The car ride was long and quiet. Not the kind of quiet that brought peace but the kind that crackled beneath the skin, heavy and unrelenting. The two assistants neatly dressed in Callahan black sat stiffly in the front seats. Neither looked back. Neither spoke to her.
Magnolia kept her gaze fixed on the window as the city blurred past. The further they drove from the heart of Arizona's skyline, the more surreal it all felt. Her wolf hadn't stirred once since she left Rhett's office. It lay dormant, silent as if even it couldn't decide if this was survival or surrender.
The car pulled through the second set of iron gates, these ones flanked by obsidian statues of wolves tall, snarling, and carved from polished volcanic stone. The driveway coiled like a serpent through pristine, manicured forest. And then, like something out of myth, the Callahan estate emerged from the trees.
It wasn't just a house. It was a fortress.
Black granite walls stretched upward in angular precision. Massive glass windows gleamed in the early dusk. Ivy twisted across the wrought iron balconies like veins. It was beautiful. Cold. Untouchable.
The engine stopped.
Neither assistant opened her door. She let herself out and felt the weight of the building immediately like it was watching her. Judging her. Even the air here felt heavier.
The front doors opened.
A man in a slate-grey suit stepped forward. His beard was trimmed sharp. His eyes were flat. Not a smile in sight.
"Ms. Blake," he said curtly. "I'm Carlton. Estate administrator. I'll show you to your quarters."
No welcome. No Luna. Just Blake, like she was still some outsider waiting to be tolerated.
She followed him up the marble steps, through a hall of cold chandeliers and silver-framed oil paintings of dead Alphas. Not a single portrait featured a Luna. Strange.
The corridor split left and right. Carlton led her left.
"Your quarters are in the East Wing," he said over his shoulder. "The Alpha's wing is to the West. You're not permitted there unless summoned."
The rules had begun.
Magnolia didn't reply. She memorized every door, every exit, every subtle symbol embedded into the floor tiles. This wasn't a home it was a chessboard.
Her room was beautiful. Antique canopy bed. Gold-etched armoire. A bathroom the size of her entire kitchen back home. But it felt wrong like a luxury prison. Everything was too pristine. Too polished. Like no one actually lived here.
"I'll inform the household staff of your arrival," Carlton said. "Dinner is at seven. Formal attire expected."
"I didn't pack anything."
A tight smile. "Wardrobe has been arranged."
He left without another word.
Magnolia stood in the center of the room, staring at her reflection in the tall mirror. Her eyes were pale, darker than they used to be. Her face thinner. Her shoulders drawn tight. And her mark barely visible under the neckline of her shirt still throbbed faintly. The mate bond was still alive, however faint.
A knock came at exactly six forty-five.
She opened the door to find two maids standing stiffly with garment bags. They didn't make eye contact. Didn't speak. Just handed her a black silk dress, matching heels, and left.
She changed without ceremony. The dress clung like a whisper elegant, off-the-shoulder, the kind of thing that made it impossible not to be noticed.
Too bad she'd rather disappear.
The dining hall was lit by dozens of suspended crystal globes, casting dim light over the black oak table that stretched at least twenty feet. A few men and women were already seated pack elders, by the look of them. Some stared. Others whispered. None smiled.
At the head of the table sat Rhett.
He didn't stand. He didn't speak. His gaze flicked to her, cold and unreadable, then returned to his plate as if she were merely an item on the inventory.
She sat where Carlton indicated several seats away from him. A message, no doubt.
The meal began. Dishes passed like clockwork perfectly plated lamb, truffle soup, roasted vegetables sculpted like artwork. Magnolia ate mechanically, her appetite dulled by the pressure hanging in the room.
A new voice broke the hush.
"Well, if it isn't the ghost of the Blake family," a smooth, amused drawl rang across the table. "Tell me, darling didn't your kind die out ten years ago?"
Magnolia looked up.
Ivy Whitmore.
Every inch of her oozed dominance. Flame-red hair curled down her back. Her lips painted blood-deep. She wore her Luna candidate status like a crown.
Magnolia didn't flinch. "Ghosts don't die. We just haunt."
A few gasps. One choked laugh from someone near the far end of the table. Ivy's smile tightened.
"You're braver than I expected," Ivy purred. "I'll give you that."
"And you're louder than I hoped."
The table fell silent.
Rhett's fork paused mid-cut. His gaze lifted, slowly, fixed on Magnolia now not with anger, but something far more unreadable.
Ivy's tone shifted. "You think wearing a dress and signing a paper makes you one of us? Makes you Luna? You may have the title, dear, but that doesn't mean the pack will follow you."
"I'm not here to be followed," Magnolia said calmly. "I'm here to endure."
The words hung like ice shards in the air.
Before Ivy could retort, another voice broke through the tension cool, quiet, cutting.
"That's enough."
Celeste Arden.
Rhett's mother.
She entered from the far end, wearing a silver robe and a glass of white wine in one hand. Her presence was regal but brittle, like porcelain left too long in the cold.
She didn't look at Magnolia. Not directly. But her words were measured.
"This table does not tolerate cruelty. Not even under the mask of tradition."
Ivy shut her mouth. But her eyes sparkled with venom.
Dinner resumed in brittle silence. Magnolia sipped her wine, ignoring the heat in her cheeks and the tremble in her fingers.
By dessert, she couldn't breathe.
She excused herself before the final course and stepped into the hallway, her heels echoing on the tile. She didn't know where she was going. Anywhere that wasn't that room. That table. That pressure.
She turned a corner and nearly slammed into Carlton.
He didn't move.
"There's something you need to see," he said flatly. "But you didn't hear it from me."
He handed her a folded paper crisp, sealed with a gold wax insignia.
She opened it slowly.
It wasn't a letter.
It was a contract proposal.
A second one.
But this time… it wasn't from Rhett.
It was from Sterling Rhodes.