"You dropped something," Lola pressed, her red-soled shoe tapping the concrete just an inch from my toe. "What kind of badge did you just drop?"

I shifted my weight, pressing my heel firmly over the heavy silver. "Nothing that concerns you."

"Move your foot, Selene."

"It is an inventory tag," I said.

Lola took a step forward. Her expensive floral perfume clashed violently with the stale, metallic smell of the freezer aisle. "Show it to me. Now."

"I have work to do," I said.

I crouched fast, sliding my bare hand under the dirty tread of my boot. My fingers clamped over the freezing metal. I kept the intricate wolf crest pressed flat against my palm, hiding the details from her view. I stood up and shoved my fist deep into my jeans pocket.

"Warehouse inventory tag," I repeated, my voice completely flat. "Aisle seven clearance."

Lola narrowed her eyes, scanning my face for any sign of a lie. "You guard a piece of tin like it is a diamond. Pathetic."

"If you are buying the plaza, you should go. Regional managers hate waiting."

Lola scoffed. She flipped her perfectly styled hair over her shoulder. "Clean up these peas, warehouse girl. Try not to slip and break your neck."

She pivoted and walked away. I stayed perfectly still until the sound of her expensive shoes faded around the corner.

An hour later, I pushed open the peeling front door of our apartment. The hinges groaned loudly, a sound Aaron usually complained about. Today, he ignored it entirely.

Aaron stood in the center of the cramped living room, adjusting the lapels of a charcoal-gray suit. The fabric hugged his shoulders flawlessly. It looked custom-made.

"Do not step on the rug," Aaron said. His eyes remained locked on his own reflection in the cracked floor-length mirror. "Your boots track in mud."

I kicked off my work boots by the door. My socks were damp with melted frost. "Where did you get the suit, Aaron?"

"Lola," he answered. He smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle on his sleeve. "She knows I have that pack networking event tomorrow. I cannot show up looking like a rogue."

"You let her buy you clothes now."

"She has taste, Selene." He finally turned around. His gaze swept over my stained blue uniform, and disgust curled his upper lip. "Someone has to make sure I look presentable."

I dropped my keys on the counter. The metal clattered sharply against the cheap laminate. "I worked a double shift today. My back is killing me."

"Did you get paid?" he asked, completely ignoring my exhaustion.

"Yes."

"Good. Send me the money for Dylan's advanced combat tutoring. The instructor needs the deposit by eight tonight."

He did not ask how my back felt. He did not ask if I had eaten anything. He just held out his hand like I owed him.

"How much?" I asked, my voice dropping low.

"Eight hundred," Aaron said. He turned back to the mirror and adjusted his silk tie. "And add another two hundred. I need new dress shoes to match this cut."

My entire paycheck. Two weeks of lifting frozen boxes, shivering in a sub-zero freezer, and enduring Lola's taunts.

"I need groceries," I said, stepping closer to him. "The fridge is completely empty. We have nothing for dinner."

"Eat at work," Aaron snapped. "You work at a wholesale club. Steal a pizza."

"You want me to risk my job so you can buy shoes?"

Aaron spun around, his jaw rigid. "I want you to support your family! Dylan is falling behind the other pups. Do you want your son to be a failure?"

"I want my mate to contribute," I shot back. I stepped further into the living room, closing the distance between us. "When was the last time you brought home a paycheck? When was the last time you paid the rent?"

"I am building connections," Aaron said, his tone heavy with condescension. "Pack politics require finesse. You have to spend money to make money. You would not understand. You stack boxes for a living."

My chest tightened. Three years ago, I walked away from the Alpha estate. The elders demanded a grueling hardship trial to prove I could lead from the bottom. I chose this brutal, penniless existence. I chose Aaron, a low-ranking wolf with absolutely no prospects, believing a bond forged in poverty would be pure. I wanted a man who loved me, not the reigning heir.

Now, I saw the exact truth. He did not just hate my poverty. He hated me.

"Send the money, Selene," Aaron ordered. "Now."

I pulled out my phone. The screen was still spider-webbed with cracks from when Dylan threw it against the wall last month. I opened my banking app. Available balance: One thousand and forty-two dollars.

I typed in the transfer amount. One thousand.

My thumb hovered over the memo line. A dozen bitter words fought their way up my throat. I wanted to type blood money. I wanted to ask him if Lola's perfume washed out of his new suit. I wanted to scream that I was the only reason he had a roof over his head.

Instead, I typed a single word.

Tuition.

I hit send. The green checkmark flashed on the screen, draining my account down to double digits. Forty-two dollars to last me two weeks.

"Sent," I said, my voice entirely hollow.

Aaron's phone chimed on the coffee table. He did not even look at it. He just kept admiring his reflection.

"Make sure my blue shirt is ironed for tomorrow," he said. "And do not burn the collar this time."

He grabbed his keys and headed straight for the door.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Out," he said, not bothering to turn around. "Lola is treating Dylan and me to dinner at The Obsidian Room. Do not wait up."

The door slammed shut.

Silence filled the tiny apartment. I stood alone in the center of the faded rug, staring at the empty space where my mate had just stood.

Not a single thank you. Just a demand, a transaction, and a quick exit.

I sank onto the lumpy sofa. The broken springs dug into my thighs. My muscles ached with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the heavy silver badge.

The Alpha crest stared back at me. A crescent moon encircled by thorns.

Tonight was supposed to be the end. Midnight.

My phone buzzed in my lap, vibrating against the rough denim of my jeans.

I picked it up. A black notification banner stretched across the cracked glass. No sender name. Just an encrypted sequence that only the high council used.

Theo. My trial guardian.

I tapped the message, watching the text decrypt line by line into a final, undeniable order.

"The succession ceremony is set for next Monday, leaving exactly seven days on your trial."

"Seven days."

I stared at the encrypted text from Theo. The harsh glare of my cracked phone screen illuminated the cramped interior of my beat-up sedan.

Seven more days of this trial.

My thumb brushed against the cheap plastic name tag pinned to my left chest pocket. The harsh fluorescent lights of the warehouse still seemed to cling to the blue polyester.

I shoved the phone away and killed the engine.

Outside the windshield, the wrought-iron gates of Oakridge Academy stood open.

Dylan waited by the stone courtyard fountain. My ten-year-old son threw his head back, laughing loudly at a joke made by a boy wearing a three-hundred-dollar uniform sweater.

I stepped out of the car. The cold afternoon wind hit my face.

"Dylan," I called out.

His laughter vanished. He snapped his head toward me. His eyes darted from my scuffed work boots to the bright blue vest screaming my retail status to the entire courtyard.

The other boy smirked, nudging Dylan's shoulder. "Is that your maid?"

"No," Dylan muttered, his face flushing dark red. "Just... my ride."

He marched toward me, his jaw set hard. He offered no greeting. Instead, he swung his heavy leather backpack off his shoulder and shoved it directly into my chest.

The metal buckles bit into my collarbone.

"Put it in the trunk," he ordered, keeping his voice low.

"Dylan, look at me," I said. I reached out and caught his wrist.

"Don't touch me!" He yanked his arm free as if my skin burned him. "Get in the car before anyone else sees you."

"I am your mother," I said, my tone firm.

"You are an embarrassment!" he hissed.

He spun around, yanked open the passenger door, and threw himself onto the seat.

My phone vibrated in my jeans pocket. I pulled it out.

A text from Dylan lit up the screen.

Please don't wear this. You look like trash.

I stared at the glowing letters. My hands gripped the heavy straps of his backpack. Just three months ago, I dragged pallets of frozen meat until my spine felt permanently bruised. I worked ninety consecutive night shifts. I skipped lunches to save every spare dollar to pay the $24,000 tuition required to keep him standing in that elite courtyard.

I popped the trunk, tossed the bag inside, and slammed the lid shut.

The drive home passed in suffocating silence.

When I pushed open the apartment door, Aaron was already sitting at the cramped kitchen table. He wore the new charcoal-gray suit Lola had bought him.

Dylan pushed past me, entirely ignoring his father, and locked himself in his bedroom.

"You are late," Aaron said. He kept his eyes locked on his phone screen.

"Traffic," I replied. I unzipped my blue vest and draped it over the back of a chair.

"Pack a bag for him," Aaron commanded. "Just enough for the weekend."

I paused, my hand still resting on the rough polyester. "Why?"

Aaron finally looked up, his expression dripping with open disdain. "Dylan and I are spending the weekend at Lola's estate."

My fingers tightened on the chair. "You are taking my son to your mistress's house?"

"She is not my mistress, Selene. She is my sponsor," Aaron said smoothly. "She has a private pool. A chef. A tennis court. Dylan needs to expand his horizons. He needs to see how successful wolves live."

"He lives here," I said, stepping closer to the table. "With his family."

"He lives in a dump," Aaron shot back. He slammed his hand flat against the laminate wood. "Look around! Peeling wallpaper. Leaking faucets. You work at a wholesale club, Selene. What kind of future can you offer an ambitious pup?"

"I paid his tuition." My voice dropped to a sharp whisper. "I kept him in that school."

"Money you scraped together from sweeping floors," Aaron sneered. "Lola is introducing him to the alpha of the eastern sector tomorrow. Can you do that? Can you get him a seat at a high-council table?"

I stared at the man I chose three years ago. The man I thought would love me for me, completely separated from my pack title.

"You have no idea what I can do," I said.

"I know exactly what you can do," Aaron said, standing up. "You can iron my shirts and stay out of my way."

He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a thick, heavy envelope. He tossed it onto the kitchen table.

It landed with a solid thud, sliding across the cheap laminate until it stopped inches from my hand.

"Make sure my dress shoes are polished by tomorrow night," Aaron said, adjusting his cuffs. "Lola is hosting a banquet. It is strictly high-society."

"A banquet," I repeated.

"Yes. The kind of event they would never let you into, even to serve the drinks." He picked up his car keys. "Do not wait up. I need to take Dylan shopping for a tuxedo."

Aaron turned and walked out the front door, letting it slam shut behind him.

The silence rushed back into the tiny apartment.

I looked down at the table.

The invitation was made of thick, cream-colored cardstock. Gold foil lined the edges, catching the dim overhead light.

I reached out and flipped the heavy card open.

Elegant, sweeping calligraphy spelled out Lola's name as the guest of honor.

But my eyes locked onto the header.

Hosted by the Brandt Family.

My thumb traced the raised gold lettering spelling out Brandt—the exact exiled bloodline that had waged a bloody war against my mother for the alpha throne ten years ago.

My thumb traced the raised gold lettering spelling out Brandt.

The name burned into my vision. I did not throw the heavy cardstock across the room. I did not scream. I just stared at the elegant calligraphy, a cold, sharp focus settling into my bones.

I pulled my cracked phone from my jeans pocket. My fingers were still stiff from the freezer aisle, but I swiped past the family group chat and opened the encrypted dialer. I typed in the twelve-digit sequence I had memorized three years ago.

It rang twice.

"Speak," Theo answered. His voice was a low rasp, carrying the faint echo of the high council chambers.

"Lola's last name," I said, my tone entirely flat. "Is it Brandt?"

A heavy pause stretched across the line. The background noise on his end vanished as a solid oak door clicked shut.

"Where did you see that name, Selene?"

"An invitation. She is hosting a high-society banquet tomorrow night. Aaron just threw it on my kitchen table."

"Listen to me very carefully," Theo said. "Garrett Brandt is her father."

The puzzle pieces snapped together with a violent, satisfying click.

Ten years ago, Garrett Brandt launched a bloody coup against my mother for the alpha throne. He lost, facing permanent exile to the eastern sectors.

"She did not just meet Aaron at a bar," I said. I stepped away from the table, pacing the length of the faded living room rug. "This was not an accident."

"Six months ago," Theo confirmed, his words clipped and fast. "Right when your trial entered its most vulnerable phase. We tracked a large transfer of funds from the eastern sectors into the city. Garrett sent her to infiltrate your life."

"To make me fail," I said.

"To make you expose yourself. If they can push you to snap, to use your alpha command or access pack funds before midnight on the final day, your trial is void. The elders will strip your right of succession."

"And the throne goes to the next in line," I finished. "Garrett's faction."

"Exactly. She is a political operative, Selene. She bought Aaron a Porsche to humiliate you. She pays your son's tuition to break your spirit. She shows up at your workplace to taunt you. It is all calculated. They want you to break character. If you strike back as an alpha, you lose the crown."

I stopped pacing. A laugh scraped its way up my throat.

It was not a sound of despair. It was pure, icy clarity.

Aaron thought he had found a wealthy savior. He strutted around in custom suits, completely oblivious to the war raging around him. He was nothing but a pawn on my chessboard.

"He thinks she loves him," I said. I ran a hand over the back of the lumpy sofa I had bought from a thrift store. "I chose him because he had nothing. I thought a bond built in poverty would be pure. I wanted a mate who loved me, not the reigning heir."

"Aaron is weak," Theo said bluntly. "He was an easy target for Garrett. A low-ranking wolf with high ambitions and no work ethic. Lola just had to dangle a shiny watch and a fancy car, and he rolled over."

"He is a fool."

"Yes. But he is a fool holding your son."

I closed my eyes. The image of Dylan shoving his heavy leather backpack into my chest flashed in my mind. He was ten years old. Old enough to understand cruelty, but too young to see the strings attached to Lola's gifts.

"Dylan called her Mom yesterday," I said. The words tasted metallic, like chewing on foil.

"That is the trap, Selene. They are baiting you. They want you to march into that banquet tomorrow night and demand your mate and your pup back. If you do that, you lose everything."

"They want a reaction," I murmured.

"Lola will escalate," Theo warned. "She will push Aaron to file those divorce papers. She will try to take full custody of Dylan. You have to let her think she is winning."

"She is not taking my son," I said, my grip tightening on the edge of the kitchen counter.

"She does not want your son. She wants the alpha seat. The moment Garrett secures the throne, Aaron and Dylan become liabilities. They will be discarded."

I looked down the narrow hallway at the closed door of Dylan's bedroom. He was in there right now, packing a bag to go stay with the woman who wanted to destroy his true legacy.

"Aaron forged my signature on the preliminary divorce documents," I told Theo.

"Let him. The pack council will not finalize a mate separation without a formal hearing. We can delay the paperwork until your trial ends. But you must play the victim."

"I am not a victim."

"Then prove it. Endure."

I walked over to the cramped kitchen table and picked up the gold-foiled invitation. The thick paper felt heavy in my hand.

"They think I am just a broken retail worker," I said.

"You are playing a dangerous game. Aaron is taking Dylan to her estate."

"I know. He just told me."

"Do not intervene, Selene. Let them go."

I pulled open the top drawer of the counter. The metal track squeaked loudly. I pushed aside a stack of unpaid electric bills, a collection notice for the hospital bill when Dylan broke his arm, and cheap takeout menus. I dropped the heavy cardstock inside.

"I survived three years of stacking boxes and counting pennies," I said. "I can survive Lola playing house for a few more days."

I unpinned the plastic blue name tag from my work vest—Selene, Warehouse Associate—and tossed it right on top of the Brandt crest.

"I will not break," I added, slamming the drawer shut.

"You cannot afford to," Theo said. "Garrett is watching your every move. He has spies in the lower sectors. If you raise your voice too loud, if you flash your eyes, they will report it."

"Let them watch," I said. "They will see a tired mother working minimum wage. Nothing more."

"Tell the elders to prepare the succession ceremony," I ordered, my voice dropping an octave, slipping into the natural command of my bloodline. "I will be there."

"Understood," Theo said.

"And Theo?"

"Yes, Selene?"

"Find out exactly who is attending that banquet tomorrow night. I want a full guest list."

"You are not going."

"I did not say I was going. I just want to know who is betraying me before I take the throne."

Theo sighed, a heavy sound filled with years of political exhaustion. "I will send the list to your secure inbox."

"Thank you."

"Be careful, Selene."

Theo lowered his voice until it was barely a whisper over the encrypted line. "Seven days. In these seven days, if you expose your identity even once, Garrett will claim you faked the entire hardship trial—can you hold out for the final week?"