She turns her head away to stare at the ceiling, as if determined to pretend I don't exist. Meanwhile, her heart rate jumps from the seventies to over a hundred, proving she's not as unaffected as she's pretending to be.
Her words leave us in awkward silence, but my brain's going sixty miles per hour, trying to connect dots. Is there a secret birth element to this plotline, or is she just angry over Vivienne's actions since she got married?
Asking her seems like a terrible idea. The woman needs rest, not conflict.
I stand from the chair, scooting it back with my legs to give me a little more room. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here."
She snorts again, just like my mom used to. Then she holds up one hand and waves it dismissively at the door. "Leave."
"I'm sorry," I repeat, keeping my voice steady so it doesn't betray all the feelings coiled up in my chest.
Elaine doesn't look at me. Her heart rate bumps to 112 and I force myself to turn away, to walk toward the glass door, to not look back at the woman in the bed who looks like my mother but isn't. Isn't. Isn't.
I make it four steps out of "my" mother's room before I see Charlotte.
She's leaned against the nurse's station with her arms crossed and lips pinched together.
I keep walking.
Charlotte pushes off the counter and intercepts me, as expected. She's itching for a fight, not knowing her opponent is no longer here.
"Are you satisfied? Did you get what you came for?"
"Charlotte—"
"Because Dad's on his way back. And if he walks in and her pressure's spiked again because you decided to play the devoted daughter for five minutes—"
I take a deep breath. "I said I'm leaving."
"You're always leaving. That's the problem. You leave, and then you come back when it's convenient for you, and everyone else gets to clean up the—"
I grab her arm.
Her mouth snaps shut and I pull her sideways, away from the nurse's station where two women in scrubs have stopped pretending not to listen.
Charlotte stumbles, correcting her balance as I drag her toward the far end of the hallway, past a supply closet and an empty gurney.
She weighs nothing, and it feels rather like I'm dragging a paper doll.
Right. Wolf shifter. This body has supernatural strength, right?
Except—do I? I sniff the air experimentally and get nothing but hospital-grade clean air. No layers beneath it. No hidden scents, no instinctive categorization of who passed through this hallway and when. In the books, werewolves described smell in color, in texture. This is just... a hospital.
And there's no voice in my head. No second consciousness curled at the base of my skull, no animal instinct pushing against my thoughts. Just me. Just silence.
Am I even a wolf shifter? Or is my existence in this body enough to turn her into a basic human…?
Charlotte rips her arm free with a violent twist, having apparently regained her senses. Her hand flies to her upper arm, rubbing where my fingers dug into her bicep. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
I turn to face her fully. "You're a doctor, right?"
Her eyes narrow to slits. "Don't start."
"I'm asking a genuine—"
"Yes, Vivienne, psychiatrists are real doctors. We've had this conversation. I went to medical school. I did residency. I don't need your—"
"You're a psychiatrist?" How perfect.
The defensive flush on her cheeks deepens. "Don't act like you don't—"
Interrupting the drama that I've inherited, I ask bluntly, "Why would someone's memories disappear?"
That stops her. She blinks. Her hand drops from her arm.
"What?"
"Memories. If someone lost them—large portions of them—what would cause that?"
Charlotte's mouth thins. She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling tiles, but surprisingly answers anyway. "Dissociative amnesia. Traumatic brain injury. Substance-induced blackouts. Psychogenic fugue. Certain seizure disorders. Korsakoff syndrome if there's alcohol involvement, though that's more confabulation than—" She cuts herself off. "Why?"
"How would someone recover them? The memories."
Her gaze sharpens. She takes a step forward.
"Is something wrong with you?"
Yes.
"No." I shake my head. "It's—there's a show I've been watching. The plot doesn't make sense and I was curious if it's realistic."
The suspicion lingers before dissolving into contempt so familiar it must be her default setting. These two definitely do not get along, and probably never have.
"A show." Charlotte exhales through her nose. "You dragged me down a hallway to ask about a show."
Guilt twists hard in my chest. "Sorry. I was just—"
"Go home, Vivienne."
"I will. I just—"
"No. Go home now. Before Dad gets here." She crosses her arms again, once again a prickly fortress. "You've done enough damage for one day."
I hesitate. My feet don't move.
Charlotte's chin lifts. Something cruel settles into the lines of her face.
"Dad's angrier than I am, Vivienne. If you think I'm harsh, wait until he sees what her monitor reads." She pauses. "He told me last week he's done. His word. Done."
My heart skips a beat, feeling again like the echoes of the original Vivienne's emotions. I nod to show I'm listening before stepping back. Then I turn slowly, wondering if I'm doing the right thing.
But I don't know anything, so how can I fix what's wrong?
Walking away is better than making it worse.
The hallway stretches toward the elevators and I walk it alone, my overpriced Nike sneakers quiet on the polished floor. Once my elevator arrives, I glance back.
Charlotte stands exactly where I left her, arms crossed and watching me leave. I'm too far to see the expression on her face, but I doubt it's anything good.
The elevator doors close between us.
She's not your mother. I press my back against the cold metal wall and breathe. Not your mother. Not your sister. Not your family. You are Vivienne Wells and these people don't know you and you don't owe them anything.
The guilt doesn't listen, though.
But I shove past it—physically, by pushing my shoulders back and taking my phone from my pocket. The home screen glows, telling me it's already 2:47 PM.
Lawyers are still open.
I open the browser and immediately type in a quick search. Divorce lawyers near me.
The search populates, first with sponsored results filled with AI-written five-star reviews.
I scroll, tap, and scroll again, leaving the elevator without looking up. Eventually, I save three numbers in my notes app.
Step one. File for divorce and survive.
Everything else is someone else's problem.
I walk through the ground floor lobby with purpose, past the gift shop and the information desk and the revolving doors.
It's warm outside. Bright.
I stop on the sidewalk blankly. Charlotte drove me here, so I don't have a car at the moment. And even if I did, what's my address?
Oh, God. I don't know my address.
The LV wallet is in my purse. I yank it out, flip to the driver's license. 4812 Wyndham Court. Okay. Hopefully it's the right one.
A gray sedan pulls to the curb in front of me, a Toyota Camry. The most aggressively unremarkable car in existence with tinted windows, clean lines, and nothing about it that should make my pulse stutter.
But it does.
The driver's door opens and Knox Marshall unfolds from the front seat—tall, broad, and photograph-accurate, every inch of him contained in a dark navy uniform that reads SEA across the left breast pocket. A duty belt circles his hips: radio, handcuffs, even a gun.
Amber eyes find mine as he stands there, one hand resting on the open car door, and looks at me like he's been waiting.
"Are you done?"