Chapter 5

Stella

I woke to find myself fully dressed. Someone had cleaned me, changed me into fresh clothes that smelled faintly of expensive detergent and something darker that made my wolf stir uneasily.

My hand moved to my forehead, pressing against the dull ache pulsing there.

I tried to piece together what had happened. The memories came in fragments—Eleanor's kindness, the warm milk, falling asleep in the guest room.

And then darkness.

Waking in a strange room to find—

The images from last night crashed over me with brutal clarity.

I sat up so fast the world tilted sideways, my breath coming in short gasps.

Movement near the windows caught my attention.

A figure stood silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling glass, backlit by morning sun that poured through in golden streams.

The light was too bright. It turned him into little more than a dark outline, his features obscured.

I could make out the palest impression of skin that seemed almost translucent, as if he rarely saw daylight.

The straight line of his nose.

He stood perfectly still, watching me. There was something almost ethereal about him in that moment, backlit and motionless—and yet something else too, something that made the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise without quite knowing why.

My heart hammered as I squinted against the glare, trying to make out his features. Then he shifted slightly, and I finally saw his face properly.

The recognition hit me like a physical blow. My entire body went numb.

"V... Victor?" His name came out as barely more than a whisper. "Victor Sinclair?"

This was Liam's uncle. The man the entire city whispered about—the Alpha everyone had once believed would inherit the Sinclair empire.

Until three years ago, when rumors spread of a poison gas attack targeting his werewolf neural system. The attack had allegedly destroyed his olfactory nerves completely, leaving him unable to smell anything at all—a defective Alpha heir in the eyes of werewolf society, which was precisely why the succession had never been formally passed to him.

After that, Liam's grandfather had announced the suspension of the heir designation, leaving Victor's future uncertain.

I felt the blood drain from my face as the full horror crashed over me. Last night, I had slept with my fiancé's uncle.

My mind reeled. I thought back to Eleanor finding me on the street, bringing me to the estate, settling me in a guest room. The glass of warm milk she'd brought me, insisting I drink it to help me sleep.

The milk that had made me so drowsy I'd barely managed to finish it before unconsciousness claimed me.

Oh God. Eleanor had moved me. She must have waited until the drug took effect, then had someone carry me to Victor's room while I was unconscious. She'd positioned me there like a piece on a chessboard.

But why?

The question burned in my mind as I stared at Victor's silhouette.

Eleanor had promised to help me last night. She'd held me while I cried, promised to punish Liam for what he'd done. She'd been so kind, so understanding—the only person who'd shown me any compassion after everything I'd been through.

Unless everything—every kind word, every sympathetic gesture—had been a lie from the very beginning.

I couldn't make sense of it. Eleanor had always been gentle with me, had treated me with a warmth that my own mother never showed. Why would she suddenly drug me and use me as a pawn in some twisted game?

Had she really orchestrated this?

Or was there someone else pulling the strings, someone I hadn't even considered?

Shame burned through me. I'd been used. Again. My family had tried to sell me to Whitmore, Liam had betrayed me with my sister, and now Eleanor had turned me into a weapon.

I looked at Victor, still standing by the window, and felt something crack in my chest. He'd been used too.

Victor began to move toward me, his footsteps unhurried against the carpet. As he stepped out of the direct sunlight, I could finally see him properly.

He was striking in a way that felt almost dangerous—high cheekbones carved with unsettling precision, a mouth set in a line that suggested it had long since stopped bothering with smiles, skin so pale it seemed to absorb the morning light rather than reflect it.

There was a stillness to him that had nothing to do with calm. It was the stillness of something that didn't need to move to be threatening.

And yet beneath all of that, I caught something else: a faint shadow beneath his eyes, a tension around his jaw that spoke of exhaustion he was too controlled to show. He looked like a man who had been carrying something unbearable for a very long time, and had simply decided to carry it quietly.

"I will take responsibility for what happened last night," he said, and his voice was low and even—the kind of voice that didn't need to rise to fill a room. "I'll do right by you."

I stared at him, not understanding.

Before I could ask, he lifted one hand to cover his mouth as a cough escaped him—soft but unmistakable. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet room, and I saw his expression shift. Something flickered across his face—bitterness, maybe, or self-mockery. The corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"Of course," he continued, his voice carrying a note of dark humor that didn't quite mask the weight underneath, "that's assuming you don't mind being tied to someone like me. Someone with defects. A broken wolf who can't even smell anymore."

The admission hung in the air. He thought I would reject him because of his disability, because he wasn't good enough.

My throat went tight.

"If you're willing," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "we could make this official. Today, if you want. We could get married. I can arrange it quickly."

The words didn't register at first. It took a moment for my brain to process what he'd actually said, and when it finally clicked, my eyes widened in shock.

"Marriage?" The word came out strangled, my voice stuttering over the syllables. I was completely dumbfounded—he was actually proposing to me.