“No, Lily has long been buried.” My voice was hoarse, barely recognizable even to my own
ears.
The words hung in the sterile air of the Silvercrest Pack Medical Den. Each syllable felt like
broken glass in my throat.
Victoria’s hand tightened around mine. Her blue eyes widened with what appeared to be
shock.
“Five years,” I continued, the admission tearing at my soul. “She’s been gone for five years, and
I didn’t know.”
The weight of this truth crushed me. My daughter had died, and I hadn’t been there. Hadn’t
known. Hadn’t mourned.
Memories flooded my mind–painful, sharp–edged fragments of a life I’d barely acknowledged.
Lily’s small face looking up at me, her emerald eyes–so like her mother’s–filled with hope
whenever I entered a room.
I remembered how she would approach me cautiously, always careful not to displease me.
Her tiny voice would tremble slightly as she greeted me.
“Hello, Father,” she would say, standing straight, trying to make herself worthy of my attention.
And what had I done? I’d barely acknowledged her. I’d been too busy with pack business, too
preoccupied with Victoria and Emma.
Emma. The thought of Victoria’s daughter sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing over me. How
many times had I showered Emma with affection while my own daughter watched from the
shadows?
I recalled a particular day at Imperial Gardens when both girls had been present. Emma had
run to me, throwing herself into my arms with complete confidence that I would catch her. I
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