Chapter 4

The private jet cut through a sea of clouds, sunlight spilling gold across the cabin's leather seats. Mira sat by the window, a glass of chilled water untouched at her elbow, her tablet glowing softly in her lap.

She had slept exactly three hours the night before.

Not from anxiety.

From preparation.

Every document Elena had flagged. Every protocol for addressing the Alpha King. Every back-channel rumor about Evren's temperament, his preferences, his rumored disdain for weak petitioners. She had memorized it all, underlined half of it, and discarded the rest as speculation.

The summit was forty-eight hours away.

She would not arrive unprepared.

Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. Then another. Then a video file.

Unknown: You should see this.

Mira hesitated. Then she opened it.

The footage was grainy—a security camera angle, poorly lit. But the figures were unmistakable.

Adrian.

In swim trunks. On a private beach. With Ivy Glass draped across a lounger beside him, wearing a white bikini that left almost nothing to the imagination.

The timestamp read three days ago.

"Business trip," Adrian had called it. "Client meetings in the coastal territory. I'll be back by Friday."

Mira watched as he leaned over Ivy, his hands moving slowly, deliberately, smoothing sunscreen across her shoulders. Ivy tilted her head back, laughing at something he said, her fingers brushing his wrist in that accidental way she had perfected.

The video had no sound.

It didn't need any.

Mira's chest tightened. The bond pulsed—a dull, familiar ache, like pressing on a bruise just to remind yourself it still hurts.

But the ache didn't last.

She watched the rest of the clip with the same expression she might have given a mildly disappointing quarterly report. Then she closed the video, set her phone aside, and reached for her silk eye mask.

'Good for him,' she thought flatly. 'He's moved on. So will I.'

She pulled the mask over her eyes and leaned back into the plush seat. The hum of the engines vibrated through her bones—steady, grounding, forward-moving.

The summit hall was a cathedral of power.

Marble floors polished to mirror shine. Chandeliers dripping crystals like frozen waterfalls. And everywhere—everywhere—the heavy, suffocating presence of Alphas. Dozens of them. Pack lords from every territory, each draped in tailored suits and ancestral arrogance.

Mira stepped through the gilded doors and felt fifty pairs of eyes track her movement.

She had dressed deliberately. Nothing flashy—a deep emerald gown that brushed the floor, her mother's pearls at her throat, hair swept up in a simple knot. Luna elegance without Luna desperation. She looked like a woman who belonged here, not one who was begging to stay.

It worked.

Within minutes, the first Alpha approached. Then another. Then a third. Compliments on her beauty. Questions about her pack. Curious glances at her left hand—bare of any ring now—and the speculative smiles that followed.

She deflected each one with practiced grace.

"Thank you, but I'm here on pack business."

"How kind, but I don't wish to monopolize your time."

"Perhaps another evening, Alpha. Tonight, I have other priorities."

Most took the hint. A few lingered longer than they should, but Mira's cool politeness eventually sent them drifting toward easier prey.

Then he arrived.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Mid-forties, with a graying beard and the kind of face that had never been told no often enough. His scent was coastal—salt spray and old money—and his grin had too many teeth.

"Now, now," he rumbled, stepping into her space without invitation. "The prettiest flower in the room shouldn't stand alone. What's your name, darling?"

Mira inclined her head. Polite. Distant. "Mira Sterling."

The effect was immediate.

His eyebrows shot up. Then his lips curved into something ugly. "Sterling? That name's been dead for years. Adrian Vale swallowed that little empire whole." He laughed, loud enough to draw attention. "Who are you really? Some consultant trying on a dead woman's name for credit?"

Mira's spine went rigid, but her face remained smooth. "I am Mira Sterling. Daughter of William and Catherine Sterling I don't need to borrow what's already mine."

The Alpha's companions drifted closer—two younger wolves, clearly his subordinates, grinning like hyenas scenting weakness.

"William Sterling's daughter?" The Alpha tilted his head, feigning thought. "I heard she's a ghost. Never comes out. Never produces an heir." His voice dropped, deliberately cruel. "Can't, from what I understand. Something about rogues breaking what couldn't be fixed."

His pack laughed.

Mira's blood went cold, then hot, then still.

She had heard worse. From strangers. From whispers behind her back. But never—never—in a room like this, surrounded by the people who claimed to be civilization's highest ranks.

"How fortunate for your pack," Mira said quietly, "that your manners are as refined as your information."

The Alpha's smile sharpened. "Bold words for a woman without a ring. Go ahead—call your husband. Let him vouch for you. If you're really Mira Vale, I'm sure Adrian would love to confirm."

Mira's heart clenched.

She couldn't call Adrian. He would demand to know why she was here. He would drag her back. Her plan would shatter before it even began.

The Alpha saw her hesitation. His grin widened.

"That's what I thought. Run along now, Miss Sterling. This summit is for real wolves."

The laughter around her was quiet, but it cut just as deep.

Mira's gaze swept over the man's face. The cut of his suit. The pin on his lapel. A silver wave on a field of blue. She knew that crest. She had studied every major pack's heraldry in preparation for such parties.

Coastclaw Pack. Eastern territories. Alpha Franklin Thorne.

Known for three things: deep coffers, shallow morals, and an obsession with proving his family's superiority.

Mira smiled. Not politely this time. Dangerously.

"Alpha Thorne," she said, and his eyes flickered—surprised she knew his name. "I don't need my husband to prove who I am. I can prove it myself."

The laughter around them faltered.

Thorne's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"A challenge." Mira stepped closer, her voice carrying now, drawing the attention of nearby clusters of Alphas. "Sterling family tradition. My father taught it to me. My grandfather taught it to him. And if you're half the Alpha you claim to be, you won't be afraid of a nameless girl."

The room went quiet.

Thorne's face reddened. "You dare—"

"I dare." She raised one hand, palm up, in the old gesture of ritual challenge. "One round. The Sterling Lariat. You've heard of it, surely. A test of speed, precision, and self-control. Three touches to win. If I land even one, you lose."

Thorne's eyes narrowed. "And if you lose?"

Mira met his gaze without flinching. "Then I'll leave this summit in disgrace. I'll never use the Sterling name again. And I'll personally call Adrian to tell him I embarrassed his pack." A lie. But he didn't need to know that.

Thorne's wolf surfaced in his eyes—greedy, competitive, hungry.

"And if I lose?"

Mira's smile turned razor-sharp.

"Then you get on your knees in front of every Alpha in this room and apologize. Not to me." She tilted her head. "To my mother's memory. And you'll say, 'I was wrong about a Sterling.'"