The mobster and the writer

Audriana POV:

"I'm sorry, Ms. Sullivan, but Mr. Black's appointment was for half an hour ago."

The clerk's voice was polite, but his eyes held a pity I refused to acknowledge. I glanced at the sleek watch on my wrist. Thirty-two minutes. He was thirty-two minutes late.

"He's on his way," I said, my voice smoother than I felt. My stomach was a tight knot of cold dread.

I stepped away from the polished walnut desk, the scent of lemon cleaner and old paper filling my nose. The North American Inter-Pack Alliance Registry Hall was designed to be imposing, with its marble columns and vaulted ceilings, meant to impress upon werewolves the gravity of the contracts signed here. Today, it just felt cold.

The air conditioning ghosted across my bare arms, raising goosebumps. I unconsciously twisted the delicate silver chain bracelet on my wrist, a nervous habit I'd had since I was a child. The tiny links were cool against my skin.

My phone buzzed in my clutch. A message from my assistant, Maya.

'Apex Ventures deal is ready for your final review. They're getting antsy.'

I typed a quick reply, my fingers flying across the screen.

'Tell them to hold their breath. I'm handling something personal.'

Personal. That's what this was supposed to be. The final step. Gabe and I, registering our intent to bond, a formality before the ceremony that would tie our packs, our families, our futures together.

I closed my eyes for a second, focusing, trying to pull his scent from the air. It was a game we used to play as kids. I could always find him. That familiar, comforting scent of pine and damp earth.

But all I could smell now was a cacophony of strangers-stale coffee, cloying perfume, the metallic tang of anxiety from a dozen other wolves waiting in this sterile hall. A wave of nausea rolled through me. Something was wrong.

My phone buzzed again. Not a work message this time. An unknown number.

The message was short, brutal.

'VIP Lounge 3. He's waiting for you.'

My breath hitched. VIP Lounge 3. I knew the layout of this building. It was at the end of the private corridor, reserved for Alphas of significant standing. Gabe's father had used it last year to finalize a trade agreement.

My fingers tightened around my phone. It was a trap. A cruel joke. It had to be.

But the knot in my stomach pulled tighter, a cold, hard certainty.

I pushed open the heavy glass door that separated the main hall from the private corridors. The sound of the bustling hall was instantly muffled by the thick, plush carpet. My heels sank into the crimson pile with each step, silencing my approach.

As I moved down the hallway, a new scent cut through the sterile air.

Cherry blossom. Sickly sweet and artificial.

Hailee's scent.

My steps slowed. My heart, which had been hammering against my ribs, gave a painful lurch and then seemed to stop altogether. It couldn't be. She was my stepsister. She was supposed to be my maid of honor.

I reached the door. Room 3. It was heavy, dark redwood, and slightly ajar. Just a crack.

Through the gap, in the dim, intimate lighting of the lounge, I saw them. Two figures, tangled together on a leather sofa.

Gabe.

His hand was buried in her blonde hair, the same way he used to touch mine. Hailee's head was thrown back, her laughter a low, throaty sound that made my blood run cold.

The world narrowed to that sliver of a view. The sound of my own blood roaring in my ears drowned out everything else.