Content. Such a simple word for something so complex.
"It was like..." I struggle to find words for something beyond human experience. "Like being a piano that had been tuned perfectly. Every note clear and true and exactly what it was meant to be."
"And now?"
"Now I'm out of tune. Every song sounds wrong." I touch the scar at my throat, feeling the faint echo of connection that will never fully fade. "I knew exactly what I was for, what I was meant to do. There was no confusion, no uncertainty. Just... purpose."
Vivienne is quiet for a long moment, absorbing this. "That sounds beautiful," she says finally. "And terrifying."
"It was both." The honesty surprises me. "I was happier than I'd ever been in my life. And I wasn't myself anymore."
"Which matters more?"
I don't have an answer for that. Don't know if happiness can justify the loss of self, or if being yourself is worth eternal dissatisfaction.
Day forty-eight brings a revelation that changes everything.
I'm in the garden, trying to tend the roses with hands that keep leaving frost on everything I touch, when a carriage arrives. Two women emerge, and my heart sinks as I recognize what they are.
Omegas. Claimed and marked and perfectly empty.
The first introduces herself as Lady Margaret Thornfield, claimed by the Shadow Court. She moves with inhuman grace, her dark hair gleaming with silver threads, her eyes reflecting depths that seem to hold nothing at all.
Her companion is Miss Eleanor Ravencroft from the Stone Court, equally beautiful and equally hollow. They glide through Father's house like they're floating, leaving no trace of their passage except the faint scent of otherworldly magic.
"We heard one of our sisters had come home," Margaret says, her voice like honey over ice. "We wanted to offer our support."
"Your support?" I study their faces, looking for any spark of the women they used to be.
"You're suffering unnecessarily," Eleanor explains with a sad smile. "We understand the pain you're experiencing. The emptiness, the wrongness of being apart from your alpha."
"I chose this."
"Did you?" Margaret tilts her head with childlike curiosity. "Or did you choose the lesser of two impossible options?"
The question hits too close to home. "I chose freedom."
"Freedom is just another word for having no purpose," Eleanor says gently. "For being unwanted. Unneeded."
"I fought Lord Blackthorne for months," Margaret adds, settling gracefully onto the garden bench. "Ran twice. Each time, the separation nearly killed me. Each time, I returned weaker, more grateful when he allowed me back."
"Eventually, you realize that resistance is just choosing pain over peace," Eleanor agrees. "Why suffer when contentment is offered freely?"
"Because contentment built on surrender isn't real," I say, though the words feel hollow even as I speak them.
"Isn't it?" Margaret's empty eyes fix on mine. "What makes happiness less real because of how it's achieved? If you're content, if you're fulfilled, if you have purpose—does the method matter?"
I can't answer that. Can't explain why it should matter when the preservation magic keeps whispering how perfect I felt when I stopped fighting.
"You'll return," Eleanor says with absolute certainty. "They always do. The bond won't let you die, but it will make you wish you could."
"And Lord Aratus will take you back," Margaret adds. "Because omegas who run and return are always more grateful. More willing to trade independence for the mercy of being owned."
They leave me with that thought, flowing out of the garden like beautiful ghosts carrying prophecies I don't want to believe.
That night, I lie awake thinking about their words. About happiness and purpose and the price of both.
Day forty-nine, everything human feels wrong.
