Chapter 18

Rain always stops eventually.

I sat in the sunroom, my brush sweeping golden wheatfields across the canvas. Outside, Oliver trimmed olive trees, humming an off-key Italian folk tune.

My brush froze mid-stroke.

[The trial's started!]

[Say what you want, but Dominic went after Aurora for Clara!]

[How long's that evidence gonna put him away for? I'm freaking out!]

Comments swarmed my vision like locusts. I closed my eyes, dipped my brush in turpentine, and cleaned it with steady hands.

"You okay?" Oliver stepped inside, dirt smudged on his hands.

I shook my head, but then his tablet on the table pinged with a news alert.

"Prominent entrepreneur Dominic faces trial today for aggravated assault…"

Oliver shut it off quick, but I'd already glimpsed him—Dominic in a gray prison jumpsuit, dark circles under his eyes, his once-perfect hair a mess.

"Want to follow the updates?" Oliver asked softly.

My brush paused on the palette. "No need."

At the trial, the prosecutor hit play. Aurora's screams erupted from the recording—"Please! I'm sorry…"—punctuated by sharp slaps. Jurors winced; one she-wolf covered her ears.

"This was recorded in the defendant's villa basement," the prosecutor said coldly. "Medical reports confirm the victim endured twelve days of illegal detention and systematic abuse."

Dominic's lawyer jumped in. "My client acted out of emotional distress, triggered by the victim's prolonged psychological abuse of Clara…"

The judge's gavel cracked. "Defendant, do you admit to the charges?"

All eyes turned to Dominic. He looked up, a faint smile curling his lips. The gallery erupted in murmurs; the prosecutor's brow furrowed.

He ignored them, muttering to himself. "She likes honey water in the mornings, bites her lip when she paints, her knees ache in the rain…"

"Defendant!" The gavel slammed again.

"I'm guilty," Dominic said abruptly. "All charges. Guilty."

On sentencing day, snow fell outside. I wrapped myself in a wool shawl, watching Oliver roast chestnuts by the fireplace. The TV droned in the background.

"…sentenced to three years. Hale Business stock plummeted 15% today, a record low…"

[Clara, how can you just sit there? He did it for you!]

[Go back and save him!]

[No offense, but isn't Clara being a bit heartless?]

The comments went wild. I grabbed the remote and killed the TV. The firelight danced on my face, catching a flicker of something in my eyes.

Three days later, a letter with no sender sat in the mailbox. Oliver held it up. "Wanna read it?"

I tossed onions into a sizzling pan, the sharp sting filling the air. "Burn it."

He crouched by the fireplace, feeding the envelope to the flames. As it curled and blackened, I caught a glimpse of the opening line: "Clara, I learned to make your favorite tiramisu…"

Meanwhile, in the prison visiting room, Dominic stared at his assistant. "Did she… get the letter?"

The assistant hesitated, then shook her head.

Snow fell harder outside. Dominic pressed his forehead to the cold glass, remembering a she-wolf years ago, standing outside his dorm with breakfast, her eyes bright with light.

Now, that light was out of his reach forever.

When the guard came, the once-powerful wolf's shoulders were shaking. No one heard the sob lost in the winter wind.