CHAPTER 9 – WHAT THEY TOOK FROM ME
799 Words
LAYLA'S POV
The look on Brandon's face in the hallway follows me to bed, especially since the clubhouse is quiet in the way it only gets after midnight, and I've been lying on my back staring at the ceiling for over an hour, going through the inventory of happenings in my life lately.
I lost my wolf in a fight defending a man who was sleeping with my cousin the entire time.
I lost my seat – more like it was denied by a bylaw that didn't exist until Megan needed it to.
My husband – who was probably never the man I thought he was – had a whole other life running alongside our marriage and is using my pregnancy as a custody weapon.
My brother is very different from how he was when I left and he seems angrier.
My father is sick and I’m not allowed to see him most times – and even when I do, he’s usually drugged up and weak.
I sit up because the thoughts keep coming and lying down in the dark is making me feel like the walls are closing in again. So I reach for my phone on the nightstand, open the voice memo app – that I've honestly never used before – and I hit record.
For a few seconds, I just breathe into the silence because I don't know how to start, then the words come to me.
What they took from me
My voice is barely above a whisper because the walls are thin and Rafe is on the other side and I don't want anyone to hear this. This is just for me. I need it as proof that it happened. Proof that I'm not crazy.
"Megan." I pause. "She took my father's chair. She took the club. She took my seat before I even had a chance to fight for it, and she's walking around this building hugging me like she didn't–" I stop. Restart. "She was in my husband's bed and now she's in my father's chair and everyone smiles at her like she earned it."
"Garrett." This one is harder. "He took... everything I built for two years. The marriage. The life. The version of myself I thought was good enough." My voice cracks and I let it. "He took my wolf. I lost it defending him in a fight, and now I can't even sit at my own family's table because of it. He's using my baby as a bargaining chip, and he sends me flowers like–" I exhale. "Like he's courting me and threatening me at the same time."
"Victor and Sandra. Megan’s parents." I swallow. "I don't have proof yet. But the nurse is theirs. The money is disappearing. And whatever Nina told me about Black Viper meetings after hours – I believe her."
I stop again. My hand goes to my stomach.
"My brother." The words come out quieter than the rest. "I don't understand this one yet. But something is wrong with him. He says things that don't sound like him and then apologises like he doesn't know where they came from. He's pulling away from me and pulling toward Megan, and I can feel it happening and I can't stop it."
Silence. The red dot keeps pulsing.
"My wolf." My voice breaks properly this time. "I miss her. I miss feeling whole. I miss knowing that if someone came for me, I could fight back. I miss–"
I stop because if I keep going I'm going to cry, and I don't want that on the recording.
I put my hand flat on my stomach and feel the small, defiant warmth of the baby. The baby who has been fighting from the inside without knowing it.
"They took a lot." I whisper it to the baby more than to the phone. "But not you. Not us."
I hit stop. Lock my phone. I don't listen to it back because I can't hear my own voice saying those things yet. But knowing the recording exists is enough for now.
I think about my mother. Elaine Rowan. Everyone called her soft like it was a limitation – like softness was something you apologised for. But my mother was the warmest person I ever knew, and she ran an empire alongside my father while everyone underestimated her.
She didn't raise me to run.
I am a Rowan. And Rowans don't run. We root. We grow back harder.
I lie in the dark with my phone on my chest and my hand on my stomach, and for the first time since that night, the thing sitting in my chest isn't grief.
It's something harder. Something with edges.
I close my eyes. And I finally sleep.
- Writer
