Isabelle
I was still holding my sister’s blood-stained shawl when my phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with his name, Jason Monstera. The man I had once married under the silver light of the moon. The man whose scent used to calm my wolf. Now, that very scent made my stomach turn.
I hesitated, thumb hovering over the message. My wolf growled low in my chest. She didn’t trust him anymore. Neither did I.
Jason:
[Within an hour, give Samantha her purse. She forgot about it. She’s at the royal auction. I already sent the address.]
No please. No courtesy. Just a command. As if I was a pack omega assigned to run errands. Not his wife. Not a lawyer of the High Wolf Court. Not someone who had just lost her only sister.
I stared at the message, tears blurring the screen. A bitter laugh escaped my throat, ragged and raw.
He didn’t even know what happened to Diane.
I typed back with trembling fingers.
[ have no time.]
A moment later, another message arrived.
A video.
My heart stopped. Not again.
The same vile footage. Diane’s screams. Her terror. Her helplessness. The laughter of the monster who hurt her.
I dropped the phone, bile rising in my throat.
My mother, curled on the floor nearby, reached for it. When her eyes met the screen, she gasped, then wailed.
“My daughter is already dead, and he still won’t stop!” she cried. “Ask him if he won’t be satisfied until he grinds my child’s bones to dust!”
I crawled to her, clutching her shoulders, trying to ground us both. “Mama… I’m sorry. I’ll fix this. I swear on the Moon Goddess, I’ll…”
But even my voice cracked. Because I didn’t know how to fix this.
All I knew was this: I had five days. Five days before we vanished. If Jason suspected anything, our plan would crumble. I couldn’t let that happen. Not for Mama. Not for Diane.
So I swallowed my rage. I picked up the purse.
And I ran.
The address Jason gave was vague at best, cryptic at worst. I rushed through the city, past stone-clad buildings echoing old pack pride, past nobles with gold-threaded cloaks and Luna-daughters flaunting silk gowns dyed in moon blossom petals.
Finally, I reached the auction hall, a towering estate blessed by the royal wolf family, reserved only for high-blooded aristocrats and their consorts.
And that’s when I saw him. The one from the video.
Diane’s rapist.
He leaned against a marble pillar, suit crisp, smirk smeared across his face like dirt on velvet.
I froze mid-step. My heart turned to ice.
“You must be Isabelle,” he said, voice slick. “Atty. Samantha told me to wait here. Said you’d bring the purse.”
He straightened his sleeves, tailored navy fabric, embroidered with a silver M.
“Custom-made by Sir Jason’s favorite tailor,” he added with a wink. “She said it suits me.”
I clutched the purse tightly, my claws threatening to tear through the leather. My wolf was at the edge of snapping, snarling through my bones.
“Your sister was a real treat,” he drawled. “But you? You both reek of the same desperate scent. You’re cut from the same filthy cloth.”
That did it.
My vision blurred with fury. I hurled the purse at his face with all the strength I had.
“You dare say her name?! You dare speak about my sister?! I’ll kill you!” I lunged at him, claws out, fists flying. “She was kind! She was gentle! She wasn’t supposed to die!”
He stumbled back as I pushed him. My blows weren’t coordinated, they were wild, filled with pain more than power. But I didn’t care. I wanted him to bleed. I wanted him to feel something.
A commotion stirred inside the auction hall. The heavy doors creaked open.
A voice, clear and cold, cut through the chaos.
“Isabelle,” Samantha said, appearing with Jason beside her. “Who gave you permission to assault my client?”
All eyes turned to us. The courtyard went quiet.
Jason’s arm wrapped possessively around Samantha’s waist. She leaned into it like it was hers to claim. The same arm that once held me.
“Apologize to him,” she commanded.
I was shaking. “He destroyed my sister. And you want me to—?”
“You shouldn’t make baseless claims,” she interrupted smoothly. “There’s been no ruling. What you’re saying is defamation.”
No ruling?
My sister was dead.
Before I could respond, the auction host’s voice rang through the speakers inside. “Next item! An untitled painting donated anonymously.”
The screen displayed an image. My breath caught.
It was Diane’s last painting.
I recognized it instantly. The shades of blue she always used when her heart was heavy, the solitary figure curled under a bleeding moon. It was hers. The one she had hidden away before she died.
I screamed. “No! That’s my sister’s! Give it back! That’s hers! You can’t auction her soul—you can’t!”
Guards rushed in, surrounding me. I tried to fight them off, tears blinding my vision.
Samantha smirked, folding her arms. “That painting was given to me. I donated it. Stop calling me a liar, Isabelle.”
“She never would’ve given it to you!”
Jason spoke, voice laced with venom. “Isabelle. Stop. Or you’ll be arrested.”
I stopped. Because if I didn’t, my mother would lose another daughter.
But then Samantha stepped forward. “You haven’t apologized to my client yet.”
“What?”
Jason’s voice rang out—calm, but final.
“Kneel. Apologize.”
I stared at him. The world tilted sideways. The auction guests stared from behind gilded pillars and champagne glasses.
“You’re serious?” I breathed.
“I said kneel.”
I took a step back. “Don’t you know he is—”
But before I could speak, Jason’s men moved.
They yanked my hair. Slammed my head to the ground. Blood blurred my sight. My hands scraped against stone.
Jason squatted beside me like he was admiring a display, handed me a handkerchief.
“Clean yourself up,” he said softly. “It’s pitiful. You used to be brilliant. Now look at you. Always dragging Samantha down with your dramatics.”
I knocked the handkerchief away. I stood up, wobbling, broken, but still upright.
He walked away without another glance, draping his arm around Samantha’s shoulder.
She smiled at me. “Jason, you’re driving me to your house tonight, right?”
He kissed her slowly. “Of course, baby.”
A final blow. As they left, I fell to my knees again—this time not from violence, but despair.
I walked home. No car. No escort. Just bloodied feet, a shredded soul, and the cold bite of autumn wind.
The Monstera estate loomed in the distanc, once a home, now a mausoleum of my dreams.
When I reached the door, I paused. Then I heard it.
Moans. High, breathy. Familiar.
I stood frozen. For nearly an hour.
The night was cold. But not colder than my heart.
I entered. Clothes strewn over the carpet I handpicked. Condoms on the bookshelf I’d built for law journals. The scent of sweat and sex clung to the air like rot.
I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I walked past it all, heading for the stairs.
But she stopped me. Samantha. Wearing my towel. The blue one I bought in the Wolf Market.
She tilted her head. Smiled innocently. “Just so you know, Isabelle… I’m not a third party,” she said, voice honeyed with malice.
