Free Web NovelChapter 373: Chapter 373
Aria’s POV
“You recovered so quick.” I added with a faint smile. “Did they catch the person yet?”
I knew and she probably knew that I knew who it was, but she couldn’t say it.
Her face was drained of color. “I—I don’t know who it was...Just some crazy person. I’m not worried about that anymore.”
“How generous of you not to be worried,” I murmured, my voice silk over steel.
Patrick cut in fast. “Alright, alright. It was just scratches. Aria, try your mom’s cooking.”
Margaret snapped into motion, ladling soup into a bowl and placing it in front of me. Hunter’s broth, red chili oil and fish head.
It looked right. I lifted the spoon and took a sip. There was a lot of ginger and garlic in it.
Patrick leaned forward. “Well?”
I nodded once and set the bowl aside. The sharp, earthy note lingered on my tongue like a mistake. Everything about the meal was wrong. It tasted nothing like my grandma’s, not that I wanted it to, but at least, I expected some effort to be put into making it.
Patrick quickly served smoked mushrooms. I took a bite. I didn’t like it either, it was too salty.
I swallowed rice to clear the taste, but my appetite was gone. My bowl remained half full.
The table fell into that tight, suffocating silence. I decided to leave and use the restroom.
Margaret’s composure cracked first. She felt Patrick’s displeasure like a claw at her back.
“Aria,” she said, her voice thinning, “do you dislike the food... or just that I made it?”
I had already pushed my chair back when Margaret’s voice stopped me. I turned.
Three pairs of eyes locked onto me like I was prey deciding whether to bolt.
Patrick looked the most anxious. His scent had turned sharp with fear of losing control of the situation. “Your mom’s just upset,” he said quickly. “Don’t take it to heart, Aria.”
Margaret lowered her head, her lips pressed tight, playing wounded. I looked at them, at the table, at the dishes, and then I laughed.
It was clear and sharp, the kind of laugh that didn’t belong in a “family dinner.”
“I don’t eat onions, ginger, or garlic,” I said.
My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut. The room went cold.
Margaret’s eyes flickered, realization dawning too late. Patrick looked down at the food. Every single dish had it. There was not one safe thing on the table. His face paled.
“Aria, your mom didn’t know,” he rushed. “She thought it would improve the flavor. If you’re still hungry, we can go out to your favorite restaurant.”
My wolf almost snorted. You don’t fix years of neglect with takeout.
“No need,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”
He faltered, then forced composure back into place. “Alright. You should rest then. Ann will show you to your room.”
Ann was the housekeeper, she stepped forward. “Miss Aria, please follow me.”
I nodded and followed her.
The second floor smelled... unfamiliar. It was too clean, too staged. Ann opened the door.
The room was drowning in white. It had white curtains, white bedding, white furniture.
My eyes flickered.
Patrick who had now joined us rubbed his hands together, nervous and expectant. “You loved white dresses as a child. I thought you’d like this, so I had everything prepared.”
“Mr. Darvin rushed to arrange it,” Ann added helpfully.
Patrick chuckled. “Of course. I’m her father.”
He reached for my hand. I pulled mine back before he could touch me. His hand hung in the air, empty.
His smile froze, then cracked into an awkward laugh. “No worries... no worries.”
I stepped inside, my face blank.
“You can go,” I said. “I need to rest.”
I took a few steps in, then stopped, staring around.
“Change all of this to blue.”
Patrick blinked. “You don’t like it? You loved white when you were little.”
Ann pointed at a photo on the nightstand. “Miss, you’re wearing white here.” I looked at the picture.
It was a picture of when I was still a child. I wore a white dress, my posture stiff. I lifted my eyes to Patrick.
“That’s because you only saw me once as a child,” I said softly. “And that was the only time I wore white.”
His brows twitched. My smile was small, thin and sharp at the edges.
“I’ll have it changed by tomorrow,” he said quickly.
I waved him off. “I’m tired.”
He had no choice but to leave.When the door closed, the room finally exhaled, so did I.
My wolf settled as I changed into pajamas and sank onto the bed. It was soft, but it didn’t feel like comfort, just expensive cushioning.
My gaze drifted to the photo frame again. It was just me, alone. If they were truly rebuilding family ties, there would be a family photo.
But we’d never taken one, not even once.
I let out a low chuckle, the sound thin and edged, my wolf stirring beneath my skin in quiet disdain. My gaze lingered on the white dress laid out across the bed like some kind of offering.
My lips curled.
In my memories, white never meant this kind of empty, suffocating purity. Grandma used to say a wolf’s den didn’t have to be big, just warm.
The Osborne bloodline might have money, status, territory...But my Grandma had skill, our home was always alive with her touch.
She was a designer by trade, a survivor by nature. Every dress I wore growing up had passed through her hands first. She’d measure me while humming, scold me for fidgeting, then stitch late into the night. Those dresses weren’t just clothes.They carried her scent, her warmth, her protection.
A wolf never forgets the one who clothed her in love instead of expectations.
My eyes softened before I could stop them. Even the harsh white walls didn’t feel quite as sharp anymore. The memory wrapped around my chest like fur against winter wind. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ
Sleep crept up on me quietly, but hunger woke me, making my wolf shift restlessly.
I barely ate at dinner. That mess downstairs had been drowned in onions, garlic, and ginger.
I checked the time, it was still early. The house was quiet as I padded down the hallway, my steps silent by habit.
Voices drifted from the kitchen.
I stopped.
