Chapter Thirty-One

The morning sun sat low over the storefronts, painting the street in pale gold as Kaelani strode down the sidewalk, the white boutique box tucked firmly under her arm. Her steps were clipped, deliberate—each one fueled by a quiet resolve that left no room for hesitation.

The bell above the boutique door chimed softly as she entered. The air inside was cool and fragrant with perfume and pressed silk. Mannequins in jeweled gowns stood poised in the window displays, their reflections ghosting across polished glass.

Behind the counter stood a tall, elegant woman with a warm, practiced smile. “Good morning,” she greeted, her voice bright and welcoming. “How can I help you today?”

Kaelani approached, the heels of her boots tapping steadily against the tile. She set the box down between them, her tone calm but firm.

“I’d like to return this dress and have the person who purchased it refunded.”

The woman blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Oh—of course,” she said, drawing the box closer. She lifted the lid, folding back the tissue with careful fingers until the red satin shimmered beneath the lights. Her brow furrowed delicately. “This is one of our custom pieces. I’m afraid there are no refunds on custom designs,” she explained gently. “Was it… not to your liking?”

Kaelani’s gaze softened briefly toward the dress before she shook her head. “No. It’s beautiful.”

“Ah.” The woman’s brows lifted slightly, curiosity edging through her composure. “Then… is it not your size?”

Kaelani glanced down at the tag still looped neatly through the satin. “No,” she said flatly. “It’s actually my exact size.” She let out a sharp breath, irritated that he even knew her measurements that well.

The woman tilted her head, confusion replacing curiosity. “Then may I ask—what seems to be the issue?”

Kaelani brushed her fingers once against the fabric before stepping back, her expression unreadable.

“I just can’t accept it,” she said quietly. “Please contact the buyer and have him retrieve his purchase.”

Before the woman could reply, Kaelani turned and walked out, the door chime breaking the silence she left behind.

The saleswoman stood there a moment longer, staring at the open box—the flash of red catching the light like a secret she wasn’t meant to keep.

But secrets had a way of traveling fast.

Back at the Blackthorn pack, Elara paced the length of Julian’s office, her heels clicking sharp against the polished floor with every step. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air—cedar and spice—a reminder that he’d been here recently, but not when he should have been.

He would come here first. He always did.

Avoidance was his specialty, and she knew him well enough to predict every dickhead move.

Her jaw tightened. How dare he.

He had humiliated her last night—left her standing alone in front of everyone present, forced to smile through the whispers, through the questions. Where is the Alpha? Has he forgotten his obligations?

And his mother—that infuriating woman—had the audacity to wear that knowing little smirk, as if she’d been waiting years to see Elara falter.

Elara’s hand curled around the back of his chair, nails biting into the leather. She could still hear the laughter, the polite pity hidden behind every congratulatory toast. He hadn’t even sent word. No message. Nothing. Just absence—a public insult wrapped in silence.

He’d been with someone else. She could feel it. Jace hadn’t had the courage to meet her eyes when she’d cornered him, stammering some half-hearted excuse about Julian being “unavailable.”

Liar. They were all liars.

Her reflection glimmered in the office window—every inch of her perfectly composed, from her sleek hair to the diamond clasp at her throat. She looked every bit the Luna she was meant to be. The Luna she would be.

Just wait.

Once the ceremony was done—once her mark was sealed into his skin—there would be no more secrets. No more humiliation. No more insolence from his Beta or his mother.

Her pacing slowed, the rhythm of her anger steady and sharp.

Then the phone on Julian’s desk rang.

The shrill sound split the silence, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Elara’s gaze snapped toward it—irritation flashing across her face—before her expression smoothed back into something deceptively calm.

She waited one beat, then reached for the receiver.

“Blackthorn Industries,” she said smoothly, her voice all business—polished and refined, the kind she used when dealing with humans who didn’t need to know what lay beneath the surface.

A woman’s voice came through the line, polite but uncertain. “Oh—hello! I was hoping to speak with Mr. Julian Hale?”

Elara’s pulse skipped, but her tone never wavered. “I’m afraid Mr. Hale is unavailable at the moment,” she replied, adopting a calm efficiency that masked the flicker of irritation beneath. “This is his secretary. I can take a message.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” the woman said, clearly relieved. “I’m calling from Maison Verenne Boutique. Mr. Hale made a purchase with us yesterday—a custom gown—and it’s just been returned to our store this morning. We wanted to inform him that, unfortunately, we don’t offer refunds on custom pieces. He—or someone on his behalf—will need to pick it up, or we can arrange delivery for a small f*e.”

Elara’s nails pressed into the leather armrest of Julian’s chair.

A custom gown.

Her heartbeat spiked, but her voice stayed cool, collected. “Of course. I’ll make sure it’s retrieved. May I have the address, please?”

“Certainly,” the woman said cheerfully, unaware of the ice forming on the other end of the line. Elara jotted down the address, repeated it back perfectly, thanked her, and hung up with a measured click.

For a long moment, she sat still—every muscle coiled tight beneath her skin. Then she reached for her cellphone and typed the address into her maps app.

The screen glowed back at her: a quaint little shop, over ninety miles away, in a town she’d never even heard of. Far enough to explain why neither Julian’s father nor his Beta had been able to reach him through the mind-link last night.

Her lips curved—not in amusement, but in something darker.

A custom gown. An hour and a half outside of pack territory. Returned.

She leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, fury and satisfaction twining together like silk threads pulled too tight.

“So that’s where you’ve been,” she murmured, her voice dripping with venomous calm. “A secret boutique and a little dress to go with your little distraction.”

Her nails tapped against the armrest, slow and deliberate. “Let’s see what bullshit excuse you come up with when I bring it to you myself.”