Four hours before the press conference, the top-floor glass conference room sat empty.
I pushed open the heavy oak double doors. The morning sun glared through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, sharp shadows across the massive mahogany table. Twelve leather chairs lined the sides.
I ignored them all.
I walked straight to the single, high-backed chair positioned dead center at the head of the table. The seat reserved for the majority owner.
I pulled it out and sat down.
The stadium was quiet up here, miles above the artificial turf where my son would soon parade his new jersey. I set my worn canvas tote on the polished wood and smoothed the front of my plain gray sweater.
The brass handle on the door turned.
"Security flagged a breach at the private elevator bank," a crisp male voice announced.
A tall man strode into the room. He wore a tailored navy suit and held a silver tablet tucked against his ribs. His dark eyes swept the empty side chairs before landing squarely on me.
He stopped.
His right foot planted firmly into the carpet. For exactly half a second, absolute silence stretched between us. His gaze flicked from my canvas bag to my face. I watched the calculation happen behind his eyes. He recognized the cadence of my breathing, the unbothered way I occupied the most powerful seat in the building.
"Architect," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"Maren Holt," I corrected.
He inclined his head, a smooth, respectful dip of his chin. "Adrian Cole. Co-president of operations. And your medical committee advisor."
"You run a tight ship, Mr. Cole. Your security guards almost didn't let me past the lobby."
"My apologies, Ms. Holt. They were expecting a phantom billionaire, not a woman carrying a canvas tote bag." Adrian stepped fully into the room, letting the heavy doors shut behind him. "You are early."
"I prefer to watch the board members arrive," I told him. "It gives me an advantage."
"They will be sweating through their expensive suits when they see you sitting there," Adrian noted, pulling out the chair to my immediate right. He didn't sit. He simply rested his hands on the leather backrest. "The minority owners have been calling my phone since six this morning, demanding to know who bought them out."
"Let them keep calling."
"Your ex-husband is already downstairs," Adrian said, his tone shifting to pure business. "He showed up thirty minutes ago with an entire entourage."
I leaned back in the chair. "Is he enjoying the VIP treatment?"
"He demanded the barista replace all the dairy in the lounge with a specific brand of oat milk for his partner."
"Lola has a sensitive stomach," I replied flatly.
"He also requested we drape a fifty-foot banner of Caleb's face over the main entrance." Adrian tapped his tablet screen. "He claims it will set the right tone for the media."
"Did you order the banner?"
"I told the marketing department to stall. It seemed excessive."
"Print it," I ordered.
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "You want to indulge him?"
"I want him to feel like he owns the city," I said, folding my hands on the table. "Print the banner. Give him the oat milk. Give him the microphone. The higher he climbs today, the harder the concrete will feel when he hits the ground."
A faint smirk touched the corner of Adrian's mouth. "Understood."
He picked up a sleek leather briefcase from the floor and set it on the table. The metallic clasps snapped open with a sharp crack.
"We have a more pressing issue than Desmond's catering requests," Adrian said.
He reached into the briefcase and pulled out a thick file enclosed in a bright red envelope. He slid it across the mahogany surface. It stopped exactly one inch from my fingertips.
I stared at the cover.
Caleb Holt.
Next to my son's typed name, a glaring red warning symbol stamped the thick paper.
"The team doctors ran Caleb's mandatory preliminary labs at dawn," Adrian explained, his voice losing its previous amusement. "They panicked."
"Cellular degradation?" I asked.
"Accelerating faster than anything they have ever seen," Adrian confirmed. "His muscle tissue is micro-tearing just from walking. The head physician wanted to bench him immediately and void the contract."
"Why didn't he?"
"Desmond intercepted the medical staff in the hallway," Adrian said, his jaw tightening. "He screamed at the head doctor. He claimed the abnormal bloodwork is just standard pre-draft fatigue. He insists Lola's new diet plan will clear it up by tomorrow."
"And the doctors believed him?"
"Desmond signed a liability waiver claiming full responsibility for any physical failures. He practically shoved the clipboard into the physician's chest."
I traced the edge of the red envelope. "A waiver doesn't knit torn tendons back together."
"No, it doesn't," Adrian agreed. "But the medical committee won't clear him for practice. Not with those lab results. Desmond thinks he bullied his way past the red tape, but the league requires a secondary sign-off from the medical advisor."
"You," I pointed out.
"Me," Adrian said. "And I refuse to sign it."
"Good."
"Desmond is currently telling the sports networks that Caleb will run a sub-four-second sprint for the cameras this afternoon," Adrian added. "If he attempts that sprint today, his hamstring will snap."
"He won't sprint," I said. "He won't even make it to the turf."
"Lola brought a private massage therapist to the locker room," Adrian continued. "She told the staff she has a proprietary recovery method."
A dry, hollow laugh escaped my throat. "Her method is a foam roller and an ice bath. She doesn't have the bloodline."
"Which brings us to this," Adrian said, tapping the top of the red folder. "The medical committee ran a deeper genetic screen. They bypassed Desmond's waiver and checked the league's restricted registry."
I kept my eyes on the glaring red mark next to my son's name.
"They found the anomaly," Adrian stated quietly.
"Desmond paid a lot of money to keep that marker hidden during the college scouts' evaluations," I said.
"College scouts don't have access to the League Wolfblood Medical Committee's database," Adrian countered. "We do. The doctors flagged the file an hour ago. They know what he is."
I finally looked up at Adrian. "Do they know who I am?"
"They know Caleb requires a registered Maternal Calming Source," Adrian replied. "They don't know the source is currently sitting in the owner's chair."
I pulled the red envelope closer to my chest. The paper felt heavy, loaded with the weight of eighteen years of secrets. Eighteen years of bleeding into a porcelain bowl while Desmond slept.
"Desmond and Lola are going to walk into this room in exactly three hours," Adrian said, checking his silver wristwatch. "They expect to meet a faceless billionaire who will hand them the keys to the franchise. They expect to finalize the draft contract."
"They will meet me," I said.
"What do you want me to do when the head doctor demands the calming serum?"
"Tell him the serum is unavailable."
Adrian's eyes widened slightly. "If I tell him that, he will pull the plug on the press conference. Caleb's career will end before he puts on the jersey."
"Do exactly as I say, Mr. Cole."
"Understood, Ms. Holt."
Adrian gave another slight bow, turning his back and walking toward the heavy oak doors. He paused with his hand on the brass handle.
"For what it's worth," Adrian said over his shoulder. "I think you look perfectly fine for a woman who just bought a football team."
He opened the door and stepped out, leaving me alone in the sprawling glass room.
The silence rushed back in, heavy and thick.
I looked down at the red envelope resting on the polished wood. My left index finger throbbed, a phantom sting where the paring knife usually sliced the skin. I hadn't bled for him last night. I hadn't provided the serum.
I flipped the heavy red flap open.
A stack of stark white medical documents slid out. The top page displayed Caleb's biometric scans, a chaotic mess of spiking heart rates and deteriorating muscle fibers.
I scanned past the charts, my eyes locking onto a single line of bold, black text printed across the center of the page.
Stabilizing-bloodline rating: RED — Risk of feral lunar break: EXTREME.
I stared at the terrifying diagnosis, knowing I was the only legally registered calming source on the planet who could stop my son from tearing himself apart.
