CELESTRIA POV
I'm standing in my bedroom holding a mysterious black dress, staring at my phone where a stranger just told me they're watching me right now, and I have exactly two hours to decide if I'm brave or stupid.
Probably both.
My wolf paces in my head, snarling with confusion. This is a trap. Run.
But what if it's not? What if someone really does have information about Dorian that could change everything?
I look at the dress again. Whoever left it knows my exact size. They've been in my room. They know my schedule, my friends, my movements.
That should terrify me.
Instead, I feel something unexpected: curiosity.
For six years, I've been invisible. Ignored. Pushed aside. Now someone's paying very close attention to me, and as creepy as it is, it's also the most interesting thing that's happened since... well, since I married Dorian.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: Still deciding? Let me help. Your husband is not who you think he is. The affairs? They're just the surface. There's so much more. Come tonight. Learn the truth. Or spend the rest of your life married to a monster you don't even fully understand.
A monster?
Dorian's a cheater. A narcissist. A terrible husband. But a monster?
What does that even mean?
I text back before I can stop myself: Who are you?
The response is immediate: Someone who wants to help you. That's all you need to know. The Violet Hour. 9 PM. Wear the dress.
Then: And Celestria? Bring the phone we left for you in your dresser. Bottom drawer, under your winter scarves. Don't use your regular phone at the club. They're tracking it.
My blood goes cold.
They're tracking my phone? Who's "they"? Dorian?
I run to my dresser, yank open the bottom drawer, and shove aside winter scarves I haven't touched in months.
There, nestled in the corner, is a phone I've never seen before. Small. Black. A burner phone like you see in spy movies.
How long has this been here?
How many times have strangers been in my room without me knowing?
My hands shake as I pick it up. It's already charged. Already turned on. And there's one contact saved: "Friend."
This is insane. Completely insane.
I should call pack security. Tell them someone's stalking me. Get protection.
But what if Dorian's involved? What if pack security reports everything to him?
The text said he's tracking my regular phone. That means he's been watching me too. Reading my messages. Knowing everywhere I go.
Suddenly, the open marriage suggestion makes more sense. He's not giving me freedom—he's trying to catch me doing something he can use against me.
My stomach twists with nausea.
I've been so focused on his affairs that I never considered what else he might be hiding.
A new text appears on the burner phone:
Friend: Smart girl. You found it. Now listen carefully. You have two choices tonight. Choice one: Go to The Violet Hour at 9 PM. Learn what your husband really is. Choose freedom. Choice two: Ignore us. Go to the Meridian Hotel tomorrow for your arranged meeting. Have your one night of revenge. But know that while you're there, Dorian will be making moves that will trap you forever. Your choice. But choose wisely.
Wait.
They know about the Crimson Veil appointment?
How could they possibly—
Unless they've been monitoring everything. Not just my location. My internet searches. My conversations with Isolde.
Everything.
I sit down on my bed, feeling like the floor just dropped out from under me.
This morning, my biggest problem was a cheating husband and a mistress wearing his shirt.
Now I'm caught between mysterious stalkers and a husband who might be "tracking" me, with a burner phone in one hand and a dress from strangers in the other.
My wolf whimpers. What do we do?
I look at the time. 7:15 PM.
If I'm going to The Violet Hour, I need to leave soon.
But there's still the Crimson Veil appointment tomorrow. The chance to finally do something for myself. To feel wanted, even if it's fake. Even if I have to pay for it.
The burner phone buzzes again.
Friend: You're thinking about skipping tonight and going to your hotel appointment instead. Don't. By tomorrow night, Dorian will have filed rejection papers claiming you're mentally unstable. He's already got pack witnesses lined up to testify. Two months from now, you'll be packless, homeless, and labeled as a crazy rejected Luna. No pack will take you in. Is one night of pleasure worth losing everything?
The words hit like a physical blow.
Rejection papers?
Witnesses?
He's planning to destroy me completely?
My hands shake so badly I almost drop the phone.
No. This has to be a lie. Some elaborate trick to manipulate me.
But what if it's true?
What if tomorrow is too late?
I stand up, my decision made.
I pull on the black dress. It fits perfectly, hugging my curves in a way that makes me look elegant instead of desperate. I brush my hair, apply minimal makeup, and grab the burner phone.
My regular phone stays on my nightstand—if Dorian's tracking it, let him think I'm home all evening.
I slip out the side entrance of the packhouse, the one that leads to the garden. Nobody sees me leave.
The address for The Violet Hour is already programmed into the burner phone's GPS. It leads me downtown, to a part of the city I've never visited. Old buildings. Narrow streets. The kind of place where werewolves do business they don't want humans knowing about.
I park three blocks away and walk, my heels clicking on the cobblestones.
The Violet Hour doesn't have a sign. Just a purple door with a golden wolf's head knocker.
I lift the knocker and let it fall.
The door opens immediately.
A woman stands there—elegant, silver-haired, with eyes that glow amber in the dim light. Pure werewolf.
"Celestria Wynter," she says. Not a question. A statement. "We've been expecting you."
She steps aside, and I see what's beyond the door.
A staircase leading down. Purple lights. The sound of music and voices floating up from below.
"What is this place?" I whisper.
"A sanctuary," the woman says. "For wolves who need truth more than comfort. Come. Your answers are waiting."
I hesitate at the threshold.
This is my last chance to turn around. To go home. To pretend none of this is happening.
But then I think about Dorian's hickeys. Senna's smug smile. Six years of being not enough.
And I step through the door.
The woman smiles. "Brave choice. Follow me."
We descend the stairs, and the music gets louder. Jazz. Smooth and sultry.
At the bottom, the stairs open into a underground club. Dim lighting. Velvet booths. Werewolves everywhere—some in business suits, some in casual clothes, all emanating power.
This is a club for important wolves. Alphas. Betas. Leaders.
What am I doing here?
The woman leads me through the crowd to a private booth in the back corner.
A man sits there, his face hidden in shadow.
"Celestria," he says, and his voice is deep. Familiar somehow. "Sit. We have much to discuss about your husband."
I slide into the booth, my heart pounding.
The man leans forward into the light, and I gasp.
Because I know this face.
I've seen it before, in pack history books and news articles.
Thorne Ravaille. Alpha of the Nightfall Pack. One of the most powerful wolves on the entire East Coast.
And according to every source I've ever read, he hates Dorian with a passion that borders on obsession.
"You," I breathe. "You're the one who's been watching me?"
Thorne's silver eyes gleam. "Watching. Protecting. Waiting for you to be ready for the truth."
"What truth?"
He slides a folder across the table.
"The truth about what your husband really does with his mistresses. And why you were never meant to survive this marriage."