Scarlett.

The morning sun streamed through the windows of our café, casting warm shadows across the freshly polished tables. Five years. Sometimes it felt like another lifetime since I’d fled the pack, and other mornings – like today – the memories rose fresh and raw in my mind.

“Your coffee’s getting cold,” Alisha called from behind the counter, her dark hair now streaked with subtle caramel highlights – another small act of rebellion we’d both embraced in the ...