Chapter 2 – A House of Ice
1233 Words
The hearth crackled, but the room remained cold.
Emerie stood in the foyer, the door closing behind her with a final click. Her fingers were stiff around the divorce scroll, its ribbon still taut. She exhaled into the silence.
The house smelled like lavender and smoke—Jolene's favorite candle, no doubt. The irony didn't escape her.
She turned toward the study. Allan's voice greeted her first, echoing from the crystal recorder.
“Staying over. Jolene's nausea hit hard tonight. Don't wait up."
Emerie tapped the crystal off.
“I won't," she said to the quiet.
She moved through the house like a ghost—each footstep soft, deliberate. In the kitchen, she filled the kettle, then stopped. Her hands trembled. She dropped the tea bag into a cup and leaned on the counter.
The scent of ginger rose faintly.
“It won't help," she murmured to herself.
From the dining hall came muffled laughter—memories, not sound. She saw herself at twenty, sitting across from Allan, eyes filled with fragile hope.
“Do you want more soup?" she had asked then.
“No. And stop hovering," he'd replied, not unkindly, but never warm.
She shook the memory away and carried the tea to his study.
The door creaked open. His scent still lingered—pine and iron. The room was untouched.
She sat in his chair. Pulled open drawers. Receipts. Letters. One envelope marked “Wedding Vows – Draft."
She didn't open it.
Instead, her gaze fell on the corner shelf where her mother's locket once rested. She had taken it months ago, but the absence now felt symbolic.
“I can't do this anymore," she said aloud.
The door behind her opened. She turned sharply.
Mary, the housemaid, blinked at her. “Miss Emerie. I—I didn't know you were home."
“I'm not, really," Emerie replied. “What is it?"
“I brought in the afternoon mail. Just bills."
Mary hesitated, then added, “You look... pale."
“Too much fresh air."
Mary lingered. “Do you need anything?"
“No." Emerie's tone was final.
But as the maid turned to leave, she softened. “Thank you, Mary."
Mary nodded and disappeared. The door clicked again.
Emerie stared at it.
She stood and went upstairs, boots muffled by thick carpet. She passed Allan's room—Jolene's scarf on the door handle.
Her own room, as always, was immaculate. Everything folded, undisturbed. A museum of a marriage.
She sat on the bed, folded the divorce scroll, and laid it on her nightstand.
Her breath hitched. She opened the drawer, took out the locket, and opened it.
The tiny portrait inside was faded—her mother, young and fierce-eyed. Emerie traced the edge with her thumb.
“Would you have stayed?" she whispered. “Would you have begged for love?"
The silence answered her.
---
That night, sleep came like a thief. Fitful and cold.
She dreamed of wolves—three pups tumbling through snow. One turned to her, its eyes silver like hers. But as she reached for it, the snow turned to ash.
She woke with a gasp. Sweat dampened her neck. Her ribs ached.
Outside, wind rattled the shutters.
---
The next morning, she descended to the dining hall. Jolene's laughter greeted her from the courtyard.
Emerie paused at the window.
Allan stood beside Jolene, brushing snow from her hood. His fingers lingered. Jolene leaned into him with ease.
“I'm thinking Lily if it's a girl," Jolene said cheerfully.
“Noted," Allan replied with a chuckle.
“Lily Whitestone," Jolene tested aloud. “Sounds like royalty."
“Let's hope she doesn't inherit my temper."
Jolene giggled. “Or my sweet tooth."
Emerie turned away.
She entered the dining hall. Several warriors sat at the far table, talking in low voices.
“Did you hear? Allan brings Jolene those honey pastries every morning now."
“She's glowing," someone whispered.
“Poor Emerie. Still hanging around like a shadow."
Emerie poured broth into her bowl and sat down quietly.
One of the warriors—Kalen—offered a stiff smile. “Morning, Luna."
“Emerie," she corrected gently.
The others fell silent.
She sipped her broth. It tasted like ash.
---
After breakfast, she walked past Allan's parents' suite and paused as voices drifted through the door.
“—She tricked you, Allan," his father was saying. “You owe nothing to that woman."
“She's pregnant with my child," Allan said, voice low and angry. “That's not nothing."
“She's not your mate."
“She's better than a trapper."
Emerie's breath caught.
His mother chimed in. “You need to clean this up. A new Luna, a fresh start."
Emerie backed away slowly, nausea rising. She turned, stumbled toward the nearest washroom.
She barely reached the sink before the blood came—hot and sudden.
Crimson splattered white porcelain. Her hands trembled.
She grabbed tissues, dabbed her nose, eyes burning. The bleeding slowed.
She stared at the mirror.
Her reflection looked foreign—pale, eyes hollow, lips tight.
“You are not the villain," she told herself.
She wet a towel, wiped the sink clean, and pocketed the blood-spotted handkerchief.
Proof that time was running out.
---
Back in her room, she wrote a single line on parchment:
I won't let him bury me with shame.
Then she folded the divorce scroll again, placed it in a folder, and took one last look at the locket.
She whispered, “I'll survive. Even if I die doing it."
---
At twilight, snow began to fall again.
She walked the perimeter of the pack estate, cloak pulled tight.
A courier crossed her path. “Evening, Luna."
She offered a thin smile. “Not for long."
He blinked. “Ma'am?"
“Nothing." She walked on.
---
That evening, the council's invitation arrived.
Allan and Jolene were to be presented formally as Luna and Alpha-consort at the spring equinox ball.
Emerie didn't react. She carried the envelope to the fire and tossed it in.
Flames devoured it with a soft hiss.
Then she turned to her room and packed.
One cloak. One healer's tonic. One cracked locket.
The handkerchief joined them last.
The bag wasn't heavy. Neither was she anymore.
---
She found Allan in his office.
He looked up, surprised. “Emerie?"
“I came to deliver something."
She walked to the desk, laid the divorce scroll before him.
He stared at it. “You..."
“It's signed."
His fingers hovered over the ribbon. “You don't have to do this."
“I do."
He hesitated. “Are you sure? It's not too late to—"
“I'm sure."
His jaw clenched. “Where will you go?"
“Where people don't look at me like a mistake."
He opened his mouth, but she turned before he could speak.
She paused at the door.
“Congratulations, Allan."
“Emerie—"
“I hope she gives you everything I couldn't."
Then she left.
---
Snow crunched beneath her boots as she crossed the courtyard.
Past servants hanging garlands.
Past warriors saluting stiffly.
Past her own history.
The gates closed behind her with a finality that rang in her bones.
The wind bit her cheeks. She smiled through it.
Somewhere ahead, the unknown waited.
But it was hers.
And for the first time in years, she belonged only to herself.
- Writer
