It had been ten years since her sister died. Ten years since the world stopped calling her "Alpha's daughter" and started calling her a curse.
And he was there again.
Her father sat hunched on the bench across from Camille's grave, a half-empty bottle of bourbon cradled between his calloused fingers. The wind tugged at his tattered coat, but he didn't seem to notice. His head lolled back against the splintered bench, grey eyes glazed, barely conscious. He looked like a relic worn down by guilt, drink, and the weight of too many years.
Magnolia stopped a few feet away. She said nothing. She never did. There was no point.
Then his voice came slurred, brittle, and cruel.
"Why did she die… but not you?"
Her throat tightened. It didn't sting anymore not the way it used to. But something in her chest still caved a little, like a bruise being pressed over and over again.
She crouched down in front of the headstone, ignoring the tremor in her fingers as she arranged the bouquet of lilies and wild sage she'd brought. The marble was cracked. The engraving faded. But the name was still there.
Camille Blake
2007–2017
Beloved daughter. Sister. Gone too soon.
Gone, yes. But Magnolia had never really left that river either.
She stood slowly, brushing her palms against her jeans, and turned away. She didn't spare her father a glance. He was too deep in the bottle to even know she'd come.
The walk back to the main road was longer than she remembered. Or maybe it just felt heavier. The wind had picked up, turning the trees into restless ghosts. Her wolf stirred beneath her skin not with power, but with quiet unease. It always happened after a visit. That familiar ache. That buried shame. That reminder she no longer had a pack.
She reached the edge of the woods just as the town's lights blinked into view. St. Louis had been her sanctuary since she was eighteen, but nothing about it ever felt like home. Home was a lie she couldn't afford to chase anymore.
Beckett Winslow's flower shop stood on the corner of Chestnut and Gray. The windows glowed warm with light. Inside, Magnolia could already see the mess ribbons everywhere, roses stacked in buckets, one of the cats sleeping in a basket full of dried lavender.
She pushed open the door. The chime jingled, and Beckett popped up from behind the counter, hands covered in pink petals and green wire.
"Hey," he said, flashing a grin. "You survived your annual guilt pilgrimage."
"I brought you sage," she replied, dropping the bouquet on the counter. "Don't say I never give you anything."
"Wonderful. Nothing like grief herbs to make the workspace feel festive."
She smirked, shedding her coat and stepping into the back room where the kettle was already on. Beckett had always known how to read her moods never asked too many questions. Just offered quiet kindness and black tea.
Magnolia sipped in silence. Outside, the sky was turning darker, the clouds pulling tight across the horizon like bruised skin. The house she lived in the one her parents left behind was just ten minutes away. Crumbling, fading, but still hers.
Until the bank came for it.
"I got another warning notice," she said quietly.
Beckett paused mid-trim. "You're kidding."
"I have three days."
He exhaled, clearly restraining frustration. "You can't keep doing this. This martyr routine. You could've sold it years ago."
"It's the only thing I have left of them."
"You don't even go upstairs anymore, Mags."
"That's not the point."
Beckett didn't argue. He knew better.
She returned home just after nine. The house creaked with every step, its bones as tired as hers. She lit a single candle in the front hallway, then curled into the old chair by the fireplace with her laptop balanced on her knees.
She hadn't checked her email in days.
Most of it was spam. One from the bank. One from the city about overdue taxes.
And then… one with a gold-embossed header and her full name in the subject line.
Her pulse stopped.
From: Callahan Enterprises
Subject: Invitation to Private Meeting
She clicked it open, hands suddenly unsteady.
Ms. Magnolia Blake,
You are requested to attend a confidential meeting at Callahan Enterprises headquarters, 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. Attendance is required. Details will be provided upon arrival.
There was no sender signature.
But she knew exactly who had sent it.
Rhett Callahan.
She stared at the screen until her vision blurred.
Ten years.
Ten years since she had seen him. Ten years since she had kissed him in the woods under a harvest moon, whispering promises she couldn't keep. Ten years since she disappeared without a word, forced to run after his father threatened to destroy what was left of her family.
He had been her first everything her mate, her protector, her love.
And he had hated her for leaving.
Magnolia rose from the chair, backing away from the screen like it had burned her. Her chest tightened. Her legs felt unsteady.
Why now?
Why her?
She didn't sleep. Not really. Just lay awake in the cold silence of the house, listening to the boards creak and the wind scrape against the windows.
By morning, the storm had cleared. She dressed in black old habit and tied her hair into a low knot. No makeup. No perfume. If Rhett had summoned her to punish her again, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her try.
Beckett cornered her before she reached the door.
"You really going?"
"I have to."
"Magnolia, this isn't just some boardroom meeting. That man is a monster now. I've seen what the news says about him. You think the Rhett you knew still exists?"
She looked at him, soft but steady. "I don't care. He asked for me. I'll find out why."
He opened his mouth to argue, but her expression stopped him. Beckett nodded once and handed her a small charm a braided strand of dried rosemary and crimson string.
"For protection," he muttered.
She took it.
The Callahan Enterprises tower rose like a shard of obsidian from the Arizona skyline, dark and cold and proud. Glass panels gleamed like knives in the sun. The security checkpoint was aggressive. Every camera followed her like a hawk.
At 8:58 a.m., she stepped out of the private elevator into a corridor of polished marble and steel. Her boots echoed with every step. Her breath caught as the executive office door opened.
And there he was.
Rhett Callahan.
Older. Taller. Sharper. Every edge of him honed like a blade. Midnight suit. Wolf eyes. The same storm that once called her home.
He stood slowly, buttoning his coat as he turned toward her. No warmth. No smile. Just the quiet kind of fury that lived in silence.
"Magnolia Blake," he said, his voice cool and measured. "You're late."
"I'm two minutes early," she replied.
"Two minutes," he echoed, "is the difference between presence and power. But you've always preferred absence, haven't you?"
She said nothing. Her throat tightened.
He gestured to the chair across from his desk.
"Sit. We have a contract to discuss."