Alexa POV

I walked toward my bedroom without a single glance back. The soft cream walls and vintage French oak furniture that had once been my safest haven now closed in around me, turning the familiar comfort into a gilded, suffocating cage. I dragged my worn Louis Vuitton duffel down from the closet top and tossed my clothes inside one after another. My trivial belongings did not matter, though. The true leverage rested in the bag’s side pocket: an encrypted hard drive holding every corrupt detail of the Thompson project.

I stopped in front of my vanity. Gilded frames lined its surface, each holding a photo of Barret and Kenda. Their grins felt deliberate, as if they had long hidden a cruel secret at my expense. I swept the frames up in one sharp motion and tossed them straight into the metal trash can. Glass shattered with a crisp, satisfying crack. I did not spare the broken shards a second look.

A sharp knock sliced through the heavy silence of the room. Georgetta, the Beta head maid, pushed the door open without waiting for my permission. Her expression was carefully blank, the stale camphor scent of her uniform drifting in to blanket the air.

“Barret wants the Maxwell engagement ring,” she said, her voice flat and devoid of any warmth. “He’s having it polished for Charlotte to wear tomorrow.”

I stared at her for a long beat, letting the sheer absurdity of the situation sink into my bones. Slowly, I twisted the heavy diamond ring off my finger and flicked it hard toward her chest. It bounced off her collarbone and clattered loudly against the hardwood floor, stripped of all its value, no more precious than a cheap carnival trinket.

Then I left. For good.

I took the narrow back staircase instead of the grand main hall. I would never give these traitors the satisfaction of watching me flee with my tail tucked. The dim back corridor reeked of harsh bleach. I slipped through the industrial kitchen, passing wide-eyed Omega maids and frozen, silent chefs. Not a single person moved to stop me. Not one dared speak. I did not slow my pace until I cleared the towering iron front gates, standing alone on the frigid street with nothing but my duffel bag. I was adrift now—no Pack, no family, no mate. Completely rogue.

I hailed a yellow cab and dialed Andrea Silva before the vehicle’s doors fully clicked shut. By the time we rumbled over Soho’s cobblestone streets, I had spilled every ugly truth: Floyd’s schemes, the damning dashcam footage, Barret’s cold betrayal, and the farcical engagement ring. Over the speaker, I heard her Beta wolf rumble a low, dangerous growl.

The taxi screeched to a halt outside Andrea’s attic loft. The second the heavy metal door slid open, her signature warm citrus scent washed over me. It usually calmed my frayed nerves, but tonight, the familiar fragrance only pressed heavier on my chest, amplifying the chaos swirling inside me.

Andrea was pacing frantically behind her marble kitchen island, her heels striking the hardwood in sharp, rapid succession. Each loop grew tighter, her fists clenched so fiercely her knuckles blanched white. The moment she laid eyes on me, she snatched a bottle of tequila off the counter.

She slammed two shot glasses down on the coffee table hard enough to make them rattle, then filled both to the brim in a single, furious pour. It looked less like a toast and more like an attempt to drown her burning rage.

I curled my fingers around one glass but made no move to drink. After a thick, heavy silence, I forced the truth out loud.

“Andrea… I think the board is going to dismiss me soon.”

The words hung thick and unshakable between us.

“Once I’m out, Barret won’t hesitate. He’ll strip every single thing I’ve built from the company and use it to solidify his power.”

Andrea froze. The room dropped into a deathly quiet for a single heartbeat—then she exploded.

“What?” She spun toward me, her voice cracking like a whip, disbelief and fury blazing bright in her dark eyes.

“That company is as much yours as it is anyone’s! Every deal, every sleepless night, every sacrifice—you bleed for that empire!” She raked a frustrated hand through her hair, then slammed both palms against the marble countertop, the crash echoing sharply through the loft.

“No. I won’t let them get away with this.” She resumed pacing, faster and more agitated than before, her breathing ragged. “We’ll leak the dashcam footage. Hand it straight to the press and expose every last one of Floyd’s lies.” Her tone turned cold and razor-sharp. “We’ll ruin his reputation and drag the entire Maxwell family into the public eye.”

She stepped forward, locking her gaze firmly on mine. “Ermine Maxwell and your uncle only care about one thing—their pristine reputation. If that video goes public, public opinion will tear them apart. They’ll have no choice but to fold.”

Her fingers tightened on my shoulders, hope and desperation warring in her voice. “This might be the only way to stop them from taking everything from you.”

I knew her plan was solid, but I had my reasons for refusing. I held her gaze steady and shook my head. “No. A scandal like this will trigger an immediate SEC investigation. Alexander Pack’s stock will crash overnight. I won’t burn my father’s entire empire just to take down Floyd. I need a cleaner solution.”

Andrea frowned, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “What kind of cleaner solution?”

“Barret’s calling an emergency Elders’ meeting. He’s going to strip me of my VP title and my voting rights.” My voice was steady, unyielding. “I need a backer—someone with enough capital and absolute authority to crush Floyd and Barret in one fell swoop. I need a contract marriage.”

She blinked in shock, then let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “You’re serious. Who on earth are you going to proposition on such short notice?”

I closed my eyes, and the memory of the airport flooded back: the chaos of JFK’s private terminal, the thunder of jet engines, and him. A Lycan. Tall, immaculately composed, exuding a cold, unrivaled authority that commanded every room he stepped into. His scent lingered in my mind: expensive tobacco, crisp cedarwood, and the biting chill of frozen winter air.

“There was a man at the airport tonight,” I said slowly, opening my eyes. “A Lycan. His aura was so overpowering it left me breathless. That cedar-and-ice scent cut through everything around him. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Andrea’s face drained of all color. Her anger vanished entirely, replaced by raw dread. She gripped the edge of the counter until her fingers whitened.

“Cedarwood and ice? There’s no mistaking that signature.” Her voice dropped to a shaky whisper. “Alexa… that’s Alaric Maxwell. The Ghost of Wall Street. The Lycan King.” She paused, the weight of the words sinking in. “And he’s Floyd’s uncle.”

Ancient, cold, fearless White Wolf blood stirred awake in my veins. I turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the sprawling city skyline. A sharp, faint smile tugged at my lips.

"That's wonderful," I whispered. "I've decided to marry him."

Andrea opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The shot glass slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floorboards, tequila pooling around the jagged shards like spilled amber.