I began walking down the street, no destination, just trying to breathe and cool down a bit, the cold night air biting through my thin dress.
The city's noise was a distant hum, but a closer, sharper sound cut through it.
"—think you can just eat and not pay? You think I'm running a charity?"
I turned. A waiter was jabbing a finger at a man who looked pale and unwell, one hand braced against the wall of a dimly lit diner.
"Please," the man coughed, his voice ragged. "My wallet is in my car. Just let me get it..."
"I'm not letting you out of my sight!"
Something in me broke.
After a night of being powerless, here was a chance to exert a sliver of control, to be the one with power for just a moment. I strode over, my own fears forgotten.
"He's an unwell man," I said, my voice cutting through the tension. "Is this how you treat people?"
The waiter sneered. "You paying his bill, sweetheart?"
I didn't flinch. I pulled out the last of my crumpled cash—the money I'd saved for Billy's birthday gift.
"How much?" I slapped the bills into his hand. "Keep the change. And learn some decency."
The waiter stalked off, muttering.
The man turned to me, his eyes full of a profound, weary gratitude. "Thank you, miss. I... I don't know what to say. I just felt a spell come on, and I—"
"It's nothing," I said softly, my anger fading. "Anyone would have done the same."
"Please, let me repay you. My car is just here." He gestured to a modest blue sedan parked nearby.
He got his wallet stuffed with bills and tried to hand me a stack. "Please, take it."
My eyes widened. "No, that's... that's too much. I can't accept that."
He gently took my hand. His grip was surprisingly strong, his skin warm.
He folded the money into my palm and closed my fingers around it. "A good deed should be rewarded," he said, his voice firm yet kind.
"It's the least I can do. Please, allow me to give you a ride. It would make this old man feel much better."
I hesitated, searching his face. He seemed genuine, his eyes holding a deep, unexpected sadness that mirrored my own.
"Okay," I relented. "You can drop me at the corner of Elm and 5th."
It was a block away from the Onyx Club—close enough to walk, far enough to feel safe.
The ride was quiet.
When we reached the corner, he turned to me. "Thank you again. You have no idea what your kindness meant tonight."
I gave him a small, real smile. "Take care of yourself."
Getting out of the car, I watched him drive away, the cash a heavy, confusing weight in my hand.
For the first time all night, I had done something purely good, with no expectation, no transaction. A flicker of peace ignited in my chest.
It was a peace that would be short-lived.
But for now, I held onto it, walking the last block to my gilded cage, unaware that the kind "old man" was the most powerful wolf in the city— and that our paths were destined to crash together again in a storm of secrets and fire.
The Onyx Club never slept, but in the dead hours past midnight, it at least pretended to dream.
The grand halls were quiet, the air still heavy with the ghosts of perfume and power.
I moved through them like a shadow, the peace I'd felt with the old man already fading, replaced by the familiar weight of my chains.
Danny was waiting by the door to my room.
His arms were crossed, his face a storm cloud. "You can't just do that, Riley.
Disappear like that. What if something had happened to you?"
"I needed space," I said, my voice flat. I brushed past him into my room. "I'm fine."
He followed me in, closing the door. "This isn't about being fine! This is about the rules. Finn was looking for you. If he knew you'd ditched me—"
"Then let him know!" I snapped, whirling to face him.
The emotions I'd bottled up all night finally overflowed. "What's he going to do, Danny? Make me more of a slave? Beat me? I just faced down Trevor Gray in my dressing room. Do you really think I'm scared of Finn's temper right now?"
The words hung in the air between us. Danny's anger vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated horror.
"Trevor? He... what did he do?" he whispered, his voice deadly calm.
I told him. The words came out in a rushed, furious torrent—the locked door, the threats, the shove, the recording, my confession.
When I finished, I was trembling again.
Danny stared at me, his face pale.
He looked like he wanted to punch a wall. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, his mind clearly racing.
"This is bad, Riley. This is... this is a death sentence. He won't let this go."
"I know." I hugged myself, suddenly feeling very cold.
"But I won't go back to being that scared fifteen-year-old girl. Not for him. Not for anyone. I have a son to protect."
Danny was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the floor.
When he looked up, his eyes were different. Harder. "We need to be more careful, Riley," he said, his voice low and resolute. "We need to get out of this damn place."
The next morning, a sharp rap on my door jerked me from a fitful sleep.
It was Finn, his look was stern and cold, the usual, he was the manager of the Onyx club.
"A car will pick you up at noon," he said, his voice clipped.
"Marcus Volkan has requested you at his hotel. A business consultation, he says he has an offer for you. So don't be late."
He left without another word.
My blood ran cold. Marcus Volkan. Another wolf from the same den as Trevor.
Another "business consultation" that would inevitably turn into a demand.
The decision gnawed at me. Refuse, and Finn's wrath would fall.
Go, and risk another trap.
But Billy's face flashed in my mind—his birthday, his need for a better life.
I had to try. For him, I'd walk into the lion's den.
At noon, the car arrived.
The ride to the Volkan Grand Hotel was silent.
The lobby was a monument to cold wealth, all marble and muted gold. I approached the reception, my voice a careful mask.
"I'm here for Marcus Volkan's suite."
As the receptionist checked, a well-dressed, handsome young man stepped up beside me. "Excuse me," he said, his voice pleasant. "I'm here for Paul Clinton's room."
A private, wry thought flickered in my mind.
A man going to a man's room. It's about to go down in there. I felt no judgment, only a tired amusement at the secrets people paid to keep in a city built on them.
I was shown to Marcus's suite.
He opened the door, already smiling.
His chiseled jaw and narrow, calculating face caught the light, neatly combed hair glinting with a predator's charm. His sharp hazel eyes gleamed with false warmth, a mask I despised.
"Riley. Punctual. I appreciate that."
The suite was breathtaking, with panoramic views of the city. He gestured to a sitting area.
"Can I offer you a drink?"
"Water is fine," I said, remaining standing.
Marcus Volkan smiled, a practiced, disarming thing.
"I'll get straight to the point. I'm launching a new luxury line, 'Aethel.' I need a face. An ambassador."
I was stunned into silence. An ambassador? This wasn't the proposition I was braced for.
He saw my shock and his smile widened. He slid a glossy portfolio toward me.
"You have a quality, Riley. An elegance under pressure. A fire in your eyes that you try to hide. That's the brand. Untouchable beauty. Ferocious grace."
I opened the portfolio.
The designs were breathtaking—flowing silks, intricate beadwork, dresses that spoke of red carpets and freedom.
And then I saw the number. The projected compensation.
My breath hitched.
It was more money than I could save in ten years at the Onyx Club.
A dizzying image flashed in my mind: a small house with a yard for Billy. A real school. A life where his mother wasn't a slave, but a businesswoman. The hope was a physical ache in my chest, so sharp and beautiful it felt like a knife.
I forced my voice to remain steady, the cynicism that had kept me alive for thirteen years rising like a shield.
"It's a remarkable offer, Mr. Volkan." I set my water glass down with a quiet click.
"What is the condition?"
His charming smile widened into something predatory.
"The condition..." He pushed off the desk and walked to the door. The sharp click of the lock echoed in the vast suite. "...is that the contract isn't the only thing I want you to sign tonight."
All the beautiful, fragile dreams of a future—the house, the yard, Billy's safety—shattered, replaced by the same old filth.
The fury that rose in me was so cold it was calm.
"There is no clothing line, is there?" I asked, my voice dangerously soft.
"There will be. And you'll be the face of it," he said, walking toward me. "Consider this your… personal audition."
I didn't scream. I didn't flinch. I looked him dead in the eye, my expression one of pure, undiluted contempt. "Go to hell."
I sidestepped his advance, marched to the door, unlocked it, and slammed it behind me. I didn't run.
I walked away, leaving the shattered pieces of my hope on his marble floor.
Trembling with rage and the ashes of my brief hope, I stormed away.
I navigated my way to the exit of the hotel.
My vision was blurred with angry tears, but in my periphery, I saw a man in a finely tailored black suit round a corner, his wallet slipping from his pocket unnoticed.
I stopped, scooped it up, and without a second thought, followed.
It was a distraction, a simple, decent act to cleanse the filth of the last five minutes.
I tried to call-out to him but he was faster than I expected, disappearing into a room at the end of the hall.
Room 310. I followed to the room—reached for the handle, with the intent on simply returning the wallet and walking away.
I didn't knock.
I opened the door.
And the world before me stopped.
The man from the lobby—the one who had asked for Paul Clinton—was on his knees before the man in the black suit.
His fingers were on the other man's belt, his posture one of intimate reverence.
The man in the black suit had his back to me, his hands braced on a dresser.
And there, on his crisp white cuffs, were links of polished silver and obsidian, carved into a symbol I had seen my entire life.
The Gray family crest.
The kind, "sick" old man from the diner.
The commanding figure in the hallway.
The crest of the Alpha.
The three images fused in my mind, sharp and terrifyingly clear.
The wallet fell from my numb fingers, hitting the carpet with a soft thud.
The man in the black suit—Falon Gray, the Alpha of the Midnight Sun Pack—turned his head, and his horrified eyes locked directly with mine.