Chapter 3
[Amelia's POV]
Sunday morning light filters through our tiny apartment windows when I wake up. The Silver Moon Pack audition letter is still on my nightstand, and for a split second I wonder if yesterday was all a dream.
Nope. Still real.
"Mom?" I call out, padding to the kitchen in my oversized t-shirt.
There's a note on the counter in her neat handwriting: Gone to work early. Good luck with audition prep! Love you - Mom
Right. Sunday shift at the beauty salon. She's probably already elbow-deep in someone's perm by now.
I grab my phone and dial the coffee shop. My stomach knots as it rings.
"Peterson's Coffee, this is Jim."
"Hey Mr. Peterson, it's Millie. I need to ask for some time off this week. I got an audition—"
"Silver Moon Pack?" His voice perks up with interest.
"How did you—"
"Word travels fast in this business, kid. Take whatever time you need. Just don't forget us little people when you're famous."
I laugh, relief flooding through me. "Thanks, Mr. Peterson. Really."
After hanging up, I grab Mom's special perfume from the bathroom cabinet. Three small bottles left. Should be enough for the audition and a few weeks after, assuming I don't stress-sweat it all off.
We'll be fine, Ashley whispers. We're stronger than we think.
"Let's hope so."
Time to find something that screams "professional actress" instead of "broke barista."
The thrift store on Fifth Street knows me by name. I've been coming here since high school, hunting for vintage pieces and anything that doesn't look like it came from a donation bin.
"Millie!" Mrs.Garcia beams from behind the counter. "What brings you in so early?"
"I need a miracle," I tell her, explaining about the audition. "Black suit, white shirt, maybe a skirt? Something that says 'hire me' without screaming 'I can't afford retail.'"
Her face lights up. "I have just the thing. Someone donated a whole professional wardrobe last week. Beautiful pieces, barely worn."
She leads me to a rack in the back corner. My breath catches. These aren't thrift store rejects – they're quality clothes that someone clearly loved.
"The woman said her daughter moved to Paris for modeling," Mrs. Garcia explains. "Didn't need business attire anymore."
Lucky me. Lucky daughter, too, getting to chase dreams in Paris instead of scrambling for auditions in secondhand clothes.
I pull out a black blazer. Perfect fit. The matching skirt hits just below my knees – professional but not stuffy. A crisp white button-down that actually buttons properly across my chest.
"How much?" I ask, already calculating my meager savings.
"Forty dollars for the whole outfit."
My heart sinks. I've got maybe thirty in my purse.
Mrs. Garcia must see my face fall because she quickly adds, "But for you, Millie, and because this is such big news – twenty-five."
"Mrs. Garcia, I can't—"
"You can and you will." She pats my cheek. "Wow! Congratulations! You're all grown up now."
Tears prick my eyes. "Thank you. Really."
"Just promise me you'll come back and tell me how it goes."
"I promise."
Sunday evening finds me and Mom kneeling in front of Dad's photo on the living room mantle. It's our tradition before anything important – asking for his guidance and the Moon Goddess's blessing.
The photo shows a young man with silver-gray eyes like mine and Mom's warm smile. He's wearing a mechanic's jumpsuit, grease under his fingernails, looking proud and happy. Dad was a Delta-level werewolf who fixed cars and tried to challenge a Pack's unfair rules. The stress of being ostracized broke something in him that never healed.
"Dad," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "Please keep on watching over us from above, and may the Moon Goddess guide my path."
Mom's hand finds mine, her fingers warm and steady. "He's proud of you, baby. I know he is."
I close my eyes and try to feel something – a sign, a blessing, anything. But there's only the soft weight of Mom's hand and the faint scent of her lavender shampoo.
When we stand, Mom brushes a tear from her cheek. "Tomorrow's going to change everything."
"I hope so." I glance at the window where moonlight streams through our thin curtains. "I really hope so."
That night, I lie awake thinking about the future. If this audition goes well, I could finally give Mom the life she deserves. No more double shifts. No more watching her pretend her back doesn't ache after transformations. No more counting coins for groceries.
My biggest fear isn't failing the audition. It's that they'll figure out what I am. That my Omega scent will slip through Mom's careful perfume blend, or that Ashley will surface at the wrong moment and give me away.
Trust me, Ashley murmurs. We've practiced this. We can do it.
"We have to."
I check the perfume bottles one more time before turning off the light.
Monday morning, I stand before the Silver Moon Pack building and feel like I'm looking at a glass mountain. Forty stories of gleaming silver and chrome reaching toward the sky, topped with their signature crescent moon logo that catches the morning sun like a beacon.
This is it. The place where careers are made and dreams either come true or die spectacular deaths.
People flow in and out of the revolving doors – all sharp suits and confident strides.
I don't belong here. Not yet.
But I'm going to fake it until I do.
We belong wherever we choose to be, Ashley reminds me.
Taking a deep breath that tastes like possibility and terror, I stride through those doors.
The audition hall buzzes with nervous energy. Way more people than I expected – easily two hundred hopefuls clutching headshots and rehearsing lines under their breath.
Most of them look like they stepped off magazine covers. Perfect hair, designer clothes, the kind of confidence that comes from never wondering if you can afford lunch.
I find a spot near the back and try to blend in. A girl beside me practices facial expressions in her phone's camera. Behind me, two guys discuss their agents like they're trading baseball cards.
"All right, everyone!" A woman in a severe black suit steps to the front. "We'll be conducting preliminary assessments this morning. Those who advance will be notified for tomorrow's private callbacks."
My stomach flips. Tomorrow. So soon.
The next three hours pass in a blur of monologues, cold readings, and basic movement exercises. I give it everything I have, channeling Ashley's natural grace and my own desperate hunger for this chance.
When they finally dismiss us, I'm drained but cautiously optimistic.
"All participants will receive email notification by six PM today," the woman announces. "Private callbacks are scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock, room 309. Those selected should prepare to demonstrate their full potential."
Full potential. What does that mean?
My phone buzzes as I'm walking out. Email from Silver Moon Pack:
Congratulations. Private audition tomorrow 3 PM, Room 309. Prepare to show us what you're truly capable of.
I pump my fist in the air, not caring who sees. Made it through round one.
But now I have a whole day to kill and my nerves are buzzing like live wires. The thought of going home and pacing around our tiny apartment for the next twenty-four hours makes me want to scream.
The building sits at the edge of a beautiful little park. Trees and flowers, a pond with a wooden bridge. Peaceful. Perfect for clearing my head.
I find a white bench under a massive oak tree with a perfect view of the Silver Moon building. From here, it looks less intimidating. Almost friendly.
The park is quiet this time of day. A few mothers with strollers, some elderly people feeding ducks.
"I think I did okay," I murmur to myself. "Should make it through the first round, at least."
But tomorrow's callback has me spooked. Private audition. Demonstrate your full potential. What if they can smell what I am? What if Ashley surfaces at the wrong moment?
Stop worrying, she whispers. We're meant for this.
A shadow falls across the bench.
"Good afternoon."
I look up to find a man settling beside me without invitation. My breath catches.