Eleonore POV:

I woke to the jarring buzz of my phone on the nightstand. The morning light filtering through the blinds felt like an assault. My body ached, and the phantom scent of Cristian's storm-like rage still clung to the sheets, making my stomach turn.

I fumbled for the phone. It was a message from Jodi Pollard, my best friend and a brilliant fashion designer.

I opened it. It was a picture, clearly taken on the sly. Cristian. He was standing in a ridiculously expensive home goods store, the kind that sells five-hundred-dollar candles. A sales associate was holding up a plush cashmere blanket for his inspection. His expression was focused, intense. It was a look of concentration I'd only ever seen him use when analyzing pack financials.

Jodi's text followed immediately. "Isn't he thoughtful? Picking out gifts for his little Omega personally. I heard Angelena loves this brand."

I stared at the photo, at the tender focus on his face as he considered the soft fabric. He had never looked at me like that. Not once in three years.

As if summoned by the thought, his voice sliced into my mind, cold and impatient.

"Some of my grandfather's old files are in the manor study. Get them. I need them at my office by the end of the day."

A wave of nausea washed over me. I wanted to scream, to tell him to get them himself.

He must have sensed my hesitation. A flicker of pressure, the barest edge of an Alpha's command, pressed against my mind. "And stay away from Angelena. She hasn't recovered yet. Don't bother her."

The hypocrisy was so staggering it was almost funny. The warning, after what I'd seen last night, after the picture on my phone, was the final insult. It ignited a cold, hard rage deep inside me.

"Understood," I sent back, my mental voice clipped and sharp, and then I slammed the connection shut.

I drove to the Dixon manor, a place I avoided like the plague. It was his family's ancestral home, a sprawling stone monument to Dixon power. I was its Luna, but I felt like a trespasser every time I set foot inside.

The study was dark and smelled of dust and old paper. I found the box of files tucked away in a corner, just as he'd said. I clutched it to my chest and walked out without looking back.

But I didn't go to his office. Not yet.

I went back to my apartment. I needed armor.

I stood under the shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing my skin raw, trying to wash away the scent of him, the feel of him. I dressed carefully, choosing a pair of tailored black trousers and a sharp, silk blouse. It was my doctor's uniform, but today it felt like a suit of armor.

It was late afternoon when I finally pulled up to the gleaming glass tower of Dixon Industries.

This was the first time I had ever come here. In three years of marriage, Cristian had kept his two worlds—pack and business—strictly separate. I had never been invited into this one, never introduced to his staff, never so much as photographed beside him at a company function. To the people who worked in this building, I wasn't the Luna. I was a stranger in expensive clothes standing in their lobby.

But the receptionist, a young woman with sharp makeup and a name tag that read 'Ashley White,' looked me up and down with open disdain.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone implying I was something she'd scraped off her shoe.

"I have a delivery for Cristian Dixon," I said, my voice flat.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, her lips curling into a smirk.

"No."

"Then I'm afraid you can't go up. The Alpha is in a meeting." She dismissed me with a wave of her hand, already turning her attention back to her computer screen.

The blatant disrespect was galling. I could have pulled rank. I could have announced myself as the Luna and watched her grovel. But I didn't want the scene. I didn't want the attention.

I placed the heavy box on the marble countertop. "Just tell him Eleonore Sargent was here."

The name gave her pause. Her eyes widened slightly as the connection clicked in her brain. Sargent. The Luna's family name. Her face began to pale.

Just then, the elevator doors slid open and Cristian's Beta, his second-in-command, rushed out. He saw me and immediately stopped, bowing his head in a gesture of deep respect.

"Luna," he said, his voice filled with surprise. "We weren't expecting you. The Alpha is waiting."

Ashley White's face went from pale to chalk white. I could feel her mortification from across the lobby.

I didn't spare her another glance. I picked up the box and walked past her toward the private elevator, the Beta holding the door for me.

The ride to the top floor was silent. When the doors opened, I stepped into a corridor of hushed gray carpet and glass walls. The only sound was the click of my heels.

Cristian's office was at the end of the hall, the large oak doors slightly ajar. As I approached, I heard it.

A soft, feminine sob.

My steps faltered. A cold dread, heavy and familiar, coiled in my gut. Against my better judgment, I paused, listening.

I heard Cristian's voice, low and soothing. "It's okay. Don't cry. I'm not blaming you."

I took a deep breath, the air burning in my lungs. No more hesitation. No more hiding.

I pushed the door open.

The scene inside made the blood in my veins turn to ice.

Cristian was behind his massive mahogany desk. And perched on the polished edge of it was Angelena. She was leaning forward, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other dabbing at her tear-streaked face with a tissue he had obviously given her.

Her body was angled toward him, her legs nearly touching his. From where I stood, the angle was devastating. It looked like he was holding her, sheltering her between his body and the desk. It was intimate. It was proprietary. And it was happening in his office, the very heart of his power.

They both looked up as I entered, their private little moment shattered.

My world shattered with it.