Chapter 5

• Jordan’s POV
• ​I stare at the screen of my phone, the blue light reflecting the mounting irritation in my eyes. It has been an hour since I sent the command for her to return. Finally, the three dots dance, and a message arrives.
• ​It is nothing but a single question mark.
• ​My grip tightens on the device. She is playing with fire, testing the boundaries of my patience at the worst possible moment. "Rosalina, stop this," I type, my thumbs striking the screen with unnecessary force. "You know how important Grandpa’s banquet is. This isn't just about us; it's about the pack's image."
• ​I’ve just stepped out of the shower, the steam still clinging to the bathroom mirror, when her reply pings back.
• ​Mr. Harrisford, we already broke up. I won’t be attending the banquet. Take whoever you like.
• ​A cold, mocking laugh catches in my throat. Take whoever you like? She’s trying to goad me into bringing Minerva, knowing full well the scandal that would ignite among the elders. My patience snaps like a dry twig.
• ​"Are you playing games again?" I growl into the voice-to-text. "I didn't agree to break up. A mating bond isn't a contract you can just tear up because you’re having a bad day. I’m picking you up at seven tomorrow. Grandpa has treated you better than your own blood ever did. If you have any conscience at all, don't ruin his birthday."
• ​I send it as both a warning and a threat. I know her weakness—her loyalty to the old man. She wouldn't dare humiliate the one person who gave her a seat at the Harrisford table.
• ​A minute passes. Then, a notification pops up that catches me completely off guard.
• ​Fine. I’ll go. Send my appearance fee first.
• ​Below the text is a QR code for a mobile payment.
• ​Label it as labor compensation, she adds.
• ​I stare at the code, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing my face. A million? She wants a million for a single night? I don't have time to argue or decipher whatever new psychological tactic she’s employing. The banquet is the priority. I scan the code and transfer the million without a second thought.
• ​Almost instantly, the confirmation pings: Received with thanks.
• ​The transaction is clinical. Cold. It’s the kind of message a stranger sends after a business deal. It galls me more than her yelling ever could.
• ​The next evening, I pull the car into the courtyard precisely at seven. I expect to see her in something modest and forgettable, her usual style. But when the front door opens, the air leaves my lungs.
• ​Rosalina is wearing a delicate lavender gown that seems to glow in the twilight. Her long, soft waves are tied back with a simple white ribbon, falling effortlessly down her back. Her skin is flawless, her eyes sparking with a vitality I haven't seen in years. There is a warmth to her smile, yet she carries an air of serene, unapproachable elegance that makes her look like a goddess of the moon itself.
• ​The form-fitting silk hugs every curve of her figure, and for a moment, I can't look away. A dangerous allure radiates from her, sending a sharp, unwelcome thrill racing through my veins.
• ​Then, the possessiveness kicks in, sharp and biting. "Go upstairs and change immediately," I command, my voice tight with a tension I can't fully hide.
• ​She chuckles, a soft, melodic sound that doesn't reach her icy eyes. "And who, may I ask, gave you that order?"
• ​"Tonight is Grandpa’s banquet," I say, stepping closer, my scent trying to dominate the space between us. "Wearing that... you’ll draw far too much unwanted attention."
• ​She glides toward the rear door of the car, ignoring my outstretched hand. "Exactly. I want every eye on me. I’ll save the boring look for your funeral, Jordan."
• ​"Rosalina!" I grind her name out through clenched teeth.
• ​She slips gracefully into the back seat, clicking the door shut. I climb into the driver’s seat, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Sit in the front. I’m not your chauffeur."
• ​Her gaze flick flickers to the passenger seat. There, glinting in the cracks of the leather, is a pearl earring. Minerva’s earring. I hadn't even noticed it.
• ​Rosalina’s expression darkens into something truly terrifying. "No thanks. It’s filthy. I’m not risking ruining my gown by sitting in your trash."
• ​I have no idea why she’s being so obstinate. I check the calendar in my head—her period isn't due until the end of the month. Is she really this upset over a missed appointment and a few photos? Time is pressing; as the eldest grandson, I cannot be late. I put the car in gear and roar out of the driveway, the silence between us vibrating with a lethal energy.
• ​Rosalina’s POV
• ​The ride to the venue is a study in suppressed rage. I sit in the back, staring out the window at the passing city lights, feeling the "labor compensation" sitting comfortably in my bank account. If he wants a show, he’s going to pay for every second of it.
• ​When we pull up to the grand ballroom of the Denton Estate, Jordan steps out and walks around to my door. He opens it and offers his arm, his expression a mask of Alpha authority. I shoot him a sharp, irritated glance, my hand hovering mid-air.
• ​I don't want to touch him. The very idea of his scent clinging to my skin makes me feel nauseous. But tonight is about Devon. The Old Alpha has backed our engagement more than anyone; he was the one who saw potential in a "lowly orphan" and gave me the resources to become the lawyer I am today. I won't humiliate him on his special night.
• ​I reach into my clutch and pull out a small bottle of high-end perfume. I spray it liberally on my wrists—the pulse points where my mating pheromones are released. Then, with a practiced motion, I wrap a silk handkerchief around my wrist, trapping the fragrance inside. I am building a barrier. I will not allow his scent to mark me, nor will I let my pheromones call out to a man who belongs to someone else.
• ​I lift my gaze, cool and composed. "Fine. Let's go."
• ​I place my silk-wrapped hand on his arm. I see the vein in Jordan’s temple pulse violently. He knows exactly what the perfume and the scarf mean. I am physically present, but I am chemically closed off to him.
• ​"Rosalina, don't push your luck," he hisses, his voice a low vibration intended only for my ears. "Do you honestly think I’m that filthy?"
• ​My lips curl into a mischievous, razor-sharp smile. I shrug elegantly as we approach the entrance. "Hmm. I’ll try to be more discreet next time, but you really should learn to accept the truth, Jordan. Some stains don't wash off."
• ​The second we step into the banquet hall, the atmosphere shifts. Every head in the room turns. Jordan looks like he’s stepped straight off the cover of a magazine—tall, lean, and poised. He commands the room effortlessly, his eyes glinting like starlight under the chandeliers. He wears a faint, cool smile that hides the monster I know lives underneath.
• ​As the heir to Denton’s most powerful family, he is a natural magnet for admirers. I can feel the jealous glares of the younger she-wolves and the calculating looks of the elders.
• ​His warm hand rests over mine, pressing through the silk scarf. The heat of him is stifling. "Stay here," he says, his voice returning to that professional, distant tone. "I need to go greet Mr. Wright of Starhill Corporation. It's a vital merger for the pack. Keep yourself occupied for a moment."
• ​My lips twitch in a faint smirk. I slip my hand free with effortless grace, the silk sliding against his sleeve. My wrist has grown damp beneath the scarf anyway, the heat of my own skin trapped by the barrier I built.
• ​"Go," I say, not looking at him. "I’m sure I can find something far more interesting than a merger to occupy my time."
• ​Jordan’s expression darkens faintly, a flash of the temper he’s trying to hide, but he can't ignore Mr. Wright. He turns and strides off, his shoulders broad and imposing.
• ​I stand alone in the center of the room, the lavender silk of my dress shimmering under the lights. I take a deep breath, the scent of my own perfume shielding me. It's time to show him what he's lost.