The Unwanted Luna’s Farewell Chapter 07

The Unwanted Luna’s Farewell Chapter 07

My first day in Omaha was an absolute blur.

The Lakehaven Pack was nothing like Silverfang.

The air was drier, carrying strange scents of flora and woodland as the wind swept across vast plains.

When I first stepped off the train, my inner wolf was visibly on edge.

But strangely enough, I wasn’t scared at all.

In fifteen days, the seven–day Inter–Pack Healing & Medical Summit would begin.

As an interpreter, I had to memorize everything–from technical terminology and common medical equipment to obscure conditions–more fluently and accurately than my own bank account number.

During the briefing meeting, over twenty name cards were lined up neatly across the table in the sprawling

conference room.

Watching the executives take their seats one after another, I casually grabbed a chair against the wall.

Director Claire Bennett, who had been mentoring me, looked around before walking straight toward me.

“Charlotte?”

I nodded, my brain racing to figure out where I had messed up.

Suit jacket unbuttoned?

Lipstick too bright?

Or were my shoes clicking too loudly on the way in?

After all, back home, whenever Mom called me by my full name, disaster was guaranteed to follow.

But Claire didn’t scold me. She simply pointed to the seat right beside her.

“Your name card is over there.”

I was thoroughly stunned.

“I’m just a newcomer. Do I get a name card too?”

“So what? New or old, everyone here is a part of Northstar.”

She said it so matter–of–factly that I didn’t even know how to respond.

The souvenirs Mom brought back were one per person–except for me, brushed off with whatever trash was

lying around.

The eggs at the breakfast table never included my portion.

Even when buying bottled water, Mom only bought three.

Now, in a conference hall packed with dozens of people, there was a card with my name on it.

Turns out, I didn’t have to be left behind.

No matter my age or seniority, without excuses like being forgotten or unprepared, the moment my name was submitted, a little card was made for me.

It belonged to me. It represented me.

And it healed me.

During the rest of the meeting, Claire called on me twice.

“How do you plan to handle it if the speaker uses abbreviations the entire time?”

“If there’s a discrepancy between the slides and the spoken data, which do you trust?”

The first time, I answered correctly.

The second time, I shook my head and admitted I hadn’t thought of that.

The entire conference room went pin–drop silent.

The fingers gripping my pen began to tremble involuntarily.

“Everyone, these two questions test professionalism and experience respectively.”

“As a newcomer, Charlotte has strong technical skills, scoring near–perfect on all evaluations. As for experience, I hope she builds it quickly.”

No blame, no harsh tongue–she even spoke in a near–gentle tone.

Even though I failed to answer the second question, she still highlighted my strengths.

I suddenly remembered signing up for extracurriculars as a child.

Olivia loved dancing, so she got ballet lessons.

Owen liked playing the piano, so he went to music classes.

They always showed off their talents proudly in front of others, earning praise from onlookers and pleasing Mom every single time.

But I only loved reading.

A hobby with zero stage for performance.

So Mom always told outsiders that I was a dull homebody.

She didn’t care that I could skim pages in seconds, or that my essays scored near–perfect marks.

Whenever her vanity flared up, my inability to show off for her was an unpardonable sin.

After the meeting ended, I finally had time to check my phone.

A flood of messages poured in, nearly freezing my screen.

All from unknown numbers. But I didn’t need to guess to know who it was.

[Charlotte, how can you be so heartless! You just walked away like that and dumped us?]

[And about going full–time, how much are you actually making a month now? Shouldn’t your household

contribution be recalculated?]

[Running so far away for five whole years–you’re completely selfish.]

I flipped my phone face down on the desk.

She didn’t care if I adjusted to the new climate, or if work was exhausting.

She just desperately needed to control every aspect of my life.

And when I fled far away, escaping her grasp, she called me selfish.

On the desk, my name card stood proud and tall.

I reached out and stroked it gently.

Obviously–here, and only here, was a place that truly belonged to me.