{Third Person}
The moment Amara stepped into the hallway and turned the corner, tears blurring her vision, she nearly collided with someone.
"Watch where you're going!" The sharp voice snapped against her ears.
Amara halted just in time, her gaze dropping to the familiar pair of eyes.
Lila Caldwell stood before her, dressed in a trendy, fitted dress, her hair styled flawlessly as always. She was noticeably shorter, the top of her head barely reaching beneath Amara's jaw.
But what she lacked in height, she made up for with attitude.
There was a softness to Lila's features, a cute, rounded beauty that drew attention easily. The kind of beauty that was adored by everyone.
Lila's eyes flicked over Amara with thinly veiled irritation. "Do you think you own the hallways now, too?"
Amara wasn't surprised by her sister's reaction. Ever since that day a year ago—when the truth had been dragged into the light, and Amara's place in the family quietly erased, Lila had changed. The warmth was gone. The easy sisterhood, in its place, was disdain.
Amara said nothing. She didn't apologize or try to explain. She didn't even acknowledge the insult.
She simply stepped around Lila and continued down the hallway as if she hadn't heard a word—as if Lila wasn't there at all.
That, more than any retort, made Lila stiffen. Her fingers curled at her sides as she turned to glare at Amara's retreating figure.
Upstairs, Amara shut her bedroom door and leaned against it, her breath uneven.
Her chest hurt in a way she had no words for—tight, crushing, as if something vital had been torn loose and left to bleed quietly inside her.
If her father severing ties with her a year ago had broken her, then this—this was worse. This was being handed over alive.
But slowly, she shook her head. She refused to leave her destiny in his hands.
With that, she pushed herself upright and crossed the room, grabbing her phone from the nightstand. The screen blurred for a moment as tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back and opened her call log.
Her thumb hovered over one name. Torin. Then she pressed it.
The line rang once, twice. Then it connected.
"Torin…" Amara sniffed.
"Amara?" Torin's voice came through, surprised. "What's wrong?"
Her resolve cracked. "My father is forcing me to marry," she said immediately, afraid she would lose the courage if she waited. "The peace treaty. I've been chosen."
There was a pause, then Torin asked carefully, "…The Werewolves?"
"Yes," she whispered. "The Alpha Prince."
Torin swore under his breath. "That's madness."
"The wedding is in one month," Amara added.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Then she said with a trembling voice, "I can't go there, Torin. I won't survive it."
He exhaled slowly. "Amara—"
"Let's run away," she interrupted. "Let's elope."
"What?" he said sharply.
"Tonight. Before it's too late," she pressed.
"Amara, no! This is reckless," Torin said at once. "You're not thinking clearly. Do you know what will happen if we do that? Your family will be punished. The parliament won't let this go. And we will both be hunted."
"I don't care anymore," she cried softly. "They don't care about me. You are the only one I have."
Torin didn't answer immediately, so she whispered, "I'm scared. Please."
Another pause followed, then he said at last, "…If we do this," he said quietly, "there is no turning back."
Instantly, hope surged painfully in her chest. That was all she wanted to hear. "So, you agree?"
"Yes," he said, resigned, as if giving in to something he had been fighting.
"When are we meeting?" she asked quickly.
"By six this evening," Torin replied. "Behind the old gas station on Brooklane."
"I will be there," she said without hesitation.
"Be careful," he warned. "Don't let anyone see you."
"I won't," she promised. "Thank you, Torin."
The call ended, and Amara lowered the phone slowly. Then, she wiped her tears and stared at the door, already thinking that she just had to make it until tonight.
But unknown to her, a shadow lingered just beyond her door outside, unmoving.
Someone had been standing there the entire time.
---
Amara left the Caldwell mansion as dusk settled over the estate.
She moved through the house with practised caution, avoiding the main hall and slipping down the rarely used back staircase while the servants were occupied downstairs, preparing for dinner.
She carried a plain tote bag over her shoulder—inside it, wads of cash, her phone, her bank card, her identification cards, and a few other essentials she couldn't afford to leave behind.
At the rear of the house, she exited through the servant's door without looking back.
The streets were quieter than usual as she made her way toward the old gas station. With every step, hope urged her forward, fragile but insistent. She told herself she was doing the right thing. That she was choosing herself.
When the gas station came into view, her heart started to race.
The place was half-lit, one flickering bulb buzzing faintly above cracked concrete. She pulled her face cap lower and kept her head down. Even dressed plainly, she was still a Caldwell. Someone might recognize her.
Amarra reached the back of the building and slowed.
Torin was already there. He stood near the wall, hands in his pockets, his posture too relaxed. He looked nothing like a man about to run away.
There was no bag, no car in sight, and no urgency in his eyes.
Confusion crept into Amara's heart. "Torin?" she called softly, stepping closer.
Torin looked up at her, his expression unreadable. "You came," he said.
Something about his tone made her pause. "Of course I did," she replied. "You told me to."
Then, she searched his face for warmth or relied. For anything familiar, but there was none.
"You don't look ready," she said slowly. "Where is your car?"
He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "You still don't get it, do you?"
Her brows furrowed. "Get what?"
"This," Torin said, gesturing vaguely between them. "This ridiculous idea of yours."
A chill ran down her spine. "You're… joking," she said uncertainly. "We talked about this. You agreed—"