The Forgotten Daughter

Wren's POV

The heavy door of the Bentley slammed shut behind me, sealing me inside a luxury cage.

The car ride was silent. It was not a peaceful silence. It was a suffocating, oppressive weight pressing down on my chest, thick with everything Torin refused to say. He sat in the driver’s seat, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He gripped the steering wheel tight, putting as much distance between us as the confines of the vehicle allowed. The engine purred, a low and steady vibration beneath my boots, but the air inside the cabin felt frozen.

I sat in the back seat, staring straight ahead. The worn denim of my prison jeans rubbed rough and abrasive against my skin. The fabric was stiff, faded from years of harsh industrial washing, carrying the faint, metallic scent of the compound. It clashed violently with the rich, buttery leather of the Bentley’s interior. I did not belong in this car. I did not belong in this world.

My gaze drifted away from Torin’s rigid shoulders, wandering over the interior.

My eyes landed on the passenger side. A fuzzy pink seat cover draped over the leather. It was loud, obnoxious, and meticulously brushed. It was a throne. It was a visual marker claiming the space, wrapping the front seat in a soft, untouchable bubble.

On the dashboard, a row of strawberry bear plushies sat in perfect alignment. Their little glass eyes stared back at me, mocking the stark, brutal reality of the concrete cell I had just left behind. The air conditioning vents blew a sickeningly sweet artificial strawberry scent into the cabin, masking the smell of expensive leather and polished wood.

Then, my eyes caught the photograph swinging from the rearview mirror.

It was a woman. She was older now, her features softer, her expression radiant. Her smile was bright, confident, and effortless. It was the smile of a girl who had never known a cold night, an empty stomach, or the terrifying darkness of a werewolf penitentiary. She looked coddled. She looked protected. She looked untouched by the horrors of the world.

Daphne.

She looked like she belonged here. Like this car, this pack, and this entire world had been carefully molded around her desires, shaping itself to fit her every whim. She sat in the center of their universe, soaking up all the warmth, all the resources, and all the love. And somehow, without even being present in the vehicle, she still managed to make me feel like the ultimate outsider invading her sacred space.

I turned my face away from the swinging photograph, my jaw clenching. The motion made me catch sight of my own reflection in the tinted window. Sunken cheeks. Dull, lifeless hair. Eyes that held too many shadows. I looked away from the glass, unable to stomach the contrast.

Instead, my eyes snagged on the large shopping bag resting on the seat next to me.

The top of the bag was open. A feathered white gown peeked through the tissue paper. The fabric was pristine, gleaming under the passing streetlights. The delicate feathers looked soft, ethereal, and impossibly fragile. It did not look real. It certainly did not belong to me. I did not even need to ask who it was for, or what it represented.

Everything in this car screamed my exclusion.

My fingers curled inward, a sudden wave of self-consciousness washing over me. I looked down at my hands. The calloused pads of my fingers brushed over the cheap, frayed seams of my jeans. My knuckles were scarred, the skin rough and permanently stained from years of hard labor and survival. Daphne got custom couture, tailored to fit her delicate frame. I got state-issued correctional uniforms, a heavy tracking band clamped to my pulse, and a criminal record that would brand me for the rest of my life.

Outside the tinted windows, the tall pine trees blurred past, swallowing the last remaining light of the day.

Torin finally decided to speak. His voice broke through the silence, loud and grating.

"Mom and Dad... they really missed you these past five years," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. "They cried every day. The stress turned their hair gray."

He said the words like they carried weight. Like they meant something. Like throwing a few empty syllables into the backseat could magically erase the past five years of hell. If they cried, they cried because the scandal bruised their pristine reputation. If their hair turned gray, it was from the sheer exertion of covering up the cracks in their perfect family portrait.

He did not stop there. The brief attempt at familial warmth vanished, replaced by a cold, authoritative command.

"When we get home, do not start with your old attitude," he warned, his tone hardening. "I do not want to see any rivalry with Daphne. Do not make things difficult. If you behave, the Grimjaw Pack will not treat you unfairly."

I stared at the back of his head. My old attitude? The desperation of a girl begging her family to believe her? The frantic, terrified pleas of a daughter being dragged away in handcuffs? He called my fight for survival an 'attitude.' He told me not to make things difficult, as if my very existence was an inconvenience he had to manage.

I did not answer. I kept my mouth shut, letting the hum of the tires fill the space between us.

The silence stretched, growing thicker, heavier, and far more uncomfortable than before. Torin shifted in his seat. He checked the rearview mirror, his eyes flicking back to meet mine in the reflection. He expected submission. He expected a nod, a whispered apology, a promise to be good.

"Wren," he snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. "I am talking to you. Did you hear what I said?"

I looked up. I met his gaze in the mirror. My expression remained calm. Cold. Dead. The exhaustion of five years settled deep in my bones, leaving no room for anger, no room for tears.

Then, I spoke. I used more words in one breath than I had used in my last six months inside the prison walls.

"In accordance with Article 48 of the Werewolf Corrections Code," I began, my voice steady, flat, and hollow, "inmates are legally entitled to visitation once per month by close family members."

Torin’s eyes flickered in the mirror. His brow furrowed, confused by the clinical recitation of the law.

"Once per month," I continued, doing the math out loud for him. "For five years. Twelve months a year. That amounts to sixty possible visits."

I paused, letting the number hang in the stale, strawberry-scented air. Sixty chances. Sixty weekends. Sixty opportunities to show up.

"I did not get one."

I held his gaze in the mirror. My voice did not rise. I did not yell. Yelling required passion. Yelling required hope. I had neither.

"Not once did you or our parents come to see me," I stated, stripping away the lies he had just tried to feed me. "You did not come for a thirty-minute slot. You did not come for three minutes. You did not even send a single letter."

During the first month, I waited by the bars every weekend, listening for the guards to call my name. During the second month, I made excuses for them. I told myself they were busy, that the pack business kept them away. By the sixth month, the truth settled into my chest like a block of ice. They were never coming. They had erased me.

Torin faltered.

For the first time since I stepped out of the prison gates, he did not have a ready excuse. The arrogant set of his shoulders vanished. His hands clenched on the steering wheel, his grip tightening until the bones of his knuckles glowed pale beneath his skin. The Bentley drifted slightly toward the center line before he jerked it back into the lane.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. Then, he offered a defense so weak it sounded like a dying gasp.

"You were too difficult," he muttered, his voice lacking its previous authority. "They thought if they did not visit, you would learn your lesson. They wanted you to reflect. They did it for your own good."

For my own good.

The words echoed in my skull, bouncing against the walls of my mind, dripping with sickening hypocrisy.

Right. For my own good.

Just like it was for my good when they stood by and watched Daphne frame me. She lured Lyla into that Rogue-infested forest. She set the trap, she played the victim, and she pointed her trembling finger at me. I took the fall.

Just like it was for my good when I was dragged before the pack elders, screaming my innocence, while my own mate, Vance, stood in the corner and watched me burn. He stayed silent. He protected the imposter.

Just like it was for my good when my parents signed the papers, fed me to the wolves, locked me in a concrete box, and called it justice.

I did not answer him. There was nothing left to say to a man who lived in a delusion of his own making. I turned my head away from the mirror, directing my dead gaze out the window, watching the dark silhouettes of the trees wash past me in a blur.

Eventually, the Bentley slowed. The grand wrought-iron gates of the Grimjaw Pack estate loomed ahead, swinging open to grant us entry. The car crawled up the long, sweeping driveway, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. The massive estate rose against the night sky, its windows glowing with warm, golden light.

It looked exactly the same. But to me, the grand house loomed like a mausoleum. It was familiar in its structural outline, but dead in every corner. Five years of absence had not made this place feel any more like home. If anything, the imposing stone walls felt colder, harsher, and more unwelcoming than I remembered.

Torin put the car in park before the engine even settled into a steady idle. He unbuckled his seatbelt, threw his door open, and hopped out. He reached into the back seat, grabbing the shopping bag containing the feathered white gown. He lifted it with immense care, handling the bag like a sacred relic, making sure the pristine fabric did not brush against the doorframe.

He shut the door and walked briskly toward the grand marble steps of the entrance. He marched forward with purpose, his mind already shifting to the events of the evening.

He completely forgot I existed.

I opened my door and stepped out onto the gravel. The cool night air hit my face, carrying the familiar scents of the pack lands—pine, damp earth, and woodsmoke. I closed the door quietly, standing by the rear fender, watching my brother walk away.

Halfway up the marble steps, Torin froze in his tracks.

He stopped mid-stride, his back stiffening as if a sudden thought had struck him. As if he had just remembered he picked up a prisoner from the state penitentiary. As if he remembered he had a sister.

He turned around, looking down at me standing by the car. He cleared his throat, an awkward, uncomfortable sound breaking the quiet of the courtyard. He gestured toward the grand doors with his free hand, clutching the sacred dress bag in the other.

"Go change," he ordered, his voice clipped and dismissive. "You are expected in the banquet hall."

Without waiting for a response, he turned back around and disappeared through the massive front doors, taking the white gown with him, leaving me alone in the driveway.

I stood there for a moment, letting the chill of the evening seep through my thin T-shirt. Then, I began the long walk up the steps.

I stepped through the front doors. The grand foyer stretched out before me, a sea of polished marble, crystal chandeliers, and sweeping staircases. I made my way down the sprawling halls. I knew these floors intimately. I had once scrubbed these very tiles on my hands and knees, my skin burning from harsh chemicals, desperate to prove my worth, desperate to earn a single nod of approval from my mother.

Now, I walked over the marble without a second glance. I headed away from the main living areas, bypassing the grand staircases leading to the luxury suites. I walked down the narrow, dimly lit servant corridors in the back of the house.

I reached my room.

If anyone could even call it a room.

I pushed the heavy wooden door open. The hinges groaned, a sound of neglect and disuse. I stepped inside, my boots thudding against the bare concrete floor.

No windows. No warmth. No natural sunlight.

The air was heavy, stagnant, and thick with the smell of damp mildew and old paper. The space was barely larger than a closet. A rusted folding cot sat shoved into the far corner, covered by a thin, dust-coated mattress. Stacks of moldy cardboard boxes towered toward the ceiling, filled with discarded pack records and broken household items.

This was the storage room. This was where the Grimjaw Pack put the things they no longer wanted to look at.

Daphne got the master suite down the hall. They let her pick her own custom wallpaper, her own silk drapes, her own imported furniture. She got sunlight and luxury. I got mold, dust, and shadows.

I closed the door behind me, the latch clicking shut, sealing me inside the dark, windowless box. My breath caught in my throat for a fraction of a second as the claustrophobia of the cell threatened to bleed into my current reality. I forced my lungs to expand, pushing the panic down.

Torin told me to change. He told me to put on something proper and report to the banquet hall. They had likely bought a dress for me, another prop costume to force me into playing the role of the compliant, reformed daughter for their guests.

I stood in the center of the cramped space and let out a harsh, dry laugh.

The sound bounced off the damp walls, devoid of any real humor.

Proper? Change into what?

The only clothes I owned in the entire world were the ones currently clinging to my back. The cheap, shapeless denim. The thin, faded T-shirt. The fabric was worn thin from too many aggressive washes in cold prison water. The colors were bled out, lifeless.

I remembered the day I bought this outfit. Five years ago. I had saved up my meager earnings from bagging groceries at the local supermarket during winter breaks. My hands had been chapped and bleeding from the cold, but I was proud. I bought these clothes with my own money. I remembered running back to the estate, beaming with pride, modeling the jeans and T-shirt for Torin in the hallway.

I remembered his reaction. The deep scowl on his face. The disgust in his eyes, as if I had personally insulted his lineage.

"What are you wearing?" he had sneered, his lip curling. "Can't you dress like Daphne? Throw that garbage away. You look like a joke."

Back then, his words had cut deep. I had swallowed the hurt, forcing back the tears. I had nodded, retreated to my room, and tried again. I kept trying. I kept hoping. I kept reaching out, stretching my hands toward a family that looked right past me.

But not anymore.

The girl who cried over Torin’s mockery died on the cold concrete floor of a werewolf prison. I was no longer the same girl who begged for scraps of affection. I was no longer the desperate sister who clung to a family that never wanted her.

I stood in the dark, moldy storage closet, the tracking band humming a low, steady rhythm against my skin. I would not put on whatever dress they deemed proper. I would not play the part of the obedient, broken daughter returning to the fold. The stubbornness solidified in my chest, hardening into an impenetrable layer of armor. I would walk into that banquet hall exactly as I was.