The temporary loft on Fourth Street smelled of stale coffee and fresh paint.
I sat at the small breakfast bar with an ice pack pressed against the nape of my neck. The psychic burn from the severed bond still pulsed under my skin, but the sharpest edge of the agony had dulled to a low, manageable ache. My wolf remained quiet, curled deep inside, resting after the night's wreckage.
A firm, deliberate knock rattled the front door.
I set the ice pack down and smoothed my oversized gray sweater. When I opened the door, Roman Cross stood in the hallway.
He wore a tailored navy suit, looking sharp, composed, and completely removed from the chaos of last night. In his right hand, he held a slim black leather folio.
He didn't mention the parking garage. He didn't ask how I was feeling, nor did he look at me with pity.
"Mara," he said, his deep voice calm. "May I come in?"
I kept my hand on the doorknob. "How did you find this address?"
"You booked it at four this morning using a private corporate card," Roman replied smoothly. "Cross security monitors city registry filings. May I?"
I stepped back, leaving the door wide open.
Roman walked inside. He cast a quick, respectful glance around the sparsely furnished living room before setting the leather folio flat onto the laminate countertop.
He unzipped the binder and slid a single twenty-page document toward me.
"What is this?" I asked, looking down.
"An executive employment agreement," he said. "President of Cross Enterprises' new Cultural Tourism and Leisure Logistics network. Full autonomy, direct reporting line to me, and a ten percent equity pool in the division."
I stared at the heavy paper. The Cross Enterprises seal was embossed in silver at the top.
My defenses flared instantly. "Is this a joke, Roman? You’re Damien's fiercest competitor. For three years, I’ve been the one blocking your supply routes in the valley."
"I know," Roman said, resting his hands lightly against the edge of the counter. "I’m hiring the person who made my competitor dangerous."
The honesty caught me off guard. There was no mockery in his expression, only steady, calculating respect.
"Blackwood was nothing but a regional firm until you restructured their operations," he continued. "Damien has the charisma for press conferences, but you were the engine. Now that you've dismantled your ties with him, I want that engine running my newest division."
I looked at the contract. The compensation package was staggering—triple my executive draw at Blackwood, with full indemnity clauses that shielded me from any non-compete lawsuits Damien might try to throw my way.
More than that, it offered power. Real, tangible leverage to build something untouchable.
My chest tightened as the memory of his scent—rain, ozone, and dark chocolate—brushed the back of my mind. The faint, phantom pull of the second-chance bond flickered between us, humming beneath the surface of the quiet room.
I couldn't afford another master. I couldn't trade one Alpha's cage for another.
"I have a condition," I said, my voice turning hard.
"Name it."
"If I take this, we draw an absolute line right now," I said, meeting his amber eyes without blinking. "This is strictly business. We talk about budgets, acquisitions, and transit corridors. We never talk about what happened in the garage. We do not explore, acknowledge, or pursue any mate bond. If you cross that line even once, I walk."
I braced myself for irritation, a dismissive scoff, or an Alpha assertion of control. That was how Damien had always responded whenever I demanded personal boundaries.
Roman didn't even hesitate.
"Agreed," Roman said evenly.
He reached into his breast pocket, drew an antique silver pen, and clicked it once. He placed it squarely on top of the signature line.
"Sign on page eighteen," he said.
I looked at him for two seconds, searching his face for hesitation. There was none.
I picked up the pen and signed my name with a single, fluid stroke.
Roman took the document, countersigned beneath my signature, and slipped the copy back into his folio. The transition was seamless. The moment the ink dried, the air between us shifted from guarded suspicion to crisp professionalism.
"Our first priority is the Highline Haven acquisition," Roman said, pulling a tablet from his briefcase and setting it on the counter. "We're converting four thousand acres of coastal ridge into an integrated luxury wolf-run reserve and eco-resort. We need the local shipping hub locked down before the state auction next week."
I pulled the tablet closer, swiping through the schematics and zoning approvals.
For three minutes, the only sound was the tapping of my nails against the glass screen. Then, my finger paused on page twelve.
I looked up at him. "Your transit model is going to collapse by November."
Roman raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
"You based your supply transit on the northern estuary canal," I pointed out, tapping the map. "You assumed winter tides wouldn't affect commercial barges because of the updated locks. But the state environmental board designated that estuary as a protected salmon estuary three months ago. Between November and February, water speeds are throttled by sixty percent."
I braced myself. When I pointed out flaws in Damien's flagship projects, he would slam his hands on the table, accuse me of undermining his vision, or demand I find a way to circumvent the law.
"If you move ahead with this schedule," I added, "your resort construction will stall for ninety days. You'll bleed half a million dollars a week in idle contractor penalties."
Roman leaned in, studying the map where my finger rested. He didn't tense. His jaw didn't clench.
Instead, a faint, appreciative curve touched the corner of his mouth.
"The regional director assured us the exemption was grandfathered," Roman murmured, tapping a line on his phone.
"Regional directors don't override federal conservation orders," I replied. "You need to reroute the primary steel shipments through the old rail spur behind the ridge. It adds four percent to upfront logistics, but it guarantees an unbroken timeline."
Roman studied the rail spur line, his mind working quickly.
"It also bypasses the county toll authority," he remarked quietly.
"Exactly."
He tapped the screen, saving the amendment immediately.
"Good catch, Mara," he said, looking at me with genuine satisfaction. "You just saved us forty million dollars on day one."
A strange sensation washed over me. For five years, I had grown used to apologizing for being right, constantly cushioning Damien's fragile pride. Sitting across from Roman, my competence wasn't a threat—it was an asset.
"The full executive briefing is scheduled for seven at headquarters," Roman said, checking his watch. "I'll have my driver take us down. Get your things."
***
By seven that evening, twilight had settled over the city, casting the streets in deep shades of indigo and amber.
The glass doors of my apartment lobby swung open, and I stepped out onto the cool sidewalk, carrying my laptop bag.
Parked directly along the curb was Roman's signature vehicle—an imposing, matte-black Mercedes-Maybach with heavily tinted windows.
A sudden, sharp commotion across the street caught my attention.
A dark SUV screeched to a halt against the opposite curb, parking at an erratic angle. The driver's door flew open with violent force.
Damien stepped out.
His tie was undone, his collar crooked, and his hair was uncharacteristically disheveled. In his right hand, he clutched a crumpled white envelope—the court-stamped divorce agreement.
His face was flushed, pale and frantic, his Alpha aura buzzing erratically in the evening air.
"Mara!" he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation as he took a stride toward the street. "Mara, stop! We need to talk!"
I didn't break my stride. I didn't slow down.
The rear door of the Maybach clicked open.
Roman leaned slightly forward from the shadows of the plush leather interior, extending a hand to take my laptop bag.
I climbed inside, settling into the heated leather seat beside him.
The heavy door closed with a solid, airtight thud, cutting off Damien’s voice completely.
Through the tinted glass, I watched Damien freeze on the opposite sidewalk.
His eyes widened in sheer, paralyzed horror as his gaze locked onto the silver Cross family crest mounted on the sedan's wheel caps. The envelope in his hand slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the damp pavement.
The Maybach pulled away from the curb with a smooth, powerful hum, leaving Damien standing alone under the flickering streetlights.
