My father stepped forward, extending his hand with practiced political charm. "Mr. Lexton, what an unexpected pleasure. We weren't anticipating—"
"Please, call me Miles," he interrupted smoothly, accepting my father's handshake but keeping his attention primarily on me. "I wanted to ensure Lilianna's comfort during the drive."
My mother appeared at my father's shoulder, her social smile perfectly calibrated. "How thoughtful. Though I hope this doesn't indicate any irregularities in protocol—"
"Not at all," Miles assured her, though something in his tone suggested he found the concern amusing. "Julian simply believes in personal touches." His eyes smiled as he spoke of the head Alpha of their pack.
The subtle emphasis on Julian's name seemed to remind my parents exactly who they were dealing with. My father's posture straightened even further, if that were possible, while my mother's smile became more genuine—or at least more determined.
"Of course," my father said quickly. "We appreciate the personal attention. It speaks well of the Vale pack's... consideration."
Miles nodded politely, then turned his full attention to me. "Are you ready, Lilianna?"
The question was simple, but I heard layers beneath it. Not just ready to leave, but ready for whatever came next. Ready to step into uncertainty. Ready to choose.
"Yes," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "I'm ready."
Miles gestured toward the SUV, "We'll have you settled in before lunch. Your suite is already prepared." He turned to my parents with polite formality. "We'll take good care of her."
My father clasped his hands behind his back. "We expect nothing less." His eyes narrowed slightly. "And we'll look forward to regular updates on her... progress."
"Of course," Miles replied smoothly, though something flickered in his expression—a barely perceptible tightening around his eyes. "Julian will be in touch."
My mother stepped forward for one final inspection, tucking an imaginary strand of hair behind my ear. "Remember everything," she whispered, the words carrying both instruction and warning.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The moment stretched between us—twenty-three years of careful molding culminating in this handoff, this transfer of ownership. Or so they thought.
"These your bags?" Miles asked, gesturing toward my suitcases and I gave him a small nod.
"I'll take care of them," Miles efficiently began loading my luggage into the trunk while Miles held the passenger door open for me.
"Thank you for everything," I said to my parents, the practiced words coming easily. I didn't specify what I was thanking them for—let them assume it was for their years of careful preparation rather than this inadvertent path to freedom.
My mother's eyes glistened with what might have been tears if I believed she was capable of them. More likely it was pride in a transaction well executed. "Make us proud," she whispered, squeezing my hand one final time.
I slipped into the SUV's leather seat, the door closing behind me with a solid thunk that felt like finality. Through the tinted window, I watched my parents standing on the steps of the estate, posed and perfect as always. My father raised his hand in a dignified wave while my mother maintained her practiced smile. They looked satisfied, triumphant even. They had no idea they were watching their carefully constructed world slip away.
Miles settled into the seat beside me, his presence immediately calming. As we pulled away from the circular drive, he glanced over with those bright green eyes.
"How are you holding up?" he asked quietly, his voice pitched low and soothing.
I watched the estate grow smaller in the side mirror until the iron gates closed behind us, cutting off my view entirely. "I feel like I'm in someone else's life," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
"In a way, you are," Miles said, his tone gentle but honest. "The life you're stepping into is entirely yours to create."
The weight of that statement settled over me as we turned onto the main road, trees flashing past in a green blur. I realized I was clutching the leather portfolio on my lap with white-knuckled fingers and forced myself to relax my grip.
"You don't have to give that to Julian, you know," Miles said, nodding toward the portfolio. "Whatever's in there—medical records, family history—it doesn't matter to us."
I stared at him, caught off guard by the casual dismissal of what my father had presented as critically important documentation. "But... don't you need to review it? To make sure I'm... suitable?"
Miles's expression softened. "We already know you're suitable, Lilianna. The scenting told us everything that matters."
"But my heat suppression, my medical history—"
"Is your business," he interrupted gently. "If there's anything you want to share with us, you can do so when you're ready. On your own terms."
I turned the portfolio over in my hands, feeling its weight differently now. Not the burden of proof my father had made it seem, but simply paper and leather—meaningless unless I chose to give it meaning.
