Chapter 1Halfway through the reading of the will, my brother's mate, Melina Todd, let out a sudden, triumphant growl.
It wasn't an accidental slip. It was a smug, guttural sound of relief, her lips curling back to show just a hint of fang. She didn't even bother to hide her grin.
She tugged at my brother William's sleeve. He stayed quiet, but his spine straightened, and his ears - still in human form - flicked forward.
I was stationed on the far side of the room, as always. From the moment I turned eighteen until now, at forty, I'd hugged the fringes of every pack gathering.
The pack notary, Hank Stone, paused and flipped to the next page. He shot me a glance - and something in his amber eyes wasn't right.
"There is an additional clause to the will," he announced.
Melina's grin froze, her nostrils flaring.
...
Hank was in his early fifties, wearing gold-rimmed glasses that did little to hide the wolfish glint behind them. He'd been appointed by the city's notary office and had zero prior connection to our pack.
Still, I couldn't shake the way he'd just looked at me. Not like a stranger - like he actually knew me.
I didn't have time to dwell. William beat everyone to the punch.
"Notary Stone, what additional clause?" His tone stayed even, but his claws - retracted, but ready - tapped a nervous rhythm against the wooden table. A tell he'd had since we were pups.
Hank ignored him. He set the document down. "Reading this clause requires meeting a specific condition first. I need to verify something." He turned to me. "Leila Mancuso, correct?"
"Yes."
"You are Philip Mancuso's daughter?"
"I am."
"Do you have the caregiving records or expense receipts from his stays at the healing clinic?"
It was a bizarre question.
The whole room stared at me. Even my mother, Sylvia Winters, turned her head. She wore a black dress today, her hair yanked back in a tight knot. Not a trace of grief for her freshly deceased mate crossed her face - only a familiar, sharp warning in her gaze: Do not cause trouble.
"I do," I said.
It wasn't like I'd deliberately saved them. There were just so many. Over twenty years and seventy-three clinic stays, I'd stuffed every receipt into plastic grocery bags until they filled a whole cardboard box. I didn't keep them out of some obsessive need for records. I kept them because I was constantly forced to produce them - for reimbursements, pack aid applications, insurance claims. I just never threw them away.
"Good." Hank jotted a note, then looked back up. "Verification complete. The condition to read the additional clause has been met."
"Wait a minute." Melina shot to her feet, her claws briefly scraping the table. She wore a dark green cardigan, her short curls perfectly styled, her lipstick a shade darker than usual. "What do you mean, an additional clause? Why weren't we told?"
"Philip Mancuso established this clause separately at the city's notary office in 2019," Hank replied. "It is a valid component of the will."
"In 2019?" Melina's voice hit a higher pitch, almost a yelp. "By then he was already - " She stopped herself.
In 2019, my father had been paralyzed for thirteen years. She wanted to ask how a wolf in that condition could draft anything, but she snapped her jaw shut. Saying it aloud would be too crass - and she wasn't dumb enough to do that with the extended pack watching.
My mother's lips parted, but she said nothing.
From my folding chair on the far side, I suddenly appreciated my seat. It gave me a perfect view of every flicker in their eyes. William's fingers kept drumming - twice as fast now. Hank squared his documents and addressed the room.
"Before I read the additional clause, I must finish the primary will," Hank said.
"Read it," William ordered.
Hank continued. The property - a 120-square-meter house in our home territory - went to William. The savings, totaling 106,000 dollars, went to William. The 16,000-dollar life insurance payout went to William.
With each named asset, Melina's grin stretched wider, her fangs glinting. By the time Hank finished, she'd relaxed completely, leaning back with a satisfied huff. She shot me a look - a clear, smug message: See? You get nothing.
I didn't look at her. My gaze stayed fixed on the second page in Hank's hand, on the red notary stamp in the corner. He held it too far for me to read, but my father had left that document for me.
I had no idea what it said. But he'd left it.
Twenty years, and he'd left it.
Chapter 2
My father suffered a stroke back in 2006. His wolf couldn't heal the damage. The paralysis locked him in human form, and his left side never moved again.
I was twenty then, pulling in three-twenty a month at the local electronics plant. William was twenty-five, already mated to Melina, running a hardware store in the city.
It happened on a Thursday. My mother's call came through, her voice flat. "Your father had a stroke."
By the time I rode my scooter to the pack clinic, the healers had already taken him back. Brainstem hemorrhage. They said he'd survive, but the paralysis was permanent. He lost movement on his left side. His speech slurred at first, then faded completely by 2010.
Out in the hallway, my mother called William. I heard her say, "You focus on your business. Your sister will handle this."
From that day on, "your sister will handle it" became my life for the next twenty years.
The first two years, I accepted it as normal. My father was paralyzed and needed care. My mother was getting older - she couldn't lift him. William ran a business; he legitimately couldn't leave.
Every three months, I took unpaid time off to haul him to checkups. The plant docked my pay every time. I never kept a tally of lost wages.
I bought his incontinence pads out of pocket. Ten bucks a box, two boxes a month.
I bathed him. Turned him. Dressed him.
In winter, I dragged his mattress outside every single day so it wouldn't stink.
I lifted his seventy-kilo body from bed to wheelchair, over and over. My wolf's spine wasn't built for that much strain. After years, my lower back started screaming. A scan at the clinic showed a herniated disc.
The healer told me to stop lifting heavy things.
I nodded, went home, and lifted my father again.
Nobody asked about my back. Nobody knew I was hurt.
I kept my muzzle shut. What good would complaining do?
My mother stayed home, but she limited herself to cooking. The second a meal was ready, she'd call me over to carry plates and feed my father. After he ate, I washed dishes and scrubbed the kitchen. Then she'd sit and watch TV while I wiped his face, soaked his feet, and changed his pads.
When I finally finished, I'd ride my electric scooter back to my rented room. Forty minutes through freezing winter air that left my paws - my hands - completely numb.
One Christmas, William drove down from the city with Melina and my nephew, Anthony. My mother started prepping two days early. She bought piles of meat and had our neighbor Emelia come over to fry meatballs.
When I walked through the door, eight dishes already sat on the dining table. My mother was still in the kitchen, working on the last one.
I went to get my father. Wheeled him up to the table - and realized there weren't enough seats.
My mother had set out exactly five. One for herself. One for William. One for Melina. One for Anthony. And one for my father's cousin Finn, who'd driven in from out of town.
My father stayed in his wheelchair, so he didn't need a seat.
"Mom, where do I sit?" I asked.
"Feed your father first," she said. "You can eat when he's done."
I stood beside the wheelchair, spooning oatmeal into his mouth. Over at the table, William and Finn knocked back drinks. Melina piled food onto Anthony's plate. My mother laughed.
A little oatmeal dribbled down my father's chin. I wiped it and offered another bite.
By the time he finished, the serving platters were wiped clean. Chicken gone. Ribs nothing but bones.
I sat down and ate a plate of plain salad.
Nobody thanked me. Nobody saved me a single bite. Nobody saw anything wrong with it.
That night, back at my apartment, I didn't go straight inside. I hovered by the door, my wolf's ears twitching at the distant sound of Christmas carols from the street below.
People were hanging lights. Families. Packs.
I checked my phone.
Not a single "Merry Christmas" text. Not even from my mother.
I slid my key into the lock, turned the deadbolt. The door swung open to a freezing apartment - the heat was off.
I walked in.
Chapter 3
The funeral rites dragged on for three days. Pack tradition demanded it - three full cycles of moonrise to moonrise.
William finally showed up on day two. Pulled in with a black Passat, Melina and their son Anthony in the back. Recent college grad, that one. Barely shifted in years.
The second Melina stepped out, her nostrils flared. She scanned the yard like a predator sizing up fresh territory. My mother had lived in that house for thirty years - a solid two-story pack home, hundred-twenty square meters, good bones.
But Melina wasn't checking the memorial wreaths or the mourning candles.
She was appraising the property.
I caught her. Her ears twitched forward, pupils dilating just a fraction. She was already calculating value.
During the rites, I handled everything. Greeted the relatives. Coordinated meals. Thanked neighbors who pitched in. Stood vigil by the altar.
William spent the whole time out in the yard, chain-smoking. He only popped his head in to shake paws with mourners and mumble a quick "thank you."
Melina camped in the back room, scrolling through her phone, her wolf completely disengaged.
Anthony complained the house was too depressing and vanished downtown to play games.
When Emelia stopped by to help, she said, "Lei, you've always been the one who has to take care of everything."
I smiled. Didn't say a word. What was there to say?
Second night, after the relatives cleared out, I went to clean the kitchen. William walked in while I was scrubbing pans.
"Lei, how much of Dad's funeral expenses are we getting reimbursed?"
"Haven't filed the paperwork yet."
"Get on that, will you?" He leaned against the doorframe, lit another cigarette. "By the way, you know how much is left in Dad's account?"
"No."
"Mom says it's over a hundred grand."
I didn't answer. Over a hundred thousand. Dad had been socking away his pension for twenty years. The math made sense.
But I'd covered the bulk of his clinic bills, nursing care, and meds over those decades. Never touched a dime of that money - my mother kept a tight claw on the account. Every time I paid a medical bill out of pocket, I'd tell her. She'd just say, "I know." And that was always the end of it.
"Anyway, get back to work." William turned and walked away. His scent hit me as he passed - cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. Nothing of grief. Nothing of loss.
That afternoon, while cleaning the cabinet under my father's bed, I found an envelope.
Small. Completely blank. The flap taped shut with stubborn precision.
I tore it open.
Inside: a note and a business card. The note had four words scrawled in my father's handwriting - shakier than his old notebooks, almost illegible. But I could make them out.
"Go find Mr. Stone."
The card read: Hank Stone, Notary Public, New Orleans City Hall Notary Office. A phone number underneath.
I stared at it for a long time. My wolf's nose caught the faintest trace of his scent on the paper - old, faded, but unmistakably his. Finally, I slipped both into my pocket.
That evening, back at my apartment, I dialed the number.
Three rings.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Stone? Hi, I'm Philip Mancuso's daughter. Leila Mancuso."
The line went dead quiet. Then his tone shifted entirely.
"Leila Mancuso..." A pause. "You found the envelope."
"I did."
"Your father said you would."
I gripped the phone tighter, my claws threatening to break through my fingertips. "Mr. Stone, what do you mean?"
"Back in 2019, your father added a codicil to his will at my office. I can't get into details over the phone, but I can tell you this - " He paused, and I heard him exhale. "You need to be present at the official reading. And you need to bring every receipt you have from paying for your father's care. Bring every single one."
"Okay," I said, and hung up.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall of the building next door. Grey concrete. Blank. Unseeing.
My father knew.
He knew everything. Lying in that clinic bed for twenty years, paralyzed, unable to speak a word. But he'd left a backup plan.
For me.
I dragged the cardboard box out from under my bed. Inside: receipts from seventy-three separate clinic stays. Twenty years' worth of medical bills. I'd never tallied it all up before.
But that night, I started doing the math.
Receipt by receipt. Line by line.
My wolf's ears flattened against my skull. The numbers blurred in front of my eyes, but I kept going. I wasn't just balancing a ledger.
I was counting exactly how long I'd been invisible.
