Chapter 3: It's Mine

Sylvia's POV

The next morning, I stood in front of my closet and reached past the row of soft pinks and pastels Damian liked me to wear.

Deep emerald. High neckline. A slit that stopped just above the knee. I paired it with black heels and pinned my hair in a low twist. No loose curls, no dangling earrings.

The old Sylvia dressed to please Damian. This Sylvia dressed to be taken seriously.

When I came downstairs, Damian was waiting by the front door in his charcoal suit. His eyes swept over me, and his expression tightened.

"What happened to the outfit I picked for you?"

In my first life, I would have gone right back upstairs to change. Anything to smooth that pinch between his brows. Anything to keep the peace.

"I like this one better," I said.

"Since when are you interested in auctions?" He crossed his arms. "And you should probably change. That dress is a bit—"

"You look beautiful, Sylvia." My father appeared behind us, car keys in hand. He smiled at me. Warm, surprised, proud. "Like your mother."

Damian blinked. The Sylvia he knew would have changed without a word. He couldn't argue without looking petty. Not in front of my father. And he still needed to play the devoted fiancé for twenty-nine more days.

"I promised Dad I'd help him learn the ropes," I said. "Shall we?"

The auction hall occupied the top floor of the Grand Howl Hotel. Polished marble, crystal chandeliers scattering light across the ceiling, round tables draped in white linen. Pack leaders and their Lunas stood in loose clusters, champagne in hand, sizing each other up the way wolves always did. Smiles that didn't reach the eyes. Handshakes that measured grip strength.

I walked in beside my father, and heads turned.

The whispers started immediately. I could guess what they were saying. The last time most of these people had seen me, I'd been draped over Damian's arm in something pink and forgettable, smiling on cue. Alpha Daughter Sylvia Moonriver. The pretty one, the quiet one, the one who poured her family's fortune into her fiancé's lap and called it love.

Let them look.

Then the room shifted.

It happened all at once. Conversations dying mid-sentence, heads snapping toward the entrance, a cluster of she-wolves near the bar straightening their posture and smoothing their hair all at once.

Azrael Nightwhisper walked in.

He was taller than he'd looked on television. Broad through the shoulders, wearing a dark navy suit that fit him like it had been sewn onto his body that morning. His hair was black, pushed back from his face, and he moved through the crowd like he owned every inch of it. Unhurried. Aware of every eye on him and completely unbothered.

My pulse picked up. I told it to stop.

Several of the older Alphas approached to pay their respects. He shook hands, nodded, exchanged pleasantries. Polite. Distant. Every interaction ended on his terms, and he made it look effortless.

He took his seat at the table beside ours. Close enough that I could have reached out and touched the sleeve of his jacket.

Within minutes, three socialites materialized at his table. Glossy lips, low necklines, variations of "Azrael, it's been too long." He dismissed each one with a courtesy so polished it was almost insulting.

Not a man who responded to flattery. I'd have to find another way in.

Then he caught me looking.

Those blue eyes hit me before I was ready. Deep, sharp blue. The kind of eyes that looked right through you. He held my gaze with one arm draped over the back of his chair, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and appraisal.

Something tugged low in my chest. A pull I couldn't name. No reason, no explanation. Just the quiet treason of a heart beating offbeat.

And yet.

"Sylvia Moonriver," he said.

Not Damian's fiancée. Not Alpha Daughter. My name.

"You know who I am," I said.

"I saw your public speaking competition at university. First year, if I'm not mistaken." He tilted his head. "You argued that Pack alliances should be built on complementary infrastructure, not bloodline prestige. It was sharp."

That speech. I barely recognized the girl who'd given it. That was three years ago, though for me it felt closer to six. A version of myself I'd let Damian bury.

"That was a while back," I said. "I didn't think anyone remembered."

"I remember useful people."

His gaze flicked past me to Damian, who was watching us from across the table with a smile that didn't move.

"Clearly." Azrael said, voice light enough to sound casual but edged underneath, "shame to waste a good mind picking curtains for someone else's house."

Damian's jaw tightened. "Careful, Alpha Azrael. Some of us don't need to poach other people's assets to stay relevant."

Azrael's mouth curved. Not a smile. Something sharper and far less friendly.

"Let the bidding speak," he said.

The auctioneer announced Lot 7: the administrative jurisdiction of Ridgehaven.

Most of the room barely stirred. Ridgehaven was a stretch of undeveloped territory on the outskirts of the capital. No existing infrastructure, no notable resources, no apparent value. Just empty land and a handful of aging warehouses.

But I knew what it would become.

In my first life, I'd convinced my father to pool Moonriver's resources so Damian could win this exact bid. Within two years, Ridgehaven had exploded into the fastest-growing commercial district in the werewolf world. New businesses, new residents, revenue streams that doubled overnight. It was the acquisition that gave Damian the economic base to stand level with Azrael.

I'd built the ladder. He'd used it to climb over me.

Not this time.

The bidding opened low. Damian raised his paddle. Azrael matched him. The numbers climbed in steady increments. Predictable, almost polite.

At the fifth round, Damian leaned toward me. "It's getting steep," he said quietly. "Not worth it. I'm pulling out."

I raised my paddle.

"That's really not necessary," Damian said under his breath.

"The funds are mine." I didn't look at him. "I'm bidding from my own account."

Azrael raised. I matched him.

Three more rounds. The numbers climbed past anything reasonable. The room had gone quiet. Dozens of eyes moving between the three of us.

Azrael turned his head and looked at me. Not at Damian. At me. His expression was unreadable. Something between playful amusement and genuine warning.

I held his gaze.

I mouthed two words: "It's mine."

He watched me for one second. Two.

Then he set his paddle down.

The auctioneer's gavel cracked through the silence. "Sold. Ridgehaven jurisdiction — to Moonriver Pack."

Damian's smirk returned. I could practically see the calculations running behind his eyes. Twenty-nine days. Pack merger. Everything I'd just bought would become his anyway.

I stood up.

"For the record," I said, loud enough for every table in the room to hear, "this acquisition was made under the name of Moonriver Pack alone." I turned and looked Damian dead in the eye. "It has nothing to do with Ironclaw."