Chapter 3 Late-Night Party Setup
"Leah?" Ethan's tone grew increasingly impatient. "What is it? I'm busy right now."
"Harold cornered me in a private room with his guys—" Leah's voice bordered on pleading.
Ethan cut her off. "You can't handle something this trivial? You're an Alpha's mate, and you can't even deal with a situation like this?"
Mate. He'd said it himself—acknowledged her identity—yet his tone was dismissive, casual, like he was making a throwaway remark about something utterly inconsequential.
"But they won't listen to reason—"
"Enough. I don't have time for this." Ethan's voice suddenly grew distant, as if he'd turned to speak to someone beside him. "Chloe, be careful. Let me get that box for you."
The line went dead.
The dial tone droned in her ear like a dull knife, slicing through Leah's heart with each monotonous beep.
The private room fell into a brief, suffocating silence.
Harold and his crew stared at Leah's ashen face, their mocking grins widening.
"So?" Harold spread his hands with a shrug, his voice dripping with schadenfreude. "Told you, didn't I? Ethan only has eyes for Chloe now. You're nothing to him."
Leah slowly lowered the hand clutching her phone.
She lifted her gaze to the men circling her like predators.
Harold's eyes gleamed with the hunger of a wolf ready to pounce. The others made no effort to hide their leering appraisal of her body.
She knew exactly what awaited her if she couldn't escape tonight—a point of no return.
Despair crashed over her in waves, but somewhere deep within that abyss, a hidden reserve of strength held her together.
She thought of an earlier call—not the one to Ethan, but the one she'd placed to the Alpha King before all this.
She wasn't completely out of options yet.
But right now, she needed to buy herself time to get out of here.
Leah drew a deep breath, slowly straightened her posture, and lifted a hand to smooth her disheveled hair.
Her movements were deliberate, so slow that Harold mistook it for surrender. A triumphant smirk spread across his face.
"Harold," Leah spoke first, her voice unnervingly calm, "you know perfectly well that my father is the Alpha of the Sinclair Pack."
Harold's expression shifted subtly.
"My father might not go out of his way to defend me," Leah said evenly, every word sharp and clear, "but if you lay a hand on me, you openly defy the Sinclair Pack and dishonor its Alpha. Do you really think he'll let that slide?"
She locked eyes with him, her grey-blue gaze stripped of all fear, cold and appraising. "He might not care about me as a person, but he'll never tolerate a low-ranking wolf publicly humiliating the Sinclair Pack's bloodline and reputation."
Harold clenched his jaw so hard his molars ground together.
One of the younger wolves behind him muttered hesitantly, "Boss, she's got a point... We don't need to piss off the Sinclair Pack."
"Shut up," Harold hissed.
Leah rose slowly to her feet. The tattered dress hung loosely on her frame, barely clinging to her body, but her spine remained ramrod straight.
She ignored the suggestive clothing draped over the sofa armrest and walked directly toward the door.
With every step, she felt their gazes boring into her like knives, but she never looked back, never quickened her pace.
She couldn't let them see her legs trembling.
The moment her fingers touched the door handle, her heartbeat threatened to burst through her ribcage.
"Stop," Harold barked from behind her.
Leah didn't pause.
She twisted the handle, slipped through the doorway, and bolted down the hallway.
Behind her came Harold's muffled curses and the sharp crash of something shattering.
Leah didn't look back.
Barefoot, she ran across the freezing marble floor, through the fire exit at the end of the corridor, stumbling down the stairs.
She didn't return to the parking garage for her car—Ethan had the keys, and he was probably already halfway back to Rourke Territory with Chloe by now.
She didn't call a cab either. Her pockets held only her phone and a few crumpled bills—nowhere near enough to get her back to Sinclair Territory.
But she had to go back.
She needed to leave Ethan's place, that house where she'd lived for three years but had never truly been accepted, never once felt like she belonged.
She needed to return to Sinclair Territory, the land where she'd been born and raised.
Even if that place had never truly accepted her either.
Leah walked nearly two miles along the highway on foot. Blisters formed on the soles of her feet, and she'd kicked off her broken heels at the first intersection. It was three in the morning. Occasional cars passed by, their headlights sweeping over her solitary figure, but not a single one stopped for her.
She'd never expected kindness from strangers anyway.
Finally, she reached the border of Sinclair Territory.
The grand wrought-iron gates stood open, the family crest mounted on the pillars gleaming coldly in the moonlight—a silver wolf standing proud, the symbol of the Sinclair Pack's centuries-long legacy.
Leah entered through the side gate. The guard in the gatehouse looked up at her disheveled appearance, first startled, then his expression shifted into something knowing. His eyes glinted with barely concealed glee at her misfortune.
"Ms. Sinclair." The guard gave a slight nod, his tone devoid of respect. "You're back."
Leah didn't respond, walking past him without a word.
Sinclair Territory was livelier than she remembered.
Even at this ungodly hour, the plaza in front of the main house blazed with lights. Dozens of servants and workers bustled about, setting up for some event.
Massive white tents were already taking shape. A red carpet stretched from the main house entrance all the way to the far end of the plaza, flanked by floral columns adorned with blooming white roses and champagne-colored lisianthus.
Leah stood in the shadows, watching it all unfold before her. Something in her chest felt like it was being ripped apart, carved out, leaving nothing but raw, bone-deep pain.
She thought back to three years ago, the day she'd left the Sinclair Pack for Rourke Territory.
There had been no farewell ceremony. No flowers, no red carpet, no one who cared that she was leaving.
Her father had simply instructed the butler to tell her to pack her things. Then a black sedan had arrived and driven her away, alone.
And now, just to welcome Chloe home, the entire Sinclair Territory had pulled out all the stops, sparing no expense.
She looked down at herself—dress torn and ruined, feet bare and covered in cuts, shins caked with dirt, hair tangled and wild from the night wind. Her wrecked appearance clashed violently with the grand, opulent scene before her.
Leah avoided the bustling main house, following a gravel path toward the back hills.
The heart of Sinclair Territory was the main house—her father's residence and the seat of the pack elders. The three-story stone structure was lavishly appointed; the crystal chandelier in the great hall alone was worth a fortune. Behind the main house stood rows of elegant estates for core family members. At the very edge of the territory, bordering the forest, sat a cluster of low-slung buildings—servants' quarters.
Leah's "room" was there.
