I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Violet's face. The competition disaster had left me raw, my grief freshly exposed like an open wound. After tossing and turning all night, I made my decision at dawn.
Today, Julian would face the truth.
I showered quickly, dressing in a simple black sweater and jeans. My reflection showed a woman I barely recognized—hollow cheeks, dark circles under dull green eyes, chestnut hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Grief had carved itself into every line of my face.
The drive to the pack headquarters was mercifully short. My hands trembled on the steering wheel as I rehearsed what I would say. How do you tell a father his daughter is dead when he barely acknowledged her in life?
