly cut lawn looked the same, and the flower beds were perfectly trimmed as the groundskeeper pushed the mower across the lawn without sparing me a glance.
The house looked respectable from the outside, but inside, it had been hell.
The memories I’d spent weeks trying to bury rose in my throat like bile.
I was the bastard, the child who should never have been born.
The whore’s daughter.
They started calling me those names when I was still small enough to believe adults always told the truth. Then Beatrice and Barbara ate proper meals while I picked through cold, greasy leftovers. Sometimes there weren’t even leftovers. If Stepmother Gwen decided I’d been too visible that day, I simply didn’t eat. 1
My sisters’ old clothes became mine after they’d been worn nearly to rags. Plastic shoes split beneath my feet, leaving my heels cracked and bleeding. Every chore belonged to me.
Barbara never needed a reason to beat me. Looking at her too long, answering too slowly, breathing too loudly; anything was reason enough.
She’d drag me by the hair and beat me with a belt, a stick, or whatever lay within reach. One beating left me curled on the floor, vomiting until my stomach was empty.
Her mother never stopped her. Beatrice was rarely home, and although she never abused me, she treated me like a ghost. Looking back, it was obviously to avoid her mother and sister’s wrath.
I lifted my gaze toward the attic window. That tiny window overlooked the room where I’d spent countless nights convincing myself tomorrow would somehow be kinder.
Father was always away, and his absence made the house even colder. During one of his trips, they locked me outside while rain poured over me. When they let me inside, I slept on a thin mat while everyone else disappeared into bedrooms behind locked doors.
Eventually they sent me away, dumping me with my mother’s relatives, who had even less than us. They weren’t cruel people. They were simply too poor to notice another hungry child.
Then my body began to change, and boys noticed.
Then older men, like Alpha Desmond.
Coming back pregnant earned me even more hatred. Stepmother Gwen called me a prostitute loud enough for the whole house to hear. Barbara spat at my feet and said my baby would grow up to be another bastard.
Beatrice had only been dead for months, and somehow I became the place they emptied all their grief and bitterness. When the pregnancy slowed me down, they increased my workload.
When labor began, they left me to endure it until they couldn’t ignore the danger anymore, and then they called in an inexperienced midwife.
Every memory dragged me back to that frightened girl who’d grown up believing she was something less than
1/2
+15 Boots
human.
And now that I was standing in their way, they remembered I was family.
My gaze drifted beyond the fountain to the side of the house. Beatrice’s grave lay beneath a white headstone surrounded by fresh flowers. It pulled my thoughts back to Wesley.
I was certain he couldn’t feel our bond. I’d accepted that much. Maybe something inside me was broken, or maybe the Moon Goddess had decided this was one more cruelty to add to the list.
Beatrice’s grave offered another possibility. Grief must have buried whatever was meant to connect us. The bond was still there, buried beneath five years of mourning.
Beatrice had truly been his one great love. If Grandma Cassidy was right about the kind of man Wesley had been with Beatrice, perhaps no supernatural bond could compete with a heart that had never finished grieving.
I turned away from the grave.
Before stepping inside, I opened the recording app on my phone and waited for the red dot.
I’d learned my lesson when I came back pregnant: conversations in this house had a way of changing after they ended. Cruel words vanished, and somehow I became the ungrateful one.
The front door opened before I could knock again.
One of the older maids, Eliza, stood there, her face lighting up with surprise.
“Bella, you came p>
Her hands cupped my cheeks and turned my face from side to side.
“You look so healthy. The Alpha House has been good to you. I still can’t believe you’re living with Luna Lisa p>
She said it as though I’d stumbled into a fairy tale, as though the disgraced daughter of this house had somehow wandered into one.
“How’s Maverick p>
“He’s doing well,” I replied, giving nothing else away.
Another maid, who’d never liked me, appeared from the hallway.
“They’re waiting upstairs,” she said flatly, and walked away.
Eliza squeezed my hand. “I’m really happy for you p>
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Cedella
Cedella is a passionate storyteller known for her bold romantic and spicy novels that keep readers hooked from the very first chapter. With a flair for crafting emotionally intense plots and unforgettable characters, she blends love, desire, and drama into every story she writes. Cedella’s storytelling style is immersive and addictive—perfect for fans of heated romances and heart-pounding twists.