The School Uniform

Wren's POV

I stood in the center of the cramped, windowless storeroom I was supposed to call home.

My previous resolve held firm. I refused to wear whatever degrading costume they had prepared for me. I refused to play the role of the broken, compliant daughter for their audience. But as I caught a whiff of my own clothes, the harsh reality settled over me. The cheap denim and faded T-shirt didn't just look worn; they carried the sour, metallic stench of the werewolf penitentiary. Sweat, fear, and damp concrete. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of smelling the prison on me. I needed something clean. Not to please them, but to retain my own dignity.

I turned toward a battered cardboard box shoved into the darkest corner of the room. It was the only piece of luggage that had survived my transition from the main house to this storage closet three years before my arrest. I knelt on the dusty floorboards, my knees protesting the hard surface, and pulled the flaps open.

Inside, beneath a layer of old notebooks, lay a neatly folded piece of fabric.

A blue-and-white high school uniform.

My fingers brushed the crisp collar. It was the only clean outfit I had left in this entire estate. The fabric felt cool against my calloused skin.

Daphne’s high-class elegance was a manufactured illusion. It was bought and paid for by the Grimjaw Pack’s endless wealth, their status, their unyielding privilege. They poured millions into her wardrobe, her etiquette lessons, her skin treatments. They sculpted her into the perfect Luna-in-training.

Me? I was left with absolutely nothing.

The Grimjaw Pack never offered me their love. They never offered me their resources, their time, or their support. I was their blood, but they treated me like an unwanted stray they had been forced to take in. Yet, whenever I failed to measure up to their impossible standards, whenever I wasn't graceful enough or refined enough, the blame fell squarely on my shoulders. They brought me back into their massive estate, gave me a room, and fed me, but they never brought me into their hearts.

Staring at the uniform, a bitter realization settled in my chest. My only purpose in this house was to serve as a contrast. I was the dark, unloved shadow meant to make Daphne—the impostor, the adopted darling—appear even more radiant and perfect. They say the unloved child is always the outsider. In the Grimjaw pack, that title fit me flawlessly.

I pulled the faded T-shirt over my head and tossed it aside, reaching for the uniform.

As I slipped the blue-and-white fabric over my shoulders, the memories hit me with the force of a physical blow. It was the exact same uniform I wore five years ago.

The day my life ended.

I closed my eyes and let the memory play out. Five years ago, I had sprinted up the grand driveway of this very estate, my heart hammering against my ribs with pure joy. I held an acceptance letter from the country's top university in my hand. I had earned it. Through sleepless nights, relentless studying, and ignoring the sneers of my pack members, I had clawed my way to the top. I thought that piece of paper would finally earn me a nod of approval from my parents. I thought it would be my ticket to respect.

Instead of celebrating my achievement, I walked into a mansion dripping in gold and crystal.

The Grimjaw couple had thrown a lavish send-off party. Not for me. For Daphne.

She was heading off to some elite private academy, and the entire city's upper crust had been invited to celebrate her departure. I remembered standing on the edge of the grand ballroom, clutching my acceptance letter, wearing this exact same uniform. I remembered watching Daphne glide across the marble floor. She wore a million-dollar designer gown that shimmered like liquid silver. A diamond tiara rested perfectly in her styled hair. She smiled at the cameras, laughing with the Alphas and Lunas of neighboring packs, looking exactly like the fairytale princess she always pretended to be.

I stood in the shadows, an afterthought in plain clothes.

Then, the flashing red and blue lights cut through the tall glass windows. The police arrived.

They didn't come for the food or the celebration. They came for me.

I watched the entire scene fall apart around me. The music stopped. The murmurs erupted. The officers marched straight toward me, their faces hard and unreadable. They twisted my arms behind my back and slapped cold steel handcuffs around my wrists. The click of the lock echoed in my ears, louder than the symphony playing just moments before.

That night should have been my beginning. It should have been the moment I proved my worth. Instead, the police led me away through a sea of disgusted faces, marking the end of my freedom, my reputation, and everything I thought I knew.

I opened my eyes, shaking the ghost of the handcuffs from my wrists.

I adjusted the collar of the uniform. It hung a little looser on my frame now. Five years of prison food had stripped away whatever softness I used to have. I smoothed down the pleated skirt, took a deep breath of the stale closet air, and pushed the door open.

Five minutes later, I made my way down the long, winding corridors of the Grimjaw estate, heading toward the grand ballroom.

The transition from the servant's wing to the main house was jarring. The worn wooden floorboards gave way to plush, crimson carpets. The dim, flickering bulbs were replaced by golden sconces that cast a warm, expensive glow against the silk-lined walls. The scent of mold faded, replaced by the aroma of roasted meats, expensive champagne, and rich perfumes.

Servants bustled past me, carrying silver platters of hors d'oeuvres and towering stacks of crystal champagne flutes.

They didn't recognize me at first. How could they? I had been a ghost in this house long before I became a prisoner.

They threw confused, sideways glances at my blue-and-white uniform.

"Who's that girl?" a young maid whispered to her companion, pausing near a marble pillar. "Why is she dressed like a schoolkid?"

"Probably some part-time server from the hotel," the other replied, her tone dripping with casual disdain. "Looks like a summer job. The agency must have run out of staff."

"Mr. and Mrs. Thorne really went all out for Miss Daphne tonight," the first maid sighed dreamily, rearranging the napkins on her tray. "They even hired the Crown Hotel's head chef. I saw the ice sculptures in the dining hall."

"Yeah, they really adore her. She deserves it, though. Such a sweet girl."

Their words grated against my ears, familiar and suffocating. Daphne the sweet. Daphne the beloved. Daphne the perfect.

I kept walking, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead.

One of the senior maids, a woman with graying hair and a sharp, pinched face, stopped directly in my path. Her eyes swept up and down my uniform, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

"You," she snapped, pointing a finger at my chest. "You'd better change into the proper uniform right now. I don't care if you're a temp. The guests out there are important. Do not embarrass the household."

She didn't wait for a response. She simply turned on her heel and marched away, tossing orders at another group of passing waiters.

She spoke to me as if I were invisible. As if I were nothing more than an incompetent hire ruining the aesthetic of her perfect evening.

I stood still in the middle of the grand hallway. The heavy double doors of the ballroom loomed just fifty feet away. I could hear the muffled sound of a string quartet playing a lively waltz. I could hear the clinking of glasses and the low, rumbling laughter of powerful wolves.

Torin told me this was a welcome-back dinner. A family affair to mark my return from prison. He deliberately omitted the fact that they had invited outsiders.

I stared at the intricate gold leaf patterns on the ballroom doors. The truth crashed into me like a wave of ice water.

This wasn't meant to honor me. This wasn't a tentative olive branch or a quiet family dinner to mend broken bonds.

This was a massive party for the city's elite.

Was this just another twisted way to parade my shame?

Five years ago, they watched the police slap cuffs on my wrists and drag me out of this very room. They arrested me in front of the city's highest society. Now, my family wanted to welcome me back in front of those exact same people? They wanted to march the ex-convict out into the spotlight, forcing me to lower my head and play the grateful, repentant sinner while Daphne soaked up their sympathy.

The superficiality of it all turned my stomach. They didn't want a daughter. They wanted a spectacle.

I wouldn't give it to them. I wouldn't be their circus animal.

My jaw tightened. I spun on my heel, ready to march right back to that moldy storage room and lock the door.

I turned to leave.

But Torin appeared at the exact opposite end of the hall.

He stood tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharp, tailored tuxedo that probably cost more than a year's rent in the city. His dark hair was slicked back flawlessly. He looked every bit the powerful, respected heir of the Grimjaw Pack.

His eyes locked onto me. I saw the exact moment recognition hit him.

His handsome features twisted into a mask of pure, unfiltered disgust.

He closed the distance between us in heavy, aggressive strides, his dress shoes clicking sharply against the polished marble floor.

"I told you to change," he barked, his voice a harsh, guttural growl that reverberated off the hallway walls. Several passing servants flinched and hurried away, not daring to witness the young master's wrath.

He stopped mere inches from me, his presence looming and oppressive. "What the hell are you wearing?"

I met his furious gaze without blinking.

"Do you even understand what kind of event this is?" he demanded, gesturing wildly toward the closed ballroom doors. "Half the ruling Alphas in the southern territory are in there. The mayor is in there. Elite pack members from across the state."

I opened my mouth to respond, to tell him I was leaving, but he cut me off before a single sound could leave my throat.

"You came out of prison looking like a damn disaster, and now you want to stand here looking pitiful again?" His voice dripped with venom. He leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing into dark slits. "Trying to make people pity you? Trying to paint us as monsters who neglect their own blood? Wren, you're disgusting. Five years in a cell and you haven't changed one bit. You're still playing the same manipulative games."

His hand shot out, his fingers curling into a vice-like grip as he reached to grab my arm.

Five years ago, I would have let him. I would have stood there and taken the pain, desperate for any physical contact, any sign that my brother actually saw me.

Not today.

I shifted my weight and took a swift, precise step backward, slipping smoothly out of his reach.

His hand grabbed empty air. He missed.

Torin froze. He stared at his empty hand for a fraction of a second before his head snapped up. His jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grinding together.

"You're seriously dodging me now?" he sneered, disbelief warring with anger in his tone.

I looked him dead in the eye. I stared into that same hateful, disgusted glare I had endured for three agonizing years before my arrest. Back then, that look tore me apart from the inside out. It kept me awake at night, wondering what was so fundamentally wrong with me that my own family despised my existence.

Now, staring at his flushed, angry face, I felt nothing. The gaping wound in my chest where my love for them used to reside felt hollow. It felt dead.

"I don't have a dress," I said calmly, my voice steady and devoid of the raw emotion he clearly expected.

Torin scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Then buy one!" he snapped, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

"I have no money."

Torin's face flushed a deep, angry red. The veins in his neck bulged against his crisp white collar.

"Are you out of your mind?" he roared, losing whatever shred of composure he had left. "You lived under this roof for three years! We gave you everything. We put a roof over your head, we put food on your plate, we put clothes on your back. You were treated like a daughter of this house!"

I stared at him, my expression unreadable. Treated like a daughter? Shoved in a windowless storage closet while Daphne lived in a custom suite with silk drapes and imported furniture.

"You got half a million credits transferred directly into your personal account every single month," Torin continued, his voice echoing down the empty hall. "For three years! Do the math, Wren. That's eighteen million credits in total! Eighteen million! Don't you dare stand there and tell me you couldn't afford a damn dress for one night."

He glared at me, panting slightly, expecting me to cower. He expected me to break down, to admit I was hoarding the wealth just to spite them.

I didn't flinch. I didn't take a step back. I held my ground and met his fury with cold, hard truth.

"I never got a single cent."

Torin stopped. He stared at me, his chest heaving. A cruel, mocking smile slowly spread across his face.

"Liar," he sneered, shaking his head. "You really think I'm that stupid? You think I won't prove it right here, right now?"

He dug into his tuxedo pocket and pulled out his sleek, expensive phone. His thumbs flew across the screen, pulling up the internal pack directory. He found the number for the estate's finance department and hit dial.

He pressed the screen again, turning the volume all the way up.

"You're on speaker," Torin said, his voice dripping with arrogant certainty as the line connected. He locked his eyes on mine, eager to watch me burn. "Tell me how much we transferred into Wren's account each month."