Morning arrived not with sunlight, but with the low, rhythmic thrum of diesel generators.
Aria woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in the king-sized bed. Her hand flew to her chest. The burning heat from the night before was gone, replaced by a hollow, aching cold. It felt as if her bones had been scraped out and filled with ice water.
*Suppression.* Her body was forcibly locking down the White Wolf bloodline again. It was a survival mechanism, resetting the biological breakers after the power surge, but it was exhausting.
"Mom?"
A small, raspy voice came from the other side of the room.
Aria was out of bed in a heartbeat. She crossed the room to Mia's bedside. Her daughter was awake. The fever flush had receded from Mia's cheeks, leaving her pale but lucid. Her hazel eyes were clear, no longer glowing with that terrifying toxic gold.
"I'm here, baby," Aria whispered, brushing the damp hair from Mia's forehead. "How do you feel?"
Mia blinked slowly, testing her limbs. "Hungry."
Aria let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Hungry is good. Hungry is excellent."
"Like... really hungry," Mia clarified. She sat up, her small nose twitching. "Is someone cooking bacon? It smells like... a lot of bacon."
Aria sniffed the air. Sure enough, the rich, salty scent of cured meat was wafting under the door. It smelled expensive. It smelled like Damien.
"Let's get you fed," Aria said, helping Mia sit up.
Leo was already awake. He was sitting on his cot, scrolling furiously through the new Sinclair-Phone. He didn't look up as they moved.
"Don't go out there yet," Leo warned, his voice tight.
Aria paused, her hand on the doorknob. "Why? Is it unsafe?"
Leo turned the phone screen toward her. "No. It's just... loud."
On the screen, a live news feed was playing. The headline screamed in bold red letters: **TERROR IN MANHATTAN: EXPLOSION ROCKS SINCLAIR TOWER.**
But it wasn't the headline that made Aria's stomach drop. It was the face of the woman being interviewed.
Elena Vance.
She was standing outside the yellow police cordon, looking impeccably tragic in a modest black dress, dabbing at dry eyes with a handkerchief.
*"It is terrifying,"* Elena was saying to the swarm of microphones. *"Damien—Mr. Sinclair—has been acting erratically for days. He has barricaded himself in the penthouse with a... a woman from his past. A woman who, I fear, is unstable."*
Aria stared at the screen. "She's spinning it."
*"We believe this explosion might have been caused by negligence inside the penthouse,"* Elena continued, her voice trembling with fake concern. *"I just pray for his safety. And for the safety of the shareholders. The Council is launching an immediate inquiry into his mental fitness to lead."*
Aria didn't wait to hear the rest. She opened the door and marched into the main living area.
The penthouse was bathed in the grey morning light. The power was back on, but the mood was heavy.
Damien was at the kitchen island, dressed in a fresh navy suit, looking as if he hadn't spent the night fighting cyber-terrorists. He was reading a physical newspaper—an old-school habit Aria remembered—while a private chef plated a mountain of scrambled eggs and bacon.
He didn't look up when Aria stormed in.
"She's lying," Aria said without preamble. "She's painting you as a hostage and me as a terrorist."
"I know," Damien said calmly. He turned a page. "Eat. Mia needs the protein."
Mia, seeing the food, practically vibrated. She scrambled onto a bar stool. The chef, a stout Beta woman who looked like she had seen everything, wordlessly placed a plate in front of the child. Mia didn't wait for a fork. She grabbed a piece of bacon with a speed that was purely wolf.
"Damien," Aria snapped, walking around the island to face him. "Did you hear me? She's calling for a Council inquiry into your *sanity*. If they declare you unfit, they can legally storm the building to 'rescue' you."
Damien finally looked up. His grey eyes were clear, cold, and utterly unbothered.
"Let them inquire," he said. "It takes three weeks to convene a Council tribunal. By then, Mia's treatment will be finished."
"And what about the press?" Aria gestured to the window, where news helicopters were buzzing like angry flies in the distance. "They are camped outside. I can't leave. I can't take the kids to a park. We are prisoners."
"You were already prisoners," Damien reminded her, taking a sip of black coffee. "Now you are just famous prisoners."
He folded the newspaper and placed it on the counter. The headline was the same as the digital feed.
"Besides," Damien said, his voice dropping an octave. "This plays into our hands."
"How?"
"Elena is desperate. She is making noise because she has no actual power. If she had the votes to remove me, she wouldn't be crying on CNN. She would be sitting in my chair."
He stood up, towering over her. "She wants a reaction, Aria. She wants you to run out there and scream that you are my wife. She wants to turn this into a reality TV show so she can paint you as the 'crazy ex'."
Aria grit her teeth. He was right. It was a trap.
"So what do we do?" she asked.
"You do exactly what I hired you to do," Damien said. He checked his watch. "You are 'Vera,' the world-renowned jewelry designer. You are here to create the Sinclair engagement ring. So, go to the studio and design."
Aria stared at him. "You want me to work? Now?"
"I want the world to see us functioning," Damien said. "I have a camera crew coming in one hour to film a 'behind the scenes' segment on the new collection. We are going to show them that everything is normal. That there is no crisis. Just art."
"A camera crew?" Aria hissed. "Are you insane? My face—"
"You will wear a veil," Damien said smoothly. "Or a mask. You are 'Vera,' the eccentric French artist. Make it work."
He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "And Aria? Keep your gloves on. I don't want anyone seeing your hands shake if that power of yours decides to spike again."
Aria pulled back, glaring at him. He hadn't forgotten the white eyes. He was just compartmentalizing it.
"Fine," she said. "But if Elena tries to enter this building again, I'm not just going to threaten her. I'm going to throw her off the roof."
"Get in line," Damien muttered.
---
An hour later, Aria was standing in the "Studio."
Damien had converted one of the guest rooms into a fully functional jewelry workshop. It was impressive, even by her standards. There was a jeweler's bench equipped with high-precision lasers, a melting furnace, and trays of raw gemstones that were worth more than the entire block she lived on in Paris.
But Aria couldn't focus on the gems.
She was wearing a black silk face mask that covered the lower half of her face, and dark oversized glasses. She looked ridiculous, like a celebrity trying to avoid paparazzi, but it was the best disguise she could manage on short notice.
The camera crew—three humans who clearly had no idea they were in a werewolf den—were setting up lights in the corner. Damien was standing by the door, watching her.
"Action whenever you are ready, Madame Vera," the director said nervously.
Aria took a deep breath. *Channel the anger,* she told herself. *Channel the fear.*
She picked up a stylus and began to sketch on the drafting tablet. Usually, her designs were fluid, organic. Flowers, vines, water.
Today, her hand moved in sharp, jagged lines.
She drew a band of thorns. Sharp, interlocking spikes that looked less like a ring and more like a shackle. In the center, instead of a traditional diamond setting, she drew a cage. A small, golden cage meant to hold a blood-red ruby.
"It is... aggressive," Damien observed from the doorway. The cameras turned to him.
"It is truth," Aria said, keeping her French accent thick. "Love is not soft, Monsieur Sinclair. Love is a battle. A binding. This ring... it represents the pain of holding onto something that wants to run."
The director looked confused, but Damien didn't. He walked over to the bench, stepping into the frame.
"And who is running?" Damien asked softly. "The wearer? Or the giver?"
Aria looked up at him through her dark glasses. The cameras were rolling, broadcasting this live to the Sinclair media network.
"Both," she said. "They are locked together. If one pulls, the thorns cut the other."
Damien stared at the sketch. He reached out and picked up a piece of raw silver wire from the bench.
"Silver," he mused, rolling the metal between his fingers. "A dangerous choice for a Wolf... I mean, for a bold collection."
He handed the wire to her. "Show me how you shape it."
It was a test.
Aria knew it instantly. Silver was toxic to wolves. It burned their skin on contact. Most shifters handled it with tools or synthetic gloves. But Aria wasn't wearing gloves right now—she had taken them off to handle the fine stylus, trusting the camera angles to hide her hands.
If she flinched, he would know.
She hesitated. The camera zoomed in on her hands.
*Do it,* she ordered herself. *You are the Matriarch. You are above the metal.*
She reached out and took the silver wire.
She braced herself for the burn. She expected the searing pain, the smell of singed flesh.
But nothing happened.
No pain. No smoke.
Instead, the silver wire felt... warm. It vibrated against her skin, humming with a low, resonant frequency. It felt like it was *greeting* her.
Aria's eyes widened behind her glasses. She bent the wire effortlessly, shaping it into a perfect circle with her bare thumbs. The metal seemed to soften at her touch, pliable as clay.
Damien watched her hands. His pupils dilated. He knew. He knew that no Alpha, no matter how strong, could handle raw silver like that without a mark.
"Incredible," the director whispered. "Such strength in such small hands."
"Yes," Damien said, his voice tight. "Unnatural strength."
Suddenly, the door to the studio burst open.
Leo stood there, holding his phone. He wasn't looking at the cameras. He was looking at his father.
"Dad," Leo said urgently, ignoring the 'On Air' light. "You need to see this. The stock market just opened."
"Cut," Damien barked at the crew. "Get out. Now."
The crew scrambled to pack up, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. As soon as the door clicked shut, Damien turned to Leo. "What is it? Did Vance freeze the accounts?"
"No," Leo said, his face pale. "Someone just bought 51% of the outstanding public shares. It's a hostile takeover, but it's not the Council."
Damien snatched the phone. He looked at the ticker.
**BUYER: K. VOLKOV.**
Damien went still. The blood drained from his face, leaving him looking older, harder.
Aria felt a shiver run down her spine. "Who is Volkov?"
Damien looked at her, and for the first time since she had returned, she saw true fear in his eyes. Not for himself. But for her.
"Konstantin Volkov," Damien said. "The Alpha of the Russian Bratva pack. The man who kills Alphas for sport."
He dropped the phone on the workbench, right next to the silver ring Aria had just bent.
"And," Damien added grimly, "he is the one who put the bounty on your head five years ago."
Aria looked at the silver circle in her hand. The metal had turned cold.
The political war was over. The hunting season had just begun.