The Blackwell estate was a palace, but Amara could feel the cracks beneath its perfection.
As she followed her "father"—the terrifyingly controlled Victor Blackwell—into the glass-walled boardroom, a shiver crawled down her spine. Twelve men and women in suits sat around the table, each of them powerful, each of them staring at her like she was fresh meat.
One of them smirked.
"So this is the girl? The late wife's secret spawn?"
Victor didn't flinch.
"She is the heir. That is all that matters."
The room buzzed with tension.
Amara didn't speak. Her instincts screamed that one wrong word would get her killed—or worse, used.
Then came the will.
Victor opened a black envelope sealed with a magical rune. The parchment inside burned gold as he read it aloud:
"Upon my death, all Blackwell global assets, including magical holdings, shall pass to Amara Blackwell, bloodline confirmed. She alone shall carry the key to the Vault."
The Vault?
What kind of billionaire has a vault tied to magic?
Amara's hands trembled, but she kept her face still.
The man beside her, thin-lipped and sharp-eyed, leaned in.
"You might be the heir on paper, girl," he whispered, "but paper burns."
Then, out of nowhere—a wolf.
A giant silver-furred beast burst into the room, its eyes glowing blue. Amara stumbled back, heart racing, but no one moved—no screams, no shock.
Victor raised a hand. "Enough, Ghost."
The wolf halted. Then bowed.
Amara's breath caught.
The beast bowed to her.
Victor's expression finally cracked with a flicker of curiosity.
"Well… it seems the Vault already recognizes you."