Chapter 2

Scarlett POV

The next morning, I was woken by noise downstairs.

Jackson was back.

He'd brought Phoebe and Thomas with him.

I stood at the top of the stairs, watching the cozy scene in the living room.

Phoebe wore Jackson's shirt, its oversized hem covering her thighs, making her look small and delicate.

She sat on the sofa, a mug of warm milk in her hands.

Thomas nestled in her lap, mouth open, waiting for her to feed him.

Jackson sat next to them, cutting fruit. His knife skills weren't great; the peel broke several times.

But he was patient.

Before, if I wanted fruit, he'd just frown and say, "Cut it yourself. I'm not your servant."

"Scarlett's awake?"

Phoebe noticed me first.

She started to stand, but Jackson pressed his hand to her shoulder.

"Sit still. The doctor said you're weak, don't move around."

Jackson's voice was deep. When he turned to me, it immediately turned cold.

"Since you're awake, come down and make breakfast. Lena's off today, and Phoebe wants your seafood chowder."

My fingers tightened on the railing, knuckles white.

Seafood chowder.

Everyone in the Pack knew Phoebe was allergic to seafood.

Was he testing me, or trying to humiliate me?

Or perhaps, between me and Phoebe, he simply forgot who had the allergy.

"She's allergic to seafood," I said blandly.

Jackson's hand, cutting fruit, paused. The knife blade nicked his thumb.

A bead of blood welled up.

Phoebe gasped, quickly taking his hand and putting it to her lips.

Jackson didn't pull away. Instead, he looked at her with tender eyes.

"Phoebe, you're so thoughtful."

Then, he looked up at me, his eyes filled with blame. "So you got it wrong. No need for excuses. You weren't this forgetful before."

Before?

How did I live before?

Every meal, I had to cater to everyone's tastes.

Jackson didn't eat garlic; Thomas wouldn't touch carrots or bell peppers.

If even a hint of something they disliked appeared in a dish, the entire spread would be dumped directly into the trash.

I remembered everyone's preferences, yet no one remembered I didn't eat cilantro.

"Maybe I got it wrong."

I didn't argue, turning to enter the kitchen.

If he wanted his darling to drink seafood soup, I'd make it.

Cleaning the lobster, chopping onions, simmering the broth.

I performed each step methodically.

The kitchen's glass door wasn't fully closed.

Fragments of conversation drifted in from the living room.

"Jackson, is Scarlett angry?"

It was Phoebe's voice, laced with a hint of grievance. "Maybe I should move out. I'm not as clingy as Thomas, it's fine."

"This is my home, and it's your home. Stay as long as you like."

Jackson's voice was firm. "As for her, don't worry about it. Taking care of pack members is the Luna's responsibility. Just ignore her."

"But..."

"No buts. Thomas can't be without you. Look at him this morning, has he asked for Scarlett even once?"

Thomas's childish voice followed immediately: "I don't want that bad woman! I want Phoebe to be my mom!"

Whoosh—

I turned the faucet to full blast.

The water rushed over the cold ceramic bowl, washing away those grating voices.

I looked down at the sink.

A blank face stared back from the reflection.

Before, hearing these words would have made me sad. I would have cried all night, buried under my blankets.

I would have wondered if I wasn't good enough, not gentle or considerate enough.

But now, my heart was surprisingly calm.

It was like watching a clumsy performance.

Only laughable.

Half an hour later, I carried the steaming soup pot out of the kitchen.

Jackson was leaning over, feeding Phoebe freshly cut apple slices.

Seeing me, he didn't even lift his gaze.

"Just put it down. Let it cool before serving."

I placed the soup on the dining table, said nothing, and turned to go upstairs.

"Stop."

Jackson called out.

He put down the apple, pulled a napkin to wipe his hands, and said carelessly, "Clear out your fragrance lab. Phoebe wants to use it for yoga."

My steps froze.

That fragrance lab was my only private space in this house.

It held my unfinished perfumes.

That was my red line.

"There's a gym downstairs," I said.

"The gym doesn't get enough light." Jackson frowned. "Just clear it out. Why so much fuss? Your blending stuff isn't worth anything, it's just taking up space."

"Blending stuff."

That was my passion.

It was the only thing that proved I was once a werewolf warrior with exceptional herbal talent, not just a nanny.

But in the eyes of this powerful Alpha, it was just space-wasting trash.

"Got it."

I heard myself say.

No argument, no hysteria.

Jackson seemed somewhat surprised by my obedience, but he didn't dwell on it. He just waved me away.

I went back to my room and pulled out a large black trash bag.

Entering the fragrance lab.

The bottle of perfume I'd spent three months blending, named "Deep Sea," stood silently on the workbench.

I picked it up.

I slammed the bottle to the floor.

Glass shattered, a jarring sound.

My carefully blended essential oils flowed across the floor, and the scent of herbs instantly permeated the air.

I scooped the shards into the trash bag, along with the essential oils, measuring cups, and droppers.

Everything was cleaned up.

It took less than ten minutes.

The once-full room became instantly empty.

Only a faint, lingering mixed scent remained in the air.

There was no trace of Scarlett left here.

Just like in this house.