Chapter 2

Esther

The lobby of Silvercrest Holdings smelled like money.

Not the greasy bills I counted behind the bar at closing time. This was clean money. Polished marble, fresh-cut flowers on every surface, and air so filtered it tasted like nothing at all.

I smoothed my hands down the front of my one decent blouse and kept my chin up. My friend Rita had pulled her "connections" to sneak me in, though a borrowed guest badge and a bribed security guard were hardly official channels.

But here I was — a wolf from the Yards with no degree, sitting in a row of candidates who'd never had to borrow anything in their lives.

There were nine of us. The woman beside me had a leather portfolio with her family crest embossed on the cover. The man across from her wore gold cufflinks that caught the overhead lights.

Every candidate gleamed. Pressed suits, polished shoes, family crests on leather portfolios. They sat with the easy posture of people who'd never been told they didn't belong.

I straightened my back and lifted my chin as if I fit right in. I was here for the housing. A real apartment in a real neighborhood where my kids could walk to school without stepping over needles.

Everything else was noise.

One by one, the supervisor called names. Each candidate stood and delivered their credentials, polished and rehearsed.

"Alderton Pack, third-generation. Undergraduate at Silverstone, graduate studies in Pack governance."

"Grayfield bloodline. Five years managing Senator Walker's personal schedule."

The woman directly ahead of me rose. Tall, blonde, with the kind of bone structure that came from centuries of careful breeding. Her smile told the room the job was already hers.

"Vivienne Laurent. Royal Academy, class of twenty-two." She paused, letting the name settle over the room. "I believe I'm one of your boss's former classmates."

My breath caught. Royal Academy. I'd known someone who went there once, in another life.

I pushed the thought down. Not here.

"Esther Hale?"

My turn. So much for blending in.

I stood. The supervisor glanced between his tablet and my face, then back to the tablet, as if checking he'd read the right name.

"The Yards," he read. "No formal education. No pack affiliation."

The room shifted. Nine heads turned. Whispers started before the thought even finished forming.

"How did she even get in here?"

I'd expected this. I'd rehearsed for it while brushing my daughter's hair that morning, whispering comebacks into the bathroom mirror until my son banged on the door and told me I was being weird.

"A personal assistant manages schedules, solves problems, reads people, and keeps things running when everything falls apart." I kept my voice steady and flat, "I've been doing all of that for six years — in a bar, not an office. No title. No paycheck. But the skills are the same."

The supervisor's pen paused over his tablet. His expression shifted from dismissal to something cautious.

"She does have a point," he said.

Vivienne laughed like I was mildly amusing and already disqualified.

"Managing drunks at a dive bar isn't quite the same as coordinating an Alpha's schedule, is it?"

A few candidates smiled. One covered her mouth.

Heat climbed up my neck. I kept my expression level. Six years behind a bar had taught me that the second you look embarrassed, people take it as an invitation.

The supervisor cleared his throat. "Miss Hale, your background doesn't meet our requirements. This is a formal process, and your presence here is irregular."

He nodded at the guards by the door. "Escort her out."

Two guards stepped forward.

"'Every wolf has value.'" I said it loud enough for the room. "That's the Royal Academy's founding motto. Or does it only apply to wolves with the right last name?"

Vivienne's smile froze.

"And with respect," I said, keeping my eyes on the supervisor, "you're hiring someone to solve the boss's problems and keep people from becoming his enemies. If your first move is to throw out a candidate because she's from the wrong district, that's exactly the kind of mistake a good assistant would stop you from making."

A guard's hand closed around my arm.

"Let her go."

The voice came from the corridor behind the supervisor's desk. Low, calm, carrying the kind of authority that didn't need volume.

Every muscle in my body locked.

I knew that voice. I'd heard it in dreams for six years, in my son's laugh, in the particular edge my daughter's voice got when she was angry and didn't know who she got it from.

I thought I'd never hear it again.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. A man walked past the supervisor and stopped at the front of the room. Taller than I remembered. Broader. But he moved the same way, like the floor belonged to him and everyone else was renting space.

Every candidate straightened. Vivienne's polished smile sharpened into something hungrier.

"She made a good point," he said, addressing the room without looking at me. "Your job is to help me solve problems. Not create new ones. This candidate stays."

The guard released my arm. I barely noticed.

Because I was staring at the line of his jaw. At the dark hair that fell across his forehead in the exact same shade as my son's. At the gray-green eyes that were my daughter's, the ones she'd gotten from him, the ones I saw every morning over cereal bowls and bedtime stories.

Aaron.

I had six years of bar fights, clinic bills, and sleepless nights behind me. He looked like life had handled him with gloves.

His suit was charcoal gray. No cufflinks. No flash.

Just clean lines and fabric that didn't need to announce its price.

The fire behind his eyes was gone. What lived there now was cooler. Controlled.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was sure the room could hear it.

Then he turned to look at me.

Our eyes met. Something raw crossed his face, recognition or confusion or both, that lasted half a second before he shut it down.

He stared at me. I stared back.

The father of my children was standing three feet away, and he had no idea who I was.