CELESTRIA POV
I stare at the text message like it's a bomb about to explode.
We've been watching you, Celestria Wynter. And we have information about your husband that will change everything. Meet us tonight at The Violet Hour. Come alone. Trust no one.
My hands shake so badly I almost drop my phone. Someone's been watching me? Who? Why? And what information could they possibly have about Dorian that I don't already know?
He's a cheater. A liar. A terrible husband. What else is there?
Another text pops up before I can process the first one:
Don't tell anyone. Especially not your friend Isolde. This concerns your safety.
Ice floods my veins. They know about Isolde too?
I spin around, searching the empty hallway like whoever sent this might be hiding in the shadows. But there's nothing. Just expensive paintings and marble floors and silence.
My wolf growls uneasily. Something's wrong. Very wrong.
But before I can think about mysterious texts, I need to deal with the immediate problem—Isolde is waiting for me at the front gate, and I just told her I'd go into town with her.
I shove my phone in my pocket and grab my purse from my room, my mind racing. Should I tell Isolde about the message? The text said not to trust anyone. But Isolde's my best friend. She's the only person in this whole pack who actually cares about me.
Then again, how did this stranger know I was texting Isolde? Unless they're watching me right now?
I glance at my window. Nothing but trees and sky.
Get it together, Celestria. You're being paranoid.
Except the text knew my full name. Knew about Dorian. Knew about Isolde.
That's not paranoia. That's surveillance.
I hurry downstairs, my heart pounding. Isolde's leaning against her car at the front gate, scrolling through her phone. When she sees me, her face breaks into a grin.
"There's my girl! Ready to stop being a doormat and start being a badass?"
Despite everything, I smile. Isolde has that effect—she makes the world seem less heavy. Less hopeless.
"I don't know about badass," I say, climbing into the passenger seat. "But I'm ready to stop crying, at least."
"That's a start." Isolde starts the car, and we pull away from the packhouse. Away from Dorian and Senna and six years of pain.
For a moment, I let myself breathe.
"So," Isolde says as we drive toward town. "Let's talk strategy. If you're really doing this—and I think you should—we need to be smart about it."
"Smart how?"
"Well, first, we use a fake name. You're a Luna. If word got out that you hired an escort, Dorian would use it against you in a heartbeat."
She's right. Even though he suggested the open marriage, he'd twist it somehow. Make me look like the bad guy.
"Second," Isolde continues, "we pick someone good. Someone discreet. Crimson Veil has a whole selection—"
"Wait." I hold up my hand. "You've used this service before?"
Isolde's cheeks turn pink. "Not personally. But my cousin did after her mate died. She said it helped her feel... alive again. Human. Or wolf. You know what I mean."
I nod slowly. I do know what she means. I've felt dead inside for so long I barely remember what alive feels like.
"Okay," I say. "So we pick someone. Then what?"
"Then you have one amazing night where someone actually treats you like you matter. And when it's over, you come back with your head held high, knowing you're not the pathetic one in this marriage. Dorian is."
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I tense, expecting another creepy text.
But it's just a notification. Some pack business email.
I force myself to relax.
"You okay?" Isolde glances at me. "You seem jumpy."
"Just nervous," I lie. The text said not to tell anyone. "This is... a lot."
"I know, babe. But you deserve this. You deserve to feel wanted."
We pull into a coffee shop parking lot. It's a cute little place called Moon Beans—popular with pack members and humans alike. Isolde orders us both lattes, and we sit at a corner table.
She pulls out her phone and opens the Crimson Veil website.
"Okay, so here's how it works. You fill out a questionnaire—what you're looking for, what you need, boundaries, all that. They match you with someone appropriate. Everything is encrypted and confidential."
I stare at the elegant website. Part of me can't believe I'm actually considering this.
"What kind of questions?" I ask.
Isolde scrolls through. "Basic stuff. Age preference, physical type, whether you want conversation or just... you know."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I don't even know what I want."
"You want to feel beautiful," Isolde says firmly. "You want someone who'll make you forget Dorian exists for a few hours. Someone who'll treat you like the goddess you are."
Tears prick my eyes. "I'm not a goddess. I'm just—"
"Stop." Isolde grabs my hand. "You've spent six years listening to Dorian and his family tell you you're not good enough. You've internalized their garbage. But it's a lie, Celestria. You're smart. You're kind. You're beautiful. And any wolf would be lucky to have you."
"Then why doesn't my own mate want me?"
The question comes out broken, and Isolde's eyes fill with fury.
"Because he's an idiot who doesn't deserve you. And you know what? You're going to prove it. You're going to walk into that hotel room tomorrow night, and you're going to remember what it feels like to be desired."
Tomorrow night. That's so soon.
My phone buzzes again.
Another text from the unknown number: Did you think we were joking? The Violet Hour. Tonight. 9 PM. Come alone, or your husband's secrets stay buried—and so will you.
The threat is clear this time. Unmistakable.
My coffee cup rattles against the table as I set it down.
"Celestria?" Isolde's voice seems far away. "What's wrong? You're white as a sheet."
I can't tell her. The text said not to trust anyone.
But what if this is a trap? What if someone's trying to hurt me?
Then again, what if they really do have information about Dorian? Information that could finally free me from this nightmare marriage?
"I'm fine," I whisper. "Just... processing everything."
Isolde doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. Instead, she slides her phone across the table.
"Here. Look through the profiles. See if anyone catches your eye. No pressure—this is just window shopping for now."
I take the phone with shaking hands and scroll through faces. Handsome men. Beautiful men. Men who smile at the camera like they have secrets.
None of them feel real.
But then I stop on one profile. No photo—just a silhouette and a description.
Experienced. Discreet. Specializes in clients seeking emotional connection alongside physical intimacy. References available upon request.
Something about it calls to me. Maybe because there's no face. No expectations. Just the promise of someone who might understand that I need more than just sex.
I need to feel like I matter.
"Him," I say, showing Isolde.
She reads the profile and nods approvingly. "Good choice. The no-photo thing means he values privacy as much as you do. Want me to help you fill out the request form?"
I should say no. I should delete the website and go home and accept that this is my life now.
But then I think about Senna wearing Dorian's shirt. About six years of being invisible. About spending the rest of my life as the unwanted Luna.
"Yes," I say. "Help me."
We spend the next hour filling out forms. Isolde makes me laugh with her commentary, and for a little while, I almost forget about the threatening texts.
Almost.
By the time we finish, the sun is setting. Isolde drives me back to the packhouse.
"Tomorrow night," she says as I get out of the car. "The Meridian Hotel. Suite 2847. Eight PM."
"Tomorrow night," I repeat, my stomach doing flips.
I watch her drive away, then check my phone.
6:47 PM.
The Violet Hour—whatever that is—expects me at 9 PM. That gives me just over two hours to find this place, figure out what they want, and decide if I'm brave enough to go.
I head inside, planning to shower and change into something less conspicuous.
But when I reach my room, I freeze.
Someone's been inside.
My drawers are open. My closet disturbed. And on my bed, laid out carefully, is a black dress I've never seen before.
Beside it, a note written in elegant handwriting:
Wear this tonight. The Violet Hour is a private club for wolves only. The dress will get you past the door. Destroy this note. And Celestria? Whatever you do, don't tell your husband where you're going. His life depends on your silence.
My hands shake as I pick up the dress. It's beautiful—simple but expensive. Exactly my size.
Someone broke into my room. Left me clothes. Threatened Dorian's life.
And somehow, I'm supposed to just show up at a mysterious club and trust that this isn't a trap?
My wolf growls. This is dangerous.
I know. But it's also the first interesting thing that's happened to me in six years.
I pick up my phone to call Isolde, to tell her everything.
But another text stops me cold:
We can see you right now, Celestria. We know you're thinking about calling your friend. Don't. Put on the dress. Come to the club. Learn the truth about your husband. Or ignore us, and watch your whole world burn tomorrow. Your choice. Clock's ticking.
I look at my window.
Someone's watching me right now.
And they know my every move.