Chapter 60 The Council Thinks It Can Reason
Grayson:
The council was full before I arrived; that alone told me what kind of meeting this would be.
They convened with the confidence of men and women who believed time would do their work for them.
They sat in their usual seats, robes pressed, tablets aligned, expressions solemn in the way people look when they think grief will make a man pliable.
The chamber smelled faintly of incense and old stone: ritual comfort, tradition layered thick enough to smother dissent.
I entered without ceremony.
No announcement. No pause.
Conversation died mid-sentence.
Eight council members. Three Elders. Two generals. A half-circle of scribes pretending not to watch me too closely. And at the center of it all, draped in mourning black like a costume she’d rehearsed in the mirror:
Isabelle Vance.
I took my place at the head of the table without ceremony.
No one spoke at first.
They were waiting for permission.
Elder Rowan cleared his throat.
“Alpha Grayson,” he began carefully, “thank you for attending. We know these past days have been… difficult.”
I did not respond or look at him.
He continued, encouraged by my silence. “The council’s intent today is not to undermine your authority, but to guide the pack toward stability. The city is restless. The people...”
“...are afraid,” another Elder supplied gently. “They need reassurance.”
I folded my hands on the table.
Still said nothing.
They mistook restraint for uncertainty.
“The matter of mourning rites has been raised,” Rowan went on. “Not as a declaration, but as a gesture. A way for the city to grieve together. To honor...”
“No.”
The single word cut through the chamber.
Every head turned.
I lifted my gaze, calm, measured. “There will be no funerals. I told you, Rowan, not too long ago.” Opting to forgo the title of Elder.
A murmur rippled through the council.
Rowan tried again. “Alpha, with respect, due to the absence, a ritual would provide closure, without it unrest breeds. Even a symbolic...”
“She is missing,” I said flatly. “Not dead. Not declared. Not buried. Not replaced.”
Silence settled, heavier this time.
I let it stretch.
Then Isabelle Vance spoke.
She had dressed for mourning in layers of black silk, her hair pinned back, eyes rimmed with just enough red to suggest tears had been shed earlier: privately, tastefully.
When she rose, she did so slowly, like a woman bearing sorrow with dignity.
I saw right through her perfect performance, but didn't say anything.
“Grayson,” she said softly, laced wth sympathy, “no one questions your devotion. We all mourn Evangeline. But denial will not serve her memory or yours. And grief can distort judgment. Evangeline was… unprepared for the weight of her role. The city needs a Luna who can...”
I turned my head.
That was all it took.
She stopped mid-sentence.
“I told you,” I said quietly, “not to speak her name.”
The room froze.
Isabelle blinked, her lips parted, then closed again. “I mean no disrespect. Only concern. The city remembers Chloe. They remember how deeply she was loved. Evangeline never truly earned that trust. Her behavior, her background...”
I leaned back slightly in my chair.
Isabelle hesitated, then pressed on, desperation sharpening her tone. “You cannot expect the pack to pretend nothing has happened. Chloe was a daughter of this city. A symbol. Evangeline...”
“You have spoken enough.”
Her eyes hardened for a fraction of a second before she smoothed her expression. “You cannot silence discussion simply because it wounds you.”
“You mistake this for discussion.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I have endured many insults in the name of unity,” she pressed on. “But Evangeline’s behavior, her instability, her history...”
I stood up slowly, and the sound of the chair legs scraping against stone echoed like a gunshot.
Isabelle faltered, but continued, desperation sharpening her tone.
“The city remembers Chloe. They remember what was lost. You cannot expect...”
I crossed the space between us slowly.
Not rushing.
Not angry.
Menacing in my restraint. My wolf coming to the surface, waking from his grief, our grief—with his alpha authority—at the mention of our mate, our Luna. I kept him under control.
“Isabelle,” I said softly, leaning just close enough that only she could hear me, “you are repeating yourself.”
Her breath caught.
“That usually happens,” I continued, “when memory is selective. Or when grief has morphed into fixation.”
Her eyes flicked toward the Elders, searching for support.
I lowered my voice further.
“And if you continue,” I murmured, “I will be forced to remind the city who Chloe Vance truly was. In her own words, in her own handwriting.”
The color drained from Isabelle’s face.
She knew.
I straightened and turned back to the council.
“Given recent events,” I said calmly, “I have concerns about Lady Vance’s capacity to lead her house.”
Gasps broke out around the table.
“Lady Vance’s judgment,” I said evenly, “has deteriorated.”
Rowan surged to his feet.
“Alpha, this is highly irregular...”
“Concern for one’s well-being is not irregular,” I interrupted. “Lady Vance has not rested since her daughter’s death. Her judgment has suffered. As would be expected after losing such a loved daughter.”
Isabelle laughed sharply. “You cannot do this.”
“I can,” I replied. “And I am.”
I met her gaze directly.
“Effective immediately, Isabelle Vance is relieved of her duties as Head of the Vance Group.”
The chamber erupted in gasps and murmurs.
Isabelle slammed her hands on the table. “You cannot remove me without cause! You don't have that authority.”
“I do, and I just did.”
Rowan’s voice rose. “Alpha Grayson, succession requires deliberation...”
“I am not naming a successor today.”
That silenced them.
Isabelle stared at me, fury trembling beneath her composure. “You think this will end me?”
I regarded her coolly.
“I think you need rest and distance from decision-making.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. I turned to the council one final time.
“This session is not concluded,” I said. “But Lady Vance’s participation is.”
Isabelle stood rigid, eyes blazing, then swept from the chamber in a rush of silk and rage.
The doors slammed hard enough to rattle the walls.
I remained standing.
“Take a moment,” I said to the council. “Collect yourselves. This meeting,” I continued, “will proceed.”
They sat in stunned silence, the illusion of control shattered. And they finally understood...
I had never come here to be reasoned with. I had come prepared.