Chapter 3

Years later, the capital rises beneath the plane like a glittering beacon of opulence. Skyscrapers gleam sharp and foreboding.

“Welcome back,” the flight attendant says.

I nod, adjust my sunglasses, and step into the sun. My wolf shifted inside me sensing the change in atmosphere.

Over the past few years, I poured my heart into developing my talent as a businesswoman who turned knitting into her brand. My fame grew as fast as my business did.

The next step in my business expansion is to open a new branch in the capital.

The city smells warm and inviting, but there’s a coldness to it as well. It’s the nature of eat or be eaten. This place has no time for slow, lazy people.

Company logos are printed on the buildings, combined with different family crests. Family pride reigns here and it shows. Only the strong survive the cutthroat business ethics and unspoken social rules here.

I can’t wait to shine here. I will be strong and hard like a diamond, cutting flesh.

My best friend Demetria waits beyond security with a paper cup and a grin like the old days. She reached out after hearing through the grapevine what happened with Landon and I.

She’s the only person I still keep in touch with in the capital, and she’s also the head of my brand’s branch there.

“You look like a fashion CEO,” she says, hugging me with the caution she’s learned around wolves who are wolfless. “The main office is ready. Everyone is ready to discuss the new branch. I think half of them are afraid of you on reputation alone.”

I give a dry laugh. The old Sienna would be shocked that some people find her intimidating. “I can’t scare them, I need them to be obedient workers. Omegas if you will.” I sip the coffee and savor the taste of it on my tongue. “How’s the showroom?”

“Gorgeous,” she says. “You’re a baddie. The fur-inspired knit line? The way you’ve integrated wolf culture with fashion? People can’t get their hands on the pieces fast enough. The Council can pretend we’ve left the forest behind, but everyone still wants the most fashionable knit fur work in the country.”

We slide into her car and join the stream of traffic toward the district where money is smoothly exchanged and the elite are as common as birds flying in the air.

The billboard in front of us flashes the royal crest, then switches to a news broadcast: King Arthur, profile like a blade, stepping out of a car with his Beta at his shoulder. The caption mentions a reform initiative and a closed-door meeting with foreign investors. He looks like control given human shape, with a mouth that rarely smiles and eyes that never need to. If he smiled anyway, it would surely be all fangs.

Demetria whistles, the sound is a combination of admiration and lust. “There’s your collaboration target,” she says. “We get the royal dress contract, we run this city within a year.”

“I’m here to work,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Not to chase an Alpha with a reputation and a Luna he changes as often as his work ties.”

She side-eyes me. “I’ve met him,” she says, and almost half smirks. “He scares people on purpose. But the ones who don’t scare? He respects them.” She fully grins now, baring her teeth. “Also, he looks like trouble in the best way. I’m just saying: for one night, you could do worse.”

My wolf shifts, a flicker of fire and maybe interest. No. I say to myself. I rub the heel of my hand against my sternum and then my forehead. Even talking about this stresses me out. “No mates,” I remind her. “No binds. I don’t believe in those stories anymore.”

We’re finally at the branch. The showroom glows: curved walls, pale wood, a scent like rain. I made sure to have perfume imported and pumped through all of the vents. Mannequins wear my work—sleek coats with collars that have ruffs, sweaters with patterns that repeat like pawprints across snow, a gown whose train trails like a shadow in moonlight.

In the back, new hires gather: three designers from decent houses, two fresh graduates with too much hair and not enough discipline, and an operations manager who radiates competence and suspicion.

We go into the meeting. I become a blade.

I slash through a lazy mood board. I refuse a neckline that mocks the line of a wolf’s throat. I demand revisions in forty-eight hours because Arthur’s Beta Simon, moved our preliminary meeting up and I refuse to be anything but perfect in a room where perfection is the minimum.

The designers bristle. One of them mutters that I got lucky, that the market loves a sob story. Demetria stands against the wall, her face watching everyone.

“Luck is what people say when they don’t want to count the scars,” I tell him, voice even. “We’re pitching to the Royal Pack. They’ll measure our seams like they measure everyone’s worth. If you can’t sew like a demigod, there’s the door.”

After my tirade, the murmurs follow me into my office.

Demetria slips in and closes the door behind her.

“You were harsh,” she says softly. “You were also right. But your temper—see a healer, please. Your wolf is too loud today.”

I stare at the city through the window until the buildings blur. The old Sienna would cry. The new one clenches her teeth.

“She’s worse,” I admit. “Solitary wolves fray. Everyone knows that. Sometimes I feel her teeth against my bones, like she wants out just to run until I drop.”

If things continued this way, my final days would be madness, or suicide.