The dawn light was cruel. It showed everything.
A shattered crystal decanter bled expensive whiskey into the rug. A heavy chair lay toppled on its side.
In the center of the destruction stood Lucian Knight.
His hair was wild. His hands were fists shoved deep in his pockets. His eyes, bloodshot and fractured, scanned the empty penthouse again and again.
Gone.
The word was a hammer on his soul. Gone. Gone. Gone.
He had chased her from the restaurant. He'd screamed her name into the uncaring night.
He had driven for hours. Called every hospital. Called her mother with panicked lies.
His scent—sharp pine and cold rain—flared wildly. It was a distress signal for a mate who was no longer there.
He was coming apart.
His gaze landed on the glass desk. Two items sat there, neat and damning.
Elara's small beaded clutch. Her phone.
Next to them lay the weapon: a thick manila envelope.
A low growl ripped from his throat. He stalked to the desk. He didn't need to open the envelope again.
The images were burned into his mind.
The younger, crueler version of himself. The bragging chat logs. The proof of the monster he'd promised to bury.
Someone hadn't just told her his secret. They had weaponized it.
They had chosen the moment of his greatest hope and detonated it.
His fingers trembled as he grabbed her phone. It was dead. He plugged it in, impatience burning through him.
He picked up the envelope. Plain. Anonymous. Professional.
This wasn't a crime of passion. This was a hit.
The phone screen glowed to life. No password. She'd never used one with him.
That trust was now ash.
His thumb hovered. Her background was a photo of them from last week.
She was laughing. He was looking at her with pure adoration.
The memory was a knife.
He opened her tracking app. The one he'd installed on her watch. "For your safety, little one," he'd said.
She had trusted him. She had smiled.
The map loaded. A single blue dot pulsed.
He zoomed in. His breath stopped cold.
The dot wasn't at a friend's place. It wasn't at a hotel.
It was in the Sterling Enterprises corporate enclave. A high-security compound for executives.
He knew that address. He knew the cold, modern mansion made of glass and steel.
Victor Sterling.
The name was poison in his veins. The quiet man from college. The man whose life he'd shattered for sport.
Victor had Elara.
The pieces slammed together. The envelope. The timing. The destination.
This was revenge. A five-year-old grudge. A strike with surgical precision.
Victor Sterling had taken what was his.
A roar erupted from Lucian's chest. It shook the empty penthouse.
It was the sound of an Alpha whose world had been stolen. The civilized man he'd built for her shattered.
The beast beneath took over. Its eyes burned with a single purpose.
Burn Victor Sterling's world to the ground.
Get her back.
---
The first thing Elara noticed was the scent. Or the lack of it.
She woke to sterile, filtered air. Clean. Odorless. Dead.
For a second, she thought she was in a hospital.
Then memory crashed back.
The dinner. The envelope. Lucian's cruel face in the photo. The cold night. Victor Sterling's voice.
Contract marriage.
Her own hollow reply. Fine.
She opened her eyes. She was on a large sofa in a room of opulent minimalism. Morning light glared through a vast window.
There was no hiding now.
A soft chime sounded. A hidden wall panel slid open. A rack of clothing was inside.
Elegant dresses. Tailored trousers. Cashmere sweaters. All in muted colors. All her size. The tags were still on.
A calm, disembodied voice spoke. Alistair. "Your wardrobe, Miss Whitethorn. Breakfast will arrive shortly. Mr. Sterling expects you in his study at nine o'clock to review the documents."
Documents. The contract.
The cold reality settled in her gut. This was not a dream.
She moved in a numb daze. She showered in a marble bathroom. The hot water didn't touch the chill inside.
She put on a simple navy dress. The fabric was worth a month's rent. A constant reminder.
A silent maid brought breakfast. Perfect. Unappetizing. She forced down a few bites.
At nine o'clock sharp, she stood outside a heavy dark door. Her Omega instincts screamed to flee.
The door opened before she could knock. Alistair stood there.
"He is ready for you."
The study was a cliché of power. Leather books. A massive obsidian desk. The same cold city view.
Victor Sterling stood with his back to her. A silhouette of isolation.
He turned. The morning light made his features starker. Messy white hair. Piercing blue eyes. They scanned her with impersonal efficiency.
He wore a charcoal suit that screamed money and control. She felt like a purchased object.
"Sit." He gestured to a single chair before the desk.
She sat, back straight.
He didn't join her. He leaned against his desk, looming over her. He picked up a thick document and dropped it beside her chair.
Thud.
"The marital contract. One hundred and twelve pages. Pay attention to sections four, seven, and nineteen."
Her fingers trembled as she touched it. The cover was heavy cream cardstock.
CONTRACT OF MATRIMONIAL CONVENIENCE.
The words mocked every dream she'd ever had.
"Section four outlines your public duties," he began, voice flat. "You will accompany me to functions. Present a united front. No displays of distress."
Elara flinched.
"Section seven details finances. A monthly allowance. More than generous. All expenses covered."
He was budgeting her life.
"Section nineteen is confidentiality. You will not speak of this contract. You will not discuss our relationship. You will have no contact with Lucian Knight."
Hearing the name was a fresh wound. She looked down. The text blurred.
"This is my life," she whispered.
"No," he corrected, tone frigid. "This is an agreement. Your old life ended when you got in my car."
He walked to his chair and sat. He picked up a sleek black pen. He held it out.
"Sign the last page. The lawyers will handle the rest."
The pen was heavy in her hand. This was the point of no return. Selling her freedom for safety.
She thought of Lucian's lying smile. Her mother's confusion. The gilded cage.
Her hand shook. She flipped to the back. The blank signature line accused her.
She took a ragged breath. She lowered the pen.
---
The pen tip hovered. Elara's hand wouldn't stop trembling.
Victor watched her. Patient. Cold. He knew the outcome.
Just sign it, a numb voice whispered. What choice do you have?
Another part screamed. This is wrong.
"Having second thoughts?" Victor's voice cut the silence. "The alternative is to walk out that door. You're free to go. But consider what awaits you."
The threat was clear. Lucian. Poverty. The abyss.
A hot tear escaped. It fell on the contract, blurring the ink. She wiped it away, ashamed.
She gritted her teeth. She pressed the pen down.
The scratch of the nib was deafening. She signed her name.
Elara Whitethorn.
The letters were a desperate scrawl. The signature of a captive.
She dropped the pen like it was poison.
Victor gave a slight nod. He pulled the contract to him. He scanned her signature with detached eyes and closed the document.
"Alistair will give you a new phone. Your old life is a security risk now."
As if on cue, Alistair entered. He placed a slim black device in a box on the desk.
It was a digital leash.
The new phone lit up. A soft glow. A notification.
Unknown Number.
A preview of a message.
Elara's breath caught. Her eyes darted to Victor. He had seen it too. His jaw tightened.
Slowly, Victor picked up the phone. He entered a passcode—he already controlled it—and opened the message.
His face was stone. He turned the screen to face her.
A photograph. A single white lily, wilted, lay on the welcome mat of her old apartment.
It was Lucian's signature apology. A symbol of peace.
Beneath the image, text:
I'm not giving up on us, little one. I will always find you.
The pet name. The promise. The proof he was circling her old life.
It was a direct assault. A declaration of war on Victor's new claim.
The room felt small. The air was thick. Elara felt dizzy—a flicker of treacherous warmth, then a flood of fear.
Victor's voice was dangerously quiet. Each word dipped in ice.
"It seems your boyfriend doesn't understand the word 'no.'"
He placed the phone back on the desk.
"It appears I will have to teach him."