Chapter 2

The moment we crossed the threshold, Christopher's mother, Victoria, swept straight past me toward Emma.

She caught Emma's hand, opened a lacquered jewelry box, and slid the family heirloom onto her wrist — the silver wolf-tooth bracelet carved with their bloodline runes.

It was something I had never been given in five years of bonding. I'd always told myself it was because i was a rabbit, i cannot to wear it.

Now I understood. They had simply never accepted me into the pack.

"Christopher told me everything. The whole thing is absolutely ridiculous," Victoria said, her voice thick with indulgence.

"Emma, darling, I always knew the two of you were marked for each other. If it weren't for what happened back then—"

I bent down to slip off my shoes, and our eyes met. She changed course mid-breath.

"You were always meant to be his."

Christopher stepped between them. "Mom, it's a prank. A Trial Day dare."

His mother gently patted Emma's hand. "Well, personally, I hope this performance lasts forever."

Without a word, I walked straight to the bedroom and pulled out my suitcase.

I'd barely folded two outfits before Christopher followed me in.

"Grace, the whole pack is here. Don't throw a fit now." He dropped his voice. "Stay for dinner. Think of it as a warm-up celebration."

I shook off his hand and kept packing.

"Tomorrow is the release for the final book in your Nightwalker trilogy. The whole team is coming. If you vanish tonight, the launch falls apart."

I paused.

That trilogy had eaten three years of my life — countless sleepless nights tearing drafts apart and starting over from the first line.

Before the script-rights transfer was fully sealed, a public split now would burn down everything I'd built.

I closed the suitcase. "Fine. One meal."

Christopher brightened at once and walked into the living room to make his calls.

I told myself this would just be a farewell dinner with the team.

Not long after, Emma drifted to the kitchen doorway, leaning elegantly against the frame, swirling a glass of red wine. The tip of her white fox-tail curled lazily around her ankle.

"Grace, since you've already signed the dissolution, the least you can do is play hostess one last time before you leave."

"Christopher runs himself ragged keeping the company afloat. You spend your days at home, scribbling away. The least you can do is help entertain the guests."

Christopher sat on the couch sipping his tea, silent.

More than half of Apex Global Media's core holdings — including the script concepts the major film studios fought to acquire — had been written line by line by me, inside this very apartment.

And now, in her mouth, I had become dead weight who merely "scribbled away" at home.

Victoria added her own voice. "The housekeeper has the day off. Darling, lend a hand. The guests will be at the door soon."

I didn't want the team's last memory of me to be a snarling match, so I rolled up my sleeves and walked into the kitchen.

My stomach was still churning, and a dull ache twisted through my lower belly.

I prepped the ingredients, watching the flame carefully before pouring oil into the pan.

Emma hovered the whole time like a kitchen overseer.

"Don't use too much wine. Christopher can't handle heavy tannins. Use the baby carrots for the side. Don't make it look like some hill-country doe's stew."

The editors began trickling in.

Jamie, one of the junior editors, finally couldn't stand it anymore. He pushed up his sleeves and started rinsing the greens, his retriever-ears flat with irritation against the back of his head.

Emma stopped him with a polite, sharp little smile.

"Sorry, Jamie. Touching things at someone else's private party isn't exactly proper etiquette for an editor. Are you trying to embarrass me in front of the guests?"

The tips of Jamie's ears flushed red, and he retreated to the living room.

I set the final dessert delicately at the center of the long dining table.

The doorbell rang just as I untied my apron.

Emma ran for the door, and several delivery men hauled in massive insulated crates.

"I figured Grace's home cooking might not be refined enough for everyone's taste," Emma said, directing them to unpack.

"So I went ahead and used Christopher's card to order Michelin-star foie gras with black truffle, and caviar tarts."

The table filled quickly with extravagance.

Without changing expression, Emma picked up the bowl of beef noodles I had just finished and dumped it into the trash to make room for her starred dishes.

Christopher didn't even look up. He handed her a wet wipe to clean her hands.

"You're always so thoughtful."

I took a step forward, and someone caught my sleeve.

Jamie pushed his phone into my hand, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Grace… look at this."

It was a cover proof sent to Jamie for review.

Above my name, "Grace Quinn," a second name had been added.

"Emma Hart."