Chapter 52: Who did I sign with

The lie settled between them like a block of ice. Harriet looked away, turning her face back toward the dark window. The last knot of distrust in her chest tightened until she could barely breathe. He could choke her sister, threaten her life, and then sit next to her in a luxury car and lie without blinking an eye.

The morning of "The Resurrection" fashion launch arrived with a chaotic energy that filled every corner of the Edwin mansion's master suite.

The room was crowded with wardrobe assistants, professional hair stylists, and makeup artists. Rack after rack of silk gowns, tailored blazers, and beaded evening wear lined the walls. Jojo was in the center of the room, a clipboard in her hand, her voice raised as she argued with a stylist over the final drape of a headpiece.

"The lighting on the main stage is going to be warm gold!" Jojo barked, not looking up from her screen. "If that foundation is too matte, she’s going to look like a ghost under the flashes! Fix it!"

Harriet sat perfectly still in the center of the room, perched on a high vanity chair. She felt like a doll being painted by strangers. She let the makeup artist brush dark shadows onto her eyelids and stain her lips a deep, blood-red color, but her mind was completely empty. She hadn't slept more than an hour. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Charles’s iron grip on Hayley’s throat.

The heavy door to the suite opened, and Godwin walked in. He carried a long, velvet-lined box in his hands, his hips swaying slightly as he maneuvered through the racks of clothes. He shooed away two assistant tailors with a flick of his wrist.

"Out, out, give the girl some air," Godwin said, a dramatic sigh escaping his lips as he approached Harriet’s chair. He set the box down on the glass vanity table and popped the gold latches open.

Inside sat a massive, multi-tiered diamond necklace. The stones were so large they caught the morning sun, throwing sharp, blinding fractures of light across the white walls of the bedroom. It was a masterpiece, but to Harriet, the heavy silver setting looked exactly like a pair of expensive, golden handcuffs.

"The Alpha wants his human diva looking like absolute royalty tonight," Godwin said, his voice full of his usual theatrical flair as he lifted the heavy jewelry. "He sent this up from the vault personally. He said it matches the structure of your collarbones."

Harriet looked at the diamonds in the mirror. "It's beautiful, Godwin. Thank you."

"Darling, you say that like you're attending a funeral, not your own resurrection," Godwin murmured, his sharp eyes catching her dull expression in the glass. Before he could ask anything else, the stylists in the room suddenly went quiet, bowing their heads as they quickly stepped back toward the walls.

Charles walked into the room.

He was already dressed in his formal gala tuxedo—the black wool jacket tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders, his white shirt crisp and unwrinkled. He looked every bit the powerful, untouchable Alpha who ruled the city’s upper council.

He walked straight toward Harriet’s chair, his eyes fixed entirely on her face. The stylists held their breath as he reached out, his large fingers gently catching her chin to tilt her head up so he could view his bride.

Harriet didn't pull away this time—she knew better now—but she couldn't look him in the eye. Her gaze remained fixed on his silk bow tie, her expression completely smooth, cold, and professional. She didn't look like a wife greeting her husband; she looked like a designer dealing with a dangerous, high-profile client.

"The dress is ready," Harriet said, her voice formal and flat as she gestured to the garment bag behind her. "We are on schedule. The brand will perform well tonight."

Charles’s thumb brushed against her chin, his jaw tightening at her clinical tone. He didn't like the distance, but with the room full of staff, he kept his voice controlled. "I don't care about the brand, Harriet. I care about you. You will stand by my side tonight, and the whole city will see who you belong to."

"Of course," she whispered, her lips forming a polite, empty curve that didn't reach her eyes.

The grand ballroom of the city’s luxury convention center was a blur of noise, flashing cameras, and the heavy scent of expensive champagne. The launch of "The Resurrection" had been a massive success. The collection had been praised by every major fashion critic in the state, and the local news stations were already broadcasting segments showing the high-society crowd fighting over the pre-order lists.

Jazz music played softly from the elevated balcony, competing with the constant chatter of hundreds of guests.

Charles stood near the center of the main floor, surrounded by three city council members and a prominent developer. His large hand was permanently molded to Harriet’s lower back, his fingers pressing firmly into the silk of her dress. He didn't let her step more than an inch away from him, his body language clearly marking his territory to every wolf and human in the room.

Harriet stood beside him like a perfect statue, smiling when the photographers flashed their lenses, nodding when the politicians congratulated her on the designs. But her skin felt like it was crawling every time Charles’s hand shifted against her spine.

Henry suddenly materialized through the crowd, his face serious as he leaned in to whisper into Charles’s ear. "Alpha, the city Mayor just arrived in the north VIP lounge. He is asking for a word before the council vote tomorrow morning. He insists it must be private."

Charles looked down at Harriet, his grip on her back tightening slightly. He hated leaving her side, even for a minute in a room full of his own security guards. "Stay here. Godwin is right by the bar. I will be back in five minutes."

"Go ahead," Harriet said smoothly. "I'll be fine."

The moment Charles walked away with Henry, the suffocating pressure around Harriet lifted. She drew a deep breath, her shoulders dropping slightly. She signaled to a waiter for a glass of water, intending to find a quiet corner to clear her head.

As she walked toward the edge of the ballroom near the corridor, a woman in a silver evening gown brushed past her. The collision was quick, almost unnoticeable in the crowded room, but Harriet felt a sudden, heavy weight drop into her open silk evening bag hanging from her wrist.

She stopped, her heart skipping a beat. She looked around, but the woman in silver had already vanished into the sea of guests.

Harriet hurried down the quiet hallway, turning into the grand marble restroom. It was empty and cool. She walked over to the mirrors, her hands trembling as she unlatched her evening clutch.

Inside, tucked next to her lipstick, was a thick, folded piece of parchment paper stamped with a dark red wax imprint—the official Edwin pack seal.

Harriet pulled it out and unfolded it. Her eyes blurred as she read the bold, legal typeface at the top: DEBT LIQUIDATION AND PROPERTY TRANSFER CONTRACT.

It was the actual contract between Taylor Rue and Charles Edwin. Her breath left her lungs in a sharp gasp as her eyes flew straight to the date at the bottom. It was signed three weeks before the casino game even happened. It proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Charles hadn't won her by chance. He had bought her. He had systematically destroyed her life from behind the scenes, ensuring her family would cast her out, just so he could step in and claim his prize.

Tucked behind the contract was a small, torn piece of notebook paper with Hayley’s messy handwriting:

"He’s watching you right now. Look at the terrace."

Harriet’s head snapped up. She looked at her pale reflection in the large vanity mirror, her chest heaving as the absolute horror of her life settled in.

Slowly, she turned around, looking out the open glass doors of the restroom lobby that faced the grand interior courtyard. Upstairs, standing right in the wide arched doorway of the second-floor VIP lounge, was Charles.

He was leaning against the stone railing, his large hands resting on the balustrade. He wasn't talking to the Mayor. He wasn't looking at the crowd. His brilliant, gold eyes were locked directly onto her face from across the crowded distance, burning with a dark, terrifying intensity that told her he knew exactly what document she was holding in her hands.