Chapter 8 – The Letter and the Lie

Elena's POV

By the time I returned to Jules' penthouse, night had fully settled over the city. The lights outside blurred through the windows like stars dipped in water. The letter from the Culinary Council still rested in my bag, unopened. My hands ached to rip it open, to see the future that might be waiting, but my heart… it wasn't ready. Not yet.

As I stepped into the entryway, I paused.

Something was off.

The air smelled faintly of citrus and pine—so faint it could've been leftover cologne clinging to someone's scarf. But the moment it hit me, my chest tightened. Because that scent wasn't just anyone's. It was Damien's.

I closed the door behind me, trying to shake the feeling. It had to be memory—ghosts of him still living in my lungs. I'd imagined worse.

But then Jules appeared from the hallway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, lips pressed into a thin line.

"He was here," she said.

I didn't even have to ask who.

She let the silence hang between us before sighing. "I didn't let him in. Told him you weren't home. He looked… messed up. Like he hasn't slept in days. Said he just wanted to talk."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"He left this." Jules reached into the side table drawer and pulled out an envelope. My name was scrawled across the front in his unmistakable handwriting—sharp and slanted, like he was always rushing through life.

I didn't take it.

Not yet.

"He's not coming because he suddenly remembered who you are," Jules said, voice gentle but firm. "He's coming because the lies are cracking. Something's unraveling back there, and he doesn't know how to hold it together."

My fingers closed around the letter. I held it like it might burn me.

And still, I opened it.

Damien's words spilled out like soft rain—too little, too late.

He said he was sorry. Again. That there were "misunderstandings," that things were "complicated." That he never meant to hurt me.

But he never mentioned Vivian.

Never mentioned the council's accusation, or Catherine, or the night he let me walk away.

It was an apology dressed in vagueness—an attempt to smooth over scars without even acknowledging the wounds.

By the time I finished reading it, my hands had stopped shaking. They were steady. Calm. Cold.

I walked over to Jules' fireplace, knelt, and fed the letter to the flame.

It curled and blackened without a fight.

Jules said nothing. She just came over and sat beside me, placing a warm hand on my back.

"I need to tell you something," she whispered.

I turned to her.

"There's talk going around. From one of my cousins who works for the Beta in Blackthorn. Word is… someone at the Thorne Pack's clinic was caught falsifying pregnancy records."

My breath stopped.

"What?" I asked, barely getting the word out.

Jules nodded. "One of the healers. They're trying to keep it quiet, but apparently, it's not just one lie. They think some of Vivian's records—about her dates, about her miscarriage—don't add up."

The room tilted beneath me.

Everything that had been building, all the pain, all the betrayal, the silence from Damien—it all collided in that moment. The council's lies. Vivian's theatrics. The healer who told me I'd miscarried.

Was it all a lie?

Was my baby… still alive?

I couldn't breathe. I sat down hard on the couch, staring blankly at the window, heart hammering against my ribs.

"I don't know what to do," I whispered.

"Yes, you do," Jules said. "You've always known. You just needed something to push you."

Later that night, I pulled out a blank page. Not for Damien this time. Not for the council.

For me.

For my future.

For the chef I used to dream of becoming before I became a Luna in name only.

To the Culinary Council,

I humbly accept your invitation…

The words flowed. I didn't overthink. I didn't hold back.

When I was done, I folded the letter, sealed it, and placed it in my bag.

And I stood by the tall windows of Jules' apartment, looking out over the city. The lights shimmered like stars scattered across the ground.

I pressed a hand to my stomach.

This wasn't escape.

This was rebirth.

"I'm not running away," I whispered to myself.

"I'm running forward."