Chapter 2

Thick steam blurred the bathroom mirror, drowning out the noise of the world.

I lay in the mist, letting the warm water wash over my tired body. Memories I tried to bury seven winters ago rushed back in the silence.

Seven winters ago, I was twenty-one. I walked into a high-society gala with dreams of making it as an independent designer, only to walk right into a trap rigged by money and power.

My designs were stolen, and they shoved me into a private room in an underground winery. Despair choked me like a tight vine.

Just as my clothes were torn and I was about to end it all with a piece of broken glass, expensive Italian leather shoes broke the silence.

It was thirty-year-old Zenas Hale.

Tall, dark, and cold as a Siberian glacier in winter.

He casually took off his custom suit jacket, threw it over me, and told the shaking manager four words: "Take her out."

That night, he pulled me straight out of hell.

Outside the fitting room, a guard left to watch me made lewd, disgusting comments about me.

Instead of shrinking away after brushing with death, I snatched a red wine bottle, charged out, and cracked it straight over the guard's skull.

Blood splattered on the white carpet.

Farther down the hall, Zenas leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. The red ember glowed in the dark.

He looked at me, covered in blood like a wildcat with all its fur on end. Instead of getting mad, he gave a rare, amused smile.

He blew out a puff of smoke and told his right-hand man, "I'll take this wildcat."

The next day, the two-million-dollar loan that ruined my family was paid back in full with interest.

On the third day, I moved into this luxury downtown penthouse overlooking Manhattan.

When Zenas grabbed my chin and asked what I wanted, I didn't hesitate: "I want to be an independent fashion designer."

After that, the suffocating wealth of the Hale Corporation poured endlessly into the fashion industry.

In the next five years, I built my own high-end couture studio at a crazy speed.

The old fashion tycoons who once looked down on me now smiled and buttered me up. Nobody dared touch a single hair on my head.

I used to be stupid enough to think his protection meant favoritism, and every late-night embrace meant true love.

Until half a month ago, at the pack's estate dinner.

I was even thrilled because it was the first time Zenas brought me out in public. I thought our relationship was moving forward.

Even when his pack members shot me dirty looks, I pretended not to see.

I thought this was our love, and I should push through the hurdles.

But the next second, standing outside the half-open study door, I heard his chief assistant, Ethan, smiling and asking Zenas if he really planned to marry a human woman.

And that Alpha, who held the entire North American underground in his hands, sneered with total contempt: "Marry her? Ava is just for fun. My Luna is someone else."

Ice water hit my heart in that second.

I hid in an empty guest room, biting the back of my hand until my eyes were red from crying.

Yet when the party ended and I walked back downstairs, I had my makeup fixed to perfection. I stepped into my four-inch stilettos, walked up to him with a sweet smile, and gave him a birthday kiss that carried zero warmth.

The memories stopped cold as the bathwater went cold.

I finally woke up from this seven-year delusion of warmth and obsession.

Redemption? Favoritism?

It was nothing more than a fair deal priced in cash, where both sides got what they wanted.

Since he chose someone else, I would walk away with dignity.