Chapter 71

Hannah

I plucked the fork up from the plate, taking a deep breath before gingerly spearing one of the thick layers of the decadent chocolate cake. My fingers trembled ever so slightly as I lifted the bite to my lips… and forced myself to eat it.

The rich, creamy buttercream frosting melted on my tongue almost instantly, coating the insides of my mouth with sweetness. I closed my eyes, swallowing hard. It tasted incredible—easily the best cake I’d ever eaten, or at least in a very long time.

Honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time I even had cake.

But as the initial burst of flavor faded, an uncomfortable fullness settled in the pit of my stomach like a lead weight, and I found myself setting the fork back down on the paper plate. My appetite, it seemed, had abandoned me completely.

It wasn’t just me, though. I swept my gaze around the small circle of folding chairs positioned haphazardly about the cramped community room, taking in the sight of my fellow group members.

Plates of mostly-uneaten cake sat balanced precariously on laps and armrests, a few crumbs or smears of vanilla frosting the only evidence of consumption. Most of them hadn’t even touched the cake.

It was ironic, really—to bring a chocolate cake to an eating disorder support group. What would one expect by doing something like that? Of course it would go largely uneaten. Of course…

My gaze then shifted over to the woman who had brought it; the birthday girl.

Right. It was her birthday, I reminded myself—the petite woman with the bright purple streak in her hair who always showed up early to help set up the chairs and chat with the others. Georgia, I think her name was. She had been here the longest.

Today, she had made an actual homemade cake for her own birthday, layers of moist chocolate separated by thick smears of sweet vanilla buttercream, all adorned with a sprinkling of fresh raspberries.

It was a beautiful cake, really. She was talented.

When Georgia had unveiled the cake and invited us all to dig in, she had been practically vibrating with excitement—beaming like a kid bringing cupcakes in for their classmates to share. For a moment, it had seemed like she was just a normal person celebrating her birthday with friends, not a recovering anorexic reaching a milestone.

But now, she was standing next to the wall, her smile fading more and more as she saw the other attendees hardly touching the beautiful cake she had put so much effort into.

And then her eyes landed on me. On her Luna.

And her smile disappeared completely.

I shifted my gaze guiltily to the slice on my plate, which one had one bite missing, then back up to Georgia. Her eyebrows pinched together, gaze dropping to her lap. For a moment, I could practically see the hope dying in her eyes.

Today was her birthday, and no one wanted her cake.

My throat tightened as I imagined pouring my heart and soul into something like this, carefully measuring and mixing and frosting, for it to go unappreciated. I thought about the countless hours she must have spent scouring recipes, shopping for the perfect ingredients, preparing and baking and decorating it, only to have it mostly ignored by the very people she had made it for.

I couldn’t bear it any longer.

I lifted the fork with a renewed sense of determination, spearing a bite that contained all three layers and a few berries. I shoved it into my mouth, barely chewing before swallowing it down.

The richness was almost overwhelming, the bittersweet notes of dark chocolate lingering heavily on my sugar-deprived tongue. Goddess, I used to love chocolate—but it had been so long since I had had any proper sweets that even the smallest amount of sugar made me feel like I was on crack.

But I simply speared another bite as soon as I had washed down the first, letting out an audible sound of enjoyment loud enough for the entire room to hear.

“Oh my. This cake is so good,” I declared loudly, shooting Georgia an encouraging smile. “Seriously—great job. You did an amazing job with this.”

Georgia’s head jerked up at the sound of my voice, surprise and excitement registering on her face. I continued eating with exaggeration, cramming bite after bite into my mouth before pausing to praise her baking skills with a full mouth.

“The frosting is just perfect,” I said around the cake in my mouth. “And those berries… what a nice touch. You must have bought them this morning.”

Slowly but surely, I started to see movement in my peripheral vision. First one person, then another began following my lead and sampling their slices. More murmurs and noises of enjoyment filled the room, punctuated by laughter and chatter, until eventually Georgia was beaming once again.

At one point, she crossed the circle to settle into the seat beside me, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. I offered her a smile. “Happy birthday—”

“Thank you. For doing that,” she whispered before I could finish, her lower lip trembling along with her voice. “Thank you, Luna Hannah.”

I paused, taken aback by the sincerity in her tone. All I had done was eat some cake, and try to encourage others to do the same.

“It’s… Delicious cake,” I muttered. “It would be a shame to see it go to waste.”

But Georgia simply smiled knowingly, shaking her head at me. “I know what you were doing: setting an example. You didn’t have to, but you did. And I’m glad that our very own Luna is a part of this group. It means a lot more to all of us than you realize.”

I paused, unsure of what to say. Maybe the birthday girl was right—maybe it was helpful to the others to have their Luna attend a group like this. I just hoped that, when I eventually divorced Noah and returned to my own pack in the next two months, these women would continue to feel bolstered by the time I spent here.

But more than that, it felt worth it to lift someone else’s spirits. To make them feel accepted. Understood.

That was what this group was all about.

When the meeting concluded, I felt lighter than I had in a long time as I made my way out to the parking lot, the chocolatey sweetness of Georgia’s cake still lingering on my tongue.

I was still smiling to myself as I let myself into the mansion, calling out for my servant to draw me a bath as I slipped off my jacket and my shoes. But the sound of low voices gave me pause, and I froze as I rounded the corner into the living room.

There, on the sofa, sat Noah and two strangers I didn’t recognize—a man and a woman, both wearing matching uniforms. They had large bags by their feet with the name of what looked like some sort of spa embossed on the sides. And they seemed to be waiting.

Noah glanced up sharply as I appeared in the doorway, the corners of his lips twitching upwards in a cold, thin smile.

“Good,” he said, checking his watch. “You’re finally home.”