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The cafeteria doors swung open, admitting Brielle Marwood with her brown paper bag clutched to her chest. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread, rich and taunting, filled the air and served as a cruel reminder of all the things she could not afford. Her stomach protested with a low growl, a familiar complaint she had learned to ignore years ago. At the center of the room, the Haverford triplets held court at their usual table, surrounded by their elite friends like kings. Devereaux, the eldest, sat in the middle, his dark hair perfectly styled and his posture radiating an effortless authority. To his right, Thorne lounged with a casual arrogance, his restless energy a palpable force. Montrose, the quietest of the three, sat on the left, his attention absorbed by the sketchbook open before him.

Brielle lowered her gaze and moved toward the far corner where she always ate alone. She managed only three steps before Devereaux’s voice, sharp and clear, cut through the room’s chatter. “Look, everyone. The charity case graces us with her presence.” Silence fell instantly as every eye in the room turned to her. Brielle’s fingers tightened on her lunch bag, the paper crinkling under the pressure, but she kept walking. Just survive, she told herself. Just endure.

“I heard it’s her birthday today,” Thorne announced, his voice dripping with a false, saccharine cheer. He pushed his chair back with a grating scrape and rose to his feet. He crossed the distance between them in three long strides. Before Brielle could react, he knocked the bag from her hands. The meager contents, a sad sandwich, a bruised apple, and a small container of water, scattered across the polished floor. Laughter erupted around her, sharp and merciless. Thorne’s grin was vicious, a clear display of his delight in the chaos he had created. Brielle’s gaze darted to Montrose, a desperate, silent plea for a shred of decency. His eyes met hers for a brief, fleeting moment, and she saw a flicker of discomfort in their depths before he deliberately looked away, returning his focus to his sketch.

No one helped. No one ever helped. She knelt, her hands trembling as she gathered her ruined lunch. Once everything was back in the torn bag, she stood and walked out without a word, the sound of laughter following her into the empty hallway. The janitor’s closet, her grim sanctuary, was empty as always during lunch. Brielle locked herself inside and allowed herself exactly two minutes to cry, a rationed release she had perfected over the years. Eighteen years old today, she thought with a surge of bitterness, another year trapped in this suffocating nightmare. Memories of other humiliations flashed through her mind: textbooks torn apart, her locker vandalized with cruel words, being shoved into puddles while everyone watched. The memories stacked up like debts, each one another reason to hate them.

She thought of her parents’ funeral three years ago. She had been fifteen, devastated and utterly alone. Then the pack’s administrator had appeared with papers, documents detailing debts she never knew existed. Her parents had borrowed heavily from the Haverford pack, and now the crushing burden fell to her. Ten years of her life, they had said, a decade of labor to pay for her parents' mistakes. This obligation was why she had been granted an exception from mandatory pack training, her hours instead spent working at the pack diner to make the smallest dent in an insurmountable sum.

Brielle wiped her eyes and checked her reflection in the small mirror hanging by the door. Her eyes were red, her face pale, and her uniform was stained. She wet a paper towel and cleaned herself up as best she could. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and whispered her mantra. “Just survive.”

History class was a special form of torture. Mrs. Pemberton lectured on the significance of mate bonds and the upcoming Coming of Age ceremony, where every eighteen-year-old would complete their transformation and potentially discover their fated mate. “Suitable matches strengthen the pack,” Mrs. Pemberton explained. “The Moon Goddess pairs wolves who complement each other in status, strength, and spirit.” Devereaux turned in his seat and stared directly at Brielle. “Some matches are clearly more suitable than others.” His friends snickered. Mrs. Pemberton frowned but remained silent. No one ever corrected the Alpha’s sons. When the teacher announced a group project, Brielle was unsurprised to find herself excluded as students formed groups with practiced efficiency, leaving her alone at her desk. She would do the work of four people by herself. She always did.

After school, Brielle reported to the pack’s administrative office for her weekly debt review. The building was cold and impersonal, all steel and glass designed to intimidate. The administrator, a severe woman named Ms. Blackwood, did not look up from her computer. “Current balance stands at ten years and two months,” Ms. Blackwood said mechanically. “Your progress is noted but insufficient. We expect increased effort.”

Through the window, Brielle could see the courtyard where the triplets lounged on expensive benches, laughing without a care. Devereaux had his arm around a beautiful girl, Thorne was showing off a new watch likely worth more than all of Brielle's possessions, and Montrose sat slightly apart, still sketching. The contrast burned. They had everything, including power, wealth, and freedom. She had nothing but chains. “You’re dismissed,” Ms. Blackwood said. Brielle walked home to her tiny apartment above a closed shop, the stairs creaking under her feet. Inside, everything was threadbare but clean. She had tonight to prepare for tomorrow's ceremony, completely unaware that her world was about to shatter.