The first thing I registered was the silence.
Not the empty silence of the motel, filled with the hum of a dying air conditioner and distant sirens.
This was a heavy, expensive silence.
The kind that felt padded and deep, absorbing sound before it could even be born.
I opened my eyes.
A high, coffered ceiling. Pale gray.
The bed beneath me was a vast ocean of white linen, so soft it felt like drowning.
I was in the Gray manor.
The memory of the previous day settled over me, not like a blanket, but like a shroud. The ceremony. The cold weight of the torque now resting on the nightstand. The cheering crowd.
Billy's birthday was yesterday.
The thought was a shard of glass in my heart, twisted slow and deep.
I had spent the day my son turned twelve marrying his father's brother.
The irony. A living, breathing monument to my own damnation.
A knock came at the door. Sharp. Unavoidable.
It opened before I could speak. Clara stood there, a silhouette of efficiency against the bright hallway.
"Luna. You're awake. Good." She stepped inside, her eyes doing a quick, inventory-taking sweep of the room—and of me.
"We have a schedule." She held up a tablet, a digital warden.
"Briefing at ten. Fitting at eleven. Your first public appearance at three."
She tapped the screen and turned it toward me.
A glamorous, smiling woman's face stared back, next to the bold, cursive logo: SHE-KNOWS.
"A TV show?" The words felt stupid on my tongue.
"Today? I thought... I thought after the ceremony, I could just..."
What? Hide? Look for my son?
Clara's smile was thin, a professional curve of the lips.
"The ceremony was the prologue, Luna. This?" She gestured vaguely at the world beyond the door.
"This is the book. And it's a daily grind. You need to be ready in an hour."
She left, the door clicking shut with a sound of absolute finality.
The next hour was a blur of alien rituals.
A woman with cold fingers measured every inch of me, her tape measure a snake coiling around my body.
Another man with a pinched face lectured me on pack bloodlines and council protocols, his voice a dull drone.
I nodded. I held my arms out. I performed.
It was the Onyx Club all over again.
A different stage, a more expensive costume, but the same damn performance.
During a stolen moment, I retreated to the lavish ensuite bathroom, locking the door.
My sanctuary was marble and gold.
I pulled out my phone, my hands trembling slightly. My dirty secret. My only tether to reality.
I tapped the video.
His face filled the screen.
Billy. My beautiful boy. His eyes, so much like mine, were wide with a confusion he was too brave to voice.
The tiny candle on the cupcake flickered.
"I wish Mommy would come get me."
His voice, small and hopeful, was a knife.
The distorted reply from his captor was the twist. "She's coming soon."
The screen went black. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, the phone a dead weight in my hand.
Another knock. "Mrs Gray? The car is ready in fifteen."
It was Clara. I unlocked the door. She stood there, already assessing my state.
"Almost time. You'll be brilliant. Just remember to—" Her words cut off as her gaze dropped.
She was looking at my phone, still clutched in my hand, the black screen reflecting the sterile bathroom light.
"Who's that?" she asked, her voice shifting from manager to something quieter, more curious.
I didn't have the energy to lie. "My son."
She leaned closer, a genuine softness in her eyes for the first time.
"Oh, Luna. He's beautiful. He has your eyes." She straightened up, a practical frown creasing her brow.
"The Alpha said he was taken. But in the video... he looks okay. Clean. Fed."
"He was kidnapped," I repeated, the word ash in my mouth.
"I know, I know, it's just..." She hesitated, choosing her words with care.
"It's just unusual. Usually, when it's a stranger, there's more... terror. This feels... personal. Does he have a father? Sometimes, it's not a monster. Sometimes, it's just a desperate parent."
The world didn't slow down. It shattered.
A father.
The word hung in the perfumed air between us.
Trevor.
His face swam in my vision.
The brutal grip on my arm in the alcove.
The smug, possessive fury in his eyes. "I know you killed Marcus... I own that truth now."
His obsession with his own twisted version of dynasty.
He took my son.
The phone nearly slipped from my numb fingers. The room tilted.
The perpetrator was always in front of me, but I can do anything yet, I have to honour my contract— I have to get over this schedule thing.
The car was silent.
I stared at my reflection in the tinted window—a pale woman in expensive clothes, a nobody wearing a crown.
"Remember the talking points," Clara said, her voice crisp in the quiet.
She was my handler.
"The future of the pack. Unity. The Alpha's visionary leadership. If she brings up the Onyx Club, you say: 'I am focused on the future, not the past.' Smile. Always smile. You are the happy ending to your own story."
I nodded, my jaw clenched. Happy ending. My son was missing.
What a fairytale.
Backstage was a controlled chaos.
I stood in the shadows, my heart a frantic drum.
I watched Vanessa on the monitor, her smile a weapon. She was the lion tamer, and I was the new act.
"And now," her voice oozed, "Let's welcome the woman who is the talk of the city... Luna Riley Gray!"
The applause shoved me into the blinding lights.
I walked to the chair, my smile already plastered on, rigid and foreign.
"Luna Riley, welcome!" Vanessa began, eyes gleaming.
"Your story is remarkable. From complete unknown to the Alpha's wife overnight. What's the secret?"
I gave a practiced, gentle laugh.
"The only secret is the Alpha's generous heart. He saw a need for a new perspective. I am humbled to be part of his vision." The words were ash in my mouth.
"Of course," Vanessa purred, leaning in.
"But your... background... is so unconventional. The Onyx Club is such a specific world. How does one transition from that life of... performance... to the immense responsibility of Luna?"
The word "performance" was a needle.
I felt the old shame rise, a hot flush threatening my cool facade. I could feel Clara's gaze from the wings: Hold. The. Line.
I didn't flinch. I offered a serene, almost pitying smile.
"You keep using that word. 'Performance,'"
I said, my voice calm and clear.
"At the Onyx Club, I performed a role I was forced into. I was an object."
I leaned forward, just a fraction, my gaze intensifying, locking with hers.
"Now, as Luna, my role is to serve this pack. The difference is..." I let the pause hang, drawing in the entire studio.
"...now I'm playing my own part. And I've never been more serious in my life."
A murmur rippled through the audience. Vanessa blinked, thrown. This wasn't the flustered girl she'd expected.
"A noble sentiment," she recovered, her smile tight. "But surely you see why people are... curious. It's such a dramatic leap."
My voice dropped, becoming intimate and powerful, amplified for everyone to hear.
"The only 'leap,' Vanessa, is the one this pack is taking into a better future. My past has given me a unique understanding of strength. The strength to endure. The strength to survive. And now..." I swept my gaze across the audience, making it a shared secret.
"...the strength to lead. To protect. The Alpha didn't choose a fragile doll. He chose a warrior. And I suggest you all remember the difference."
I leaned back, the serene smile returning.
The studio was silent for a beat, then erupted in applause.
Not the polite clapping from before, but something warmer, louder. Real.
I had not broken the rules. I had simply shown them the iron fist inside the velvet glove.
Back in the car, Clara was silent for a full minute.
"Well," she finally breathed, a genuine note of shock in her voice. "That was... not in the script."
"How did I do?" I asked, my body still thrumming with the fading adrenaline.
"You rewrote it," she said, shaking her head slowly. "We'll see if the producers liked your edits."
My phone buzzed.
Not a text. An image. From Falon.
I opened it. My blood ran cold.
It was a photo of a man in a sterile, white room, his head bandaged, his face bruised and pale. Unconscious.
It was the bodyguard. The one I'd pistol-whipped in Marcus Volkan's suite.
My fingers trembled as I typed.
Riley: It's him. The one from the hotel.
A moment passed.
Riley: What are you going to do to him?
His reply was instant.
Falon: You don't need to know.
The finality in those four words was more terrifying than any threat.
He was handling the mess. Erasing the evidence.
It was a reminder that I was tethered to a man whose solutions were as absolute as they were brutal.
Another message came through.
Falon: I watched the interview.
I held my breath, waiting for the judgment.
Falon: You didn't embarrass me. It was more than I expected.
The praise was like ice.
It wasn't "You were brilliant." It was "You didn't fail."
He had sent me into that arena anticipating my humiliation, and I had merely surpassed his low expectations.
I leaned my head back against the seat, the brief thrill of my on-air victory completely extinguished, replaced by a cold, clear understanding.
This was the deal.
This was the pact. He would handle the bloody aftermath in the shadows, and I would command the spotlight.
I had just proven I could play my part.
Now, we waited to see if the pack was buying the performance.