Chapter 3

The West Wing of the Livingston estate was a tomb of velvet and mahogany. The air felt stagnant, heavy with the scent of lilies from the funeral and the lingering dampness of Lachlan’s clothes. He sat in a high-backed armchair, staring at the fireplace where no fire burned. Dan Reyes stood by the window, his eyes scanning the grounds where council guards now patrolled the perimeter of their own home.

The heavy oak door creaked open. Uncle Harlan stepped inside. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the day, his face etched with the exhaustion of a man who had spent hours fighting a losing battle.

"They did not budge on the Regency," Harlan said, his voice barely above a whisper. He walked over to the desk and dropped a thick folder onto the surface. "But I managed to wring out some concessions. It was the best I could do, Lachlan."

Lachlan did not look up. "Tell me."

"You keep your position and your office in the family company, Livingston Holdings," Harlan began. "However, you are no longer on the Board of Directors. Your voting rights have been suspended indefinitely."

Lachlan’s jaw tightened. The company was his father’s legacy, the economic backbone of the Silver Moon pack. Stripping his board seat was a calculated move to ensure he could not block the council’s financial maneuvers.

"There is more," Harlan continued, hesitating. "Vance and Silas have assigned you to the subsidiary branch in the industrial district. Livingston Energy Solutions. It is failing, Lachlan. It is riddled with nepotism, ghost workers, and deep-seated corruption. They expect you to drown there."

Lachlan finally turned his head, a cold smile touching his lips. "They want me out of the main office so they can loot the treasury. And they want me stuck on a sinking ship so I cannot build a counter-offensive."

"Exactly," Harlan said. "And as of tonight, you have no pack security. No guards will be assigned to you or your office. You are on your own. Furthermore, you have one week to move your personal belongings out of the pack house. You are to find your own residence, away from the core territory."

Harlan reached out, placing a hand on Lachlan’s shoulder. "I am sorry, boy. I tried."

"You did enough, Uncle," Lachlan replied. "Now leave us."

Once the door clicked shut, the silence returned, sharper than before. Lachlan stared into the empty grate of the fireplace, his mind drifting back to the smell of smoke and the feel of Seraphina’s hand going cold in his.

"You are doing it again," Dan said from the window.

Lachlan blinked. "Doing what?"

"Giving up," Dan snapped. He marched over, kicking a footstool out of the way. "You are sitting there letting these vultures pick at your bones. The Lachlan I know would have ripped Vance’s throat out the moment he mentioned the West Wing."

"I have no pack, Dan. I have no title. I have a failing company and a week to find a place to sleep," Lachlan said, his voice hollow. "Seraphina is gone. What is there to fight for?"

Dan grabbed the front of Lachlan’s shirt and hauled him upward. The Beta’s eyes were glowing a fierce, predatory amber. "You promised her revenge! Do you remember that? Or was that just something you said to make yourself feel better while she was dying?"

Lachlan’s wolf surged at the insult, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"She told you to live," Dan hissed, ignoring the threat. "She told you to lead. If you stay in this chair, Viktor Dragomir wins. Vance wins. The people who burned her win. Is that the legacy you want for her? To be the reason the Livingston line ended in a dusty armchair?"

The mention of the fire acted like a spark in a powder keg. The grief that had been a heavy, suffocating blanket suddenly transformed. It sharpened into a blade. Lachlan shoved Dan back, his own eyes flashing gold.

"I haven't forgotten my promise," Lachlan growled.

"Then prove it," Dan said, straightening his jacket. "We need power. Not the kind that comes from a title the council can take away, but the kind they cannot touch. Money. Political leverage. Influence outside the pack walls. If we turn that failing energy branch into a powerhouse, we control the city’s infrastructure. If we control the city, the council becomes irrelevant."

Lachlan wiped the last of the cemetery mud from his hand. "We need allies. People who do not care about pack laws or werewolf traditions."

"Politics," Dan agreed. "The state energy bill is coming up for a vote. There is a gala tonight at the Meridian Hotel and Resorts. Every major player in the state will be there. We go. We scout. We find the people who want what we have and hate the people we hate."

*****

The Meridian Hotel and Resorts was a palace of glass and gold. It was a stark contrast to the rain-slicked streets of the industrial district. Lachlan adjusted his cufflinks, the black silk of his tuxedo feeling like armor. Beside him, Dan looked equally sharp, his eyes constantly moving, identifying exits and threats with a soldier’s precision.

The ballroom was a sea of expensive perfume, clinking champagne flutes, and the low hum of powerful people discussing the fate of millions. Lachlan felt the weight of the evening pressing down on him. He did not belong here. He belonged in the woods, or in a boardroom, not playing nice with lobbyists.

Then, the air changed.

It was not a scent, not exactly. It was a vibration in the marrow of his bones. A sudden, violent heat flared in his chest, radiating outward until his skin felt like it was on fire. His wolf, usually silent in his grief, began to howl with a frantic, desperate intensity.

(Mate.)

Lachlan nearly stumbled. The word echoed in his mind like a physical blow. No. It was impossible. Seraphina was his mate. The Moon Goddess did not give second chances, and even if she did, he did not want one.

He followed the pull, his gaze cutting through the crowd until it landed on a woman standing near the balcony.

She was stunning. Her dark hair was swept up in an elegant style that highlighted the sharp, intelligent lines of her face. She wore a deep emerald gown that looked like liquid moonlight. She was talking to a group of older men, her expression one of polite but firm authority.

"Who is that?" Lachlan asked, his voice sounding strangled even to his own ears.

Dan followed his gaze. "That is Vivienne Malone. She is the Congresswoman for New York’s 15th District. Only twenty-six and already a powerhouse. Her godmother is Senator Eleanor Hargrove. They say she is one of the dangerous people in the room because she knows how to use the law as a weapon."

Lachlan felt the bond snapping into place, a golden thread tying his soul to hers. He hated it. He felt like he was betraying Seraphina with every heartbeat that sped up in Vivienne’s presence. He wanted to run. He wanted to burn the building down just to make the feeling stop.

Vivienne Malone turned as if she felt his gaze. Her icy blue eyes locked onto his, and for a second, the entire ballroom seemed to vanish. She tilted her head, a small, calculating frown appearing on her lips. She excused herself from the group and began walking toward him, her gait confident and predatory.

Lachlan braced himself, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"Mr. Livingston, I presume?" Vivienne said as she reached them. Her voice was like silk over steel, smooth but with a dangerous edge. "I was told the head of Livingston Energy might be here tonight. I am Vivienne Malone."

Lachlan did not take the hand she offered. He stood rigid, the bond screaming at him to touch her, to claim her, to breathe her in. The conflict made his blood boil.

"I know who you are," Lachlan said, his voice cold and dripping with a rudeness that made Dan shift uncomfortably.

Vivienne’s eyebrows rose. She slowly retracted her hand, her expression hardening. "Well. It seems the rumors about your charm were greatly exaggerated. I came over to discuss the Green Energy Initiative. My bill provides significant federal subsidies for companies dealing in clean energy. Your branch is currently a black hole of debt, Mr. Livingston. I thought you might be interested in a lifeline."

Lachlan stepped closer, moving directly into her personal space. He could smell her now, an intoxicating mix of vanilla and something sharp, like woodsmoke. It made him want to growl. It made him want to weep.

"I do not need a lifeline from a career politician looking for a photo op," Lachlan snapped. "Especially not one who spends her godmother’s capital like it is her own. My company is my business. Stay out of it, Congresswoman."

The insult was calculated. He saw the flash of genuine anger in her eyes, the way her nostrils flared. She did not shrink back. She stepped even closer, her height allowing her to look him almost level in the eye.

"You are a broken man, Lachlan Livingston," Vivienne whispered, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "I can see the rot in you from across the room. I came here to offer a partnership that could have saved your family’s legacy. But it seems you are more interested in being a martyr than a leader."

She looked him up and down with a look of pure, unadulterated disdain. "Keep your failing branch. I will find someone with a spine to work with. Enjoy your slide into obscurity."

She turned on her heel and walked away, her head held high.

Lachlan stood frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs. The bond was thundering in his ears, a physical ache in his chest that felt like a hook pulling him toward her back. He wanted to go after her. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to snarl at her for not being Seraphina.

"What the hell was that?" Dan hissed, staring at Lachlan in disbelief. "That was our best lead of the night! Why did you provoke her?"

Lachlan did not answer. He watched Vivienne Malone disappear into the crowd. A sudden, sharp pain flared in his chest, so intense it made him stagger. His wolf whined in agony. The rejection of the bond was unnatural, a violation of his own biology.

Across the room, Vivienne paused mid-step, her hand flying to her own chest as a strange, feverish heat washed over her. She glanced back over her shoulder, confusion warring with anger in her eyes.

The bond was alive, and violently angry.