My father hated me for ten years. He blamed me for my mother’s disappearance. He hated that my face bore no resemblance to hers. He adopted a girl who looked almost exactly like her — eight out of ten, people said — and spoiled her rotten. He took her on trips around the world, brought her to Ice-Moon Pack gatherings, paraded her on talk shows, and announced to every werewolf in the territory that she was his one and only daughter. Meanwhile, I wore ill-fitting hand-me-downs and slept in the servants’ quarters. He let her bully me, slander me, push me — a girl who couldn’t swim — into Moonlight Lake. He said I deserved it. And I believed him. Until the day I turned sixteen. That was the day Mom came back. ———- Three days from now was my sixteenth birthday. Every year, on that same day, Father threw a birthday banquet — for Vivienne Hartwell. Every single classmate had received Vivienne’s birthday invitation. Every one of them except me. “Rosalind, don’t take it personally,” Vivienne said, drifting up to my desk with practiced sympathy. “It was probably the butler’s mistake. He must have miscounted and missed one.” She stood there, her face a mask of apologetic innocence. I kept my head down, working through my problem sets without so much as a glance in her direction. I’d had nearly ten years to study Vivienne’s tricks. I’d long since stopped being surprised by any of them. “Vivienne, why are you even explaining yourself to her?” A classmate shot to her feet, indignant on Vivienne’s behalf. “You’re too kind, that’s the problem. That’s why she keeps walking all over you.” “Exactly!” another chimed in. “She’s a servant’s daughter, freeloading under your roof, eating your family’s food, going to school on your father’s money — and instead of being grateful, she steals from you. Anyone else would have thrown her out by now.” “She’s nothing but an ungrateful little snake!” “She’s just jealous, Vivienne. Jealous of your family name, your grades, your popularity.” “Better she doesn’t come at all. Last thing we need is for her to ruin a perfectly good birthday party.” “She lives at Hartwell Manor anyway — she doesn’t need an invitation. On the mistress’s birthday, shouldn’t the help be there to serve?” Laughter rippled through the room. Vivienne waited until they’d had their fill, then spoke in her soft, unhurried way. “Oh, please — I wouldn’t ask Rosalind to do that. Other days, maybe, but that day is her birthday too.” She tilted her head, an artful little frown playing at her lips. “Rosalind, I’m so sorry. I did want to invite you to cut the cake with me. But Father said no. Can’t exactly blame him, can we, after what you did? It’s only natural he doesn’t want you there.” I picked up my pen and threw it directly at her face. “Get out.” —
Ten years ago, my mother disappeared. She had gone to pick up the birthday gift she’d ordered for me — a gift I had begged and pleaded for — and she never came home. Father searched for her like a man possessed. He turned the territory upside down. He found nothing. I cried for her every day. Mom had raised me like a little queen. All my life, one cry from me had been enough to make the world bend in my direction. One afternoon, the nanny couldn’t settle me down and brought me to Father as a last resort. He stared at me for a long moment with something cold and dark in his eyes. Then he kicked me away. “Get out of my sight.” “How dare you cry. How dare you.” “If you hadn’t thrown your tantrum about that birthday gift, your mother would never have gone out. This is your fault.” “Don’t let me see your face again. Go.” From that day on, the little princess who had been cradled in her mother’s arms became a burden no one wanted. Whether I ate depended on the nanny’s mood. And then Father brought home a girl from the orphanage. A girl who looked like Mom. He gave her my bedroom. He gave her my princess dresses. He gave her my birthday. He gave her my identity. While he filmed a family reality show with her at age six, I was back at the manor being mistreated by the nanny, eating soured leftovers. The day he publicly announced that Vivienne Hartwell was his only daughter, I understood: I had lost my father. —
After school, I came home bleeding. Vivienne was wildly popular. The moment I’d thrown the pen at her, a boy in our class had leapt up and shoved me into a desk. My forehead caught the corner of it, and as I lay there on the floor, I looked up at a room full of faces — cold, amused, utterly indifferent. From elementary school through high school, I had never had a single friend. Vivienne had seen to that, cheerfully orchestrating my social exile year after year. I wasn’t afraid of being isolated. What I was afraid of was the teacher’s demand: a parent had to come to school by Monday. The boy’s parents arrived that same afternoon, all fierce defense and wounded pride. “My son was standing up for what was right — everyone saw it. She threw the pen first.” “Baby, are you hurt? Let me look at you.” “A girl this unstable shouldn’t be allowed in school. Who knows what she’ll do next time?” I stood there with blood drying on my face and thought: if Mom were still here, she’d fight for me like this. She wouldn’t do what Father did — check Vivienne’s face for scratches while waving me away with a look of disgust. —
“You knew Vivienne had a filming session today, and you still had to go and mark up her face.” “Rosalind Hartwell, your mother was one of the kindest souls I’ve ever known. How did she produce something like you? Sometimes I wonder if you’re even hers.” “Haven’t you done enough damage to your mother already? Now you want to destroy Vivienne too?” I studied my father’s face. That look of revulsion — I’d been watching it for ten years. He hadn’t always looked at me that way. When Mom was alive, he loved me. He grieved sometimes that I didn’t resemble her the way he wished I did, but he poured himself into being my father all the same. He named me Rosalind. Said I was Hartwell’s most precious jewel. He bought me beautiful dresses and fine jewelry. On my fifth birthday, he gave me an estate. When a classmate shoved me on the playground, he was furious — he summoned the child’s family to apologize in person and hired three different coaches to teach me self-defense. “If someone hurts you,” he told me, “you hit back. I don’t care who it is.” “No matter what happens,” he promised, “your father and mother will always have your back.” The man who had made that promise was now standing in front of me, demanding to know why I had hurt *his* Vivienne. “Go to your room and think about what you’ve done. You don’t leave until I say so.” Not once, through any of it, did he look at the wound on my forehead. Not once did I find the courage to tell him what the teacher had said. He wouldn’t come to school for me. In all these years, he had only ever attended parents’ meetings for Vivienne. —
By the time they let me out the next morning, my wound had gone septic. I pushed open my door to find the main hall full of cameras — lighting rigs, production crew, a host and her assistants arranged around Father and Vivienne in the sitting room. The tenderness on Father’s face was something I hadn’t seen directed at anyone in ten years. Host: “As the Alpha of Ice-Moon Pack, you must have very little time to spend with your daughter. How have you managed to raise such a remarkable young woman?” Father: “She’s just naturally good. I only have the one daughter, and no matter how busy I get, I always make time for her.” Vivienne snuggled into his arm and pouted prettily. “My daddy is the best daddy in the whole world. I just wish he had even more time for me! Daddy, we haven’t gone abroad at all this year!” Father laughed, indulgent and a little helpless. “Alright, alright. After your birthday, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” I blinked. My chest felt hollow. I had seen this scene so many times that it barely cut anymore. Not much, anyway. But I couldn’t help it. My mind drifted back — ten years, to when Mom was still here. I had been the one tucked under her arm, making ridiculous little demands, testing the limits of how much she would give me. The answer was always: everything. She’d had a moonstone necklace she’d worn for as long as I could remember. I mentioned once that I liked it, and she took it off and fastened it around my neck without a second’s hesitation. “Take good care of this, my Rosalind. It belonged to your grandmother. I’ve worn it for so many years.” She had stroked my hair as she said it, and there had been something in her eyes I was too young to understand — a grief and a longing I couldn’t name. On the other side of the room, the host’s voice shifted. “Vivienne, do you think about your mother often? The late Mrs. Hartwell was known throughout the pack as the perfect Luna. We’ve heard that Vivienne hopes to attend the Luna Academy — is that ambition inspired by her mother’s legacy?” The air in the room tightened. Mom’s name was a forbidden thing in Father’s house. Normally, a question like that would have made him explode. But today was different. Today was Vivienne’s first public appearance since her wolf had awakened. She had emerged as a low-ranking Omega, and Father was already laying the groundwork to position her as a future Luna — hoping that status, carefully cultivated, might one day attract a powerful mate. Vivienne’s expression fell into practiced sorrow. “I miss my mother every single day. I want to be a Luna who truly cares for the members of this pack — partly because I want to become someone as perfect and capable as she was.” She reached into her collar and drew out a necklace. “This is the only thing she left me. Whenever I’m sad, I take it out and hold it, and I feel like she’s still with me.” The moment I saw it, something detonated in my chest. That was my necklace. My mother’s necklace. The one she had given me. Vivienne had taken everything from me over these ten years. That necklace was the last thing I had left. I crossed the room in four steps and tore it from her hands. —
“Rosalind Hartwell!” Father’s face darkened instantly. “Who gave you permission to come out here?” “Rosalind?” Vivienne stood, confusion arranged perfectly across her features. “What’s going on? Are you alright?” “When did you steal it, Vivienne?” I checked the box where I kept the necklace every night before I slept. Last night, it had still been there. Through every year they’d refused to care about me, that necklace had been the one thing that kept me from drowning. It was proof that someone had once loved me. Proof that my mother had been real. “Steal? I — what?” Vivienne’s eyes went wide with theatrical innocence. “Rosalind, that is enough.” Father’s jaw was tight. “This is Vivienne’s interview.” “I don’t care about any interview! This necklace belonged to my mother and she gave it to me. What gives her the right to take it? She’s already taken everything else — wasn’t that enough?” “And another thing — my mother is not dead. Watch your mouth, Vivienne. This is not a keepsake. It is not a relic.” The host looked between us uncertainly. “Is this…?” Vivienne shot Father a panicked glance. Father’s expression settled into something smooth and cold. “A servant’s relative. She lives on the grounds.” I gripped the necklace until the chain bit into my palm. The cold started somewhere at the base of my spine and spread upward. Father had told the world long ago that he had only one daughter. Vivienne had spent years at school calling me the nanny’s child. But this was the first time he had said it to my face, out loud, with cameras rolling. The panic drained from Vivienne’s expression. Satisfaction replaced it. She moved while I was still reeling, and snatched the necklace from my hand. “Rosalind, I think you’re confused. This isn’t yours.” “If there’s something else you’d like — anything else, no matter the cost — just tell me and I’ll give it to you. But this necklace is the only thing my mother left me. I can’t let it go.” The crew watched me with poorly concealed contempt. A servant’s child, crashing a live broadcast to steal from the young mistress. The math wasn’t hard for them. Someone muttered: “She’s doing it on purpose. Wants the drama. Wants to go viral.” I didn’t have the energy to care what any of them thought. I only wanted the necklace back. “Give it back. It’s the last thing she gave me. Give it back.” Vivienne let me grab her wrist — then opened her fingers. The necklace fell. The moonstone pendant struck the marble floor and shattered into pieces. I stumbled. My mind went perfectly blank. The last thing my mother had ever given me. Gone. “Now are you satisfied? Get out.” Father’s voice was barely controlled fury, his eyes like he wanted to tear me apart. Vivienne pressed a hand to her mouth, tears welling. “Rosalind — how could you?” The crew murmured their disapproval. I heard none of it. I was already on my knees, gathering the fragments. The broken edges sliced my fingertips. My tears fell onto the cuts — warm, wet, stinging. —
I became the target of everyone’s rage. The footage went out the same day. Viewers flooded in to comfort Father and Vivienne while I was dissected and denounced by thousands of strangers. Several of my classmates set themselves up as insiders and began posting exposés — claiming that the Hartwell family funded my private school tuition, that Vivienne had endured my abuse with saintly patience for years, that I was the aggressor, always had been. *Ungrateful little snake.* *This is exactly why you shouldn’t help people. They raise them up and get bitten for it.* *That necklace was moonstone — Hartwell-level quality. Where would a servant’s daughter get something like that? If her mother could afford moonstone, what was she doing working as a nanny?* *Make her pay for what she broke. That was Vivienne’s mother’s property.* *Vivienne looks so much like her mother. I used to follow Serena — seeing Vivienne cry is breaking my heart. If Serena were alive, she’d be heartbroken to see her daughter treated this way.* *Serena adored her daughter. If she knew this was happening…* Serena was my mother’s name. I read that last comment and felt a dull, deep ache. If Mom were still alive, would she grieve for me? If she came back — would she even recognize me? Would she take Vivienne’s side the way Father did? After all, it was my fault she’d disappeared. After all, I looked nothing like her. —
Vivienne’s birthday party: the whole class was invited, and they all came. They knocked on my door and shouted insults through it, rallying to Vivienne’s honor. I was locked in. Father’s orders. He hadn’t even deigned to enter the room — he’d delivered his verdict through the door. “Rosalind Hartwell, do you have any idea how much your mother would be ashamed of you? That necklace was the most precious thing she owned. It belonged to your grandmother.” “You deliberately went after Vivienne. Do you know how long she spent preparing for that broadcast?” “If your mother could see you now, she would regret ever having you.” After Father left, Vivienne let herself in with a key. “Rosalind. Tell me — when Father said out loud that you were a servant’s daughter, what did that feel like?” “You’ve got real nerve, staying in this house. You killed your mother. Father despises you. He wishes you were dead — he just hasn’t said it to your face yet.” I didn’t answer her. I looked out the window. The grounds were lit up and alive. They’d set up a venue along the edge of the artificial lake — flowers, banners, helium balloons in clusters, a champagne tower. Gift boxes were stacked in every color. The birthday cake was ten tiers high. I had seen this scene every year for ten years. It was my memory, my dream. The birthday that had been taken from me and given to someone else, in my own home, while I watched from the window. Someone called Vivienne down to cut the cake. Her face went cold. She hated being ignored. “Rosalind! I’m talking to you!” “Why didn’t you die with your mother?” She grabbed the moonstone fragments from my hand and hurled them out through the open window — into the lake. I was on my feet before I’d made any decision. I climbed the windowsill and jumped. Screams. Shouts. Cold water flooding my ears and nose. As consciousness slipped away from me, I thought I heard her voice. Mom’s voice. Calling my name. “Rosalind! Baby, I’m here!” —
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