Odessa didn't move from bed until evening. The shrill ringing of the telephone yanked her from the heavy fog of sleep, and she groaned, blindly groping for the offending device on the bedside table. Her fingers finally closed around it, and she dragged it to her ear without bothering to check who was calling.
She answered the phone, pressing her fingers to her throbbing forehead as she leaned back against the pillows. The aftermath of last night clung to her body like a sickness—every muscle ached, her skull pulsed with a dull, persistent pain, and the bitter taste of regret lingered in her mouth. Painkillers. She needed them, and soon.
"Good morning, Madam." The voice on the other end was familiar—Rose, the owner of Flora's Shelter, the place Odessa had spent years volunteering at.
For as long as she could remember, that shelter had been her escape. When the weight of her life became too much, she'd disappear into the rows of cages, letting the animals' quiet trust soothe the jagged edges inside her. She used her influence shamelessly, leveraging her status to get them adopted, to secure donations, to make sure they were cared for. It was the one thing she did that felt real.
"Good morning, Rose." Her voice came out hoarse, rough from disuse and the remnants of last night's indulgences. "Is anything the matter? You're not usually the type to call this early."
Rose's voice cracked. "It's gone, Madame." A shuddering breath. "All of it."
Odessa sat up so fast her vision swam, but she ignored the way her body protested. "What? What happened, Rose? Talk to me."
"The shelter caught fire last night. Everything's gone. I don't know how it happened. The police are here, and—"
"Stay there." The words left her lips in a whisper, sharp and urgent. "I'm coming."
She slammed the phone down before Rose could respond, her hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it. No. It wasn't possible. She had been there just yesterday afternoon. The shelter had been standing, the animals safe, Rose bustling around like always. It couldn't be gone. It couldn't.
She didn't bother with a shower. There was no time. She yanked on the first dress she found—a wrinkled pink thing—pulled her hair into a messy low ponytail, and scrubbed her face with cold water before shoving her feet into sandals. The moment she threw open her bedroom door, she nearly collided with Rowan.
For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other. His gaze flickered over her—the hollow look in her bloodshot eyes, the way her jaw was clenched tight, the tremor in her hands she couldn't hide. She looked wrecked. Destroyed. And she was fighting like hell to pretend she wasn't.
"Move," she grunted, trying to push past him.
He blocked her path. "Where are you going?"
"Just bloody come along then!" The words tore from her throat, raw and furious.
"Don't curse at me," he shot back.
"Then let me go!" She shoved at his chest, her voice breaking into a scream.
And then, just like that, the dam cracked. A sob ripped out of her, harsh and ugly, and she swiped at her face with the back of her hand, as if she could scrub away the weakness. Rowan didn't say anything. He just stepped aside.
She bolted.
Her feet carried her through the hallways in a blur, Rowan close behind. She didn't slow down, didn't look back. He barked an order at the nearest servant, and by the time they reached the entrance, the car was already waiting. Odessa threw herself into the backseat while Rowan took the passenger side.
"Flora's shelter," she snapped at the driver.
Hakeem nodded, his expression grim. He knew. Of course he knew.
Rowan's mind raced. Just yesterday, Darius had been complaining about her. "She does nothing. She doesn't go out. Except that disgusting animal shelter—she's always there. She gets audacious when it comes to that place."
Had something happened?
From the rearview mirror, Rowan watched her. Her chin rested on her clenched fists, tears streaking silently down her face. She looked like someone had reached into her chest and torn something vital out.
For a stupid, fleeting second, he thought about reaching back. Holding her hand. Telling her it would be okay. But then his gaze caught on the dark mark on her neck—a hickey, barely hidden by her hair. The sight of it twisted something inside him. Disgust? Anger? He didn't know. He just knew Darius had put it there, and that made it worse.
"Can I use your phone?" Her voice was steadier now, cold.
"I… I didn't bring mine," Hakeem muttered, eyes fixed on the road.
Rowan pulled his from his suit pocket and handed it to her. "Here. It's unlocked."
She hesitated for half a second before taking it, her fingers trembling. She stared at the screen like she didn't know what to do with it. Of course—she didn't own a smartphone. Never bothered with one.
Rowan watched her struggle before reaching back. "What do you want to use it for?"
"I need to make a call." Her voice was clipped.
He opened the phone app. "Dial the number."
She recited the digits, and when the call connected, he passed it back.
"Thank you," she whispered before pressing the phone to her ear.
"Hello?" Rose's voice was thin, frayed.
"Rose. It's me."
"Thank goodness. I've been trying to reach you."
"What's happening now?"
"Are you still coming?"
"Yes."
"You should watch the news. They've asked us to evacuate. The police and press are everywhere."
Odessa's grip tightened on the phone. "Hakeem, turn on the radio."
Rowan did it for her, and the broadcast filled the car with sterile, detached professionalism.
"In recent updates, Flora's Shelter was completely destroyed in an overnight fire. No survivors except two newborn kittens, currently receiving treatment. Alpha Darius Montgomery has dispatched forces to assist with recovery efforts. The Alpha has generously compensated the owner, Rose Donovan, and provided employment for displaced staff. Rumors suggest the site will be repurposed as an animal food factory, as the Alpha is deeply committed to supporting the survivors."
Odessa turned the phone off. Her hands didn't shake anymore.
"Turn around, Hakeem. We're going back."
The grief was still there, sharp and suffocating, but now it was buried under something darker. Hotter. Rage coiled in her chest, thick and venomous. She was furious—at the world, at whatever god had let this happen, at Rose for folding so easily.
And at Darius.
She didn't need proof. She didn't need evidence. She knew.
This was his doing.