Chapter 48
Violet's POV:
The urgency in my mother's voice left no room for questions. I threw essentials into a bag, found Victoria in the sunroom, and explained I needed to return to Wildfire territory immediately. She didn't pry, just told me to take the black Range Rover from the garage and drive safely.
Twenty minutes later I was on the road, each mile tightening the knot in my stomach.
The house looked normal from outside, but the moment I pushed through the front door, the atmosphere hit me like a wall. The air felt thick, oppressive, charged with grief so heavy it seemed to absorb all sound. In the dim living room, my mother sat alone on the sofa, her eyes swollen and red, her posture somehow both rigid and collapsed. On the coffee table lay dozens of printed photographs scattered like casualties.
"Mom?" I dropped to my knees beside her, taking her ice-cold hands. "What happened?"
She gestured weakly at the photographs. I forced myself to look and felt the air punch from my lungs. The images showed my father—unmistakably him—lying naked on hotel bedding, his face slack with deep unconsciousness. Draped across him was a woman I vaguely recognized: thirty-something, wearing only a loosened hotel bathrobe. Her face was turned toward the camera with smug satisfaction, her eyes challenging anyone who would see these photos.
"They came this afternoon," my mother managed, her voice scraped raw. "Anonymous package to the house. He says it's a setup, that he was drugged, but I don't know what to believe anymore."
Movement from the hallway made me turn. My father emerged from his study looking like he'd aged a decade.
"Violet." His voice was rough. "This isn't what it looks like."
I stood slowly, my mind separating emotion from analysis. The woman in the photographs—I'd seen her before. "The driver," I said suddenly. "From outside The Obsidian. She opened your car door."
My father nodded, jaw tight. "Kayla Brennan. Works at Wildfire Industries. Last month, business dinner at Riverside Hotel. I had maybe two drinks, but my memory just blanks after that. Woke up the next morning in that hotel room, alone."
My mother made a sound between a whimper and a snarl. I examined the photos with clinical detachment. The angles were too perfect, too deliberately composed. "This isn't an affair," I said flatly. "This is a trap. Look at the framing. Dad's clearly unconscious in every shot. Someone constructed this very carefully."
"Then explain why he was in that room!" my mother exploded, her composure shattering. "Explain why she had access, why my bonded mate would put himself in this position!" Her voice broke, and she buried her face in her hands.
I looked at my father, saw helpless guilt warring with frustration, and felt memory stir. In my previous life, during Daemon's systematic destruction of Wildfire Pack, there had been a scandal about Marcus Goldcrest and improper relationships with subordinates. I'd been too consumed with my own unraveling marriage to pay attention. But now, staring at these photographs, I felt horrifying suspicion that I was witnessing the origin of that same weapon.
"Mom," I said quietly, crouching beside her again. "If these photos reach the council or pack networks, it won't just destroy Dad's reputation. It'll undermine his Alpha position and give ammunition to everyone who opposes our pack."
She pulled away, eyes wild. "You're talking about politics? Your father might have—"
"I'm talking about survival," I interrupted, my voice hardening. "And finding out who did this, because this is targeted, timed, and executed by someone with resources and a specific goal." I turned to my father. "I need Kayla Brennan's contact information. Everything about that night."
While he retrieved the file, I called Victoria with a vague explanation about family crisis. When my father returned, I scanned the information quickly. Kayla Brennan, thirty-one, from Riverside Pack—a small neutral territory. Three years at Wildfire Industries with stellar reviews.
"I'm contacting her directly," I announced, pulling up the number.
"Violet, no—" my mother started.
"Yes, I can." I met her gaze steadily. "She's expecting chaos. What she's not expecting is calm conversation. If someone's pulling her strings, my call might make them slip."
I dialed. Three rings, then a cautious female voice. "Hello?"
"Kayla Brennan? This is Violet Blackwood, Marcus Goldcrest's daughter and Luna of Frost Pack. We need to talk about those photographs."
Silence, heavy with calculation. Then all pretense dropped. "Luna Blackwood. I was wondering how long it would take. Faster than I expected."
"Tell me what you want. Money? Position? Protection from whoever's orchestrating this?"
She laughed bitterly. "Very direct. I'll tell you what—I'm willing to meet face-to-face. Tomorrow afternoon, two o'clock, Pinewood Café."
She ended the call.
That night I refused to let my mother sleep alone. We stayed in my bedroom, both caught in separate spirals of thought. "I keep trying to feel it through the bond," she whispered in the darkness. "If he really was with her willingly, I should sense it. But all I feel is confusion and uncertainty."
I had no answer, just held her while she finally wept herself into exhausted sleep.
Pinewood Café sat on the city's edge, deliberately neutral territory. Kayla was already seated when we arrived, looking normal—professional woman in a blazer, no trace of guilt in her posture.
"Let's skip pleasantries," I said flatly. "Who sent you? What do they gain?"
Kayla sipped her coffee thoughtfully. "What if there is no plot? What if this is just a woman trying to protect herself?"
"By blackmail?" I countered.
"By insurance." Her eyes hardened. "When a man in Marcus Goldcrest's position has a relationship with a subordinate, who will people believe? The powerful Alpha or the divorced woman from nowhere?" She leaned forward. "I needed proof. No one would believe my word against his."
My mother's hand clenched her cup. "So you admit you had a relationship with my mate."
Kayla pulled out a tablet showing more photos and security footage of my father entering a hotel room with her, unsteady but walking. "He was conscious. He walked through that door on his own feet."
"This proves nothing," my mother bit out.
"What do you want?" I demanded.
Kayla slid a medical report across the table. Even before reading it, dread coiled in my gut. "I'm pregnant," she said simply. "Four weeks. The timing aligns with that night."
My mother made a sound like she'd been struck, one hand flying to her chest, breathing going shallow. I grabbed her arm, squeezing hard.
"You can question the photos," Kayla continued, voice almost gentle. "But this is real. Undeniable biological evidence. When this child is born, DNA will settle any questions."
"What do you want?" I demanded again.
Her eyes moved to my mother. "I want Marcus to acknowledge this child. To end his bond with you and give this baby a legitimate place in the pack. I want what any mother wants—a father who won't deny their existence."
"You want him to abandon his mate of thirty years," I translated coldly.
"I want what he promised me!" Kayla's composure cracked, revealing genuine anger. "What he made me believe was possible before deciding it was too complicated!"
She believed it—genuinely believed my father had pursued her. Whether true or a carefully constructed narrative, she saw herself as the wronged party.
Before I could respond, my mother lurched to her feet with a strangled gasp, face white as paper, hand pressed to her chest. "Mom!" I caught her as she swayed, feeling through our pack bond her heart racing erratically—bond shock, the violent response to severe mate bond betrayal. "Call an ambulance!"
I eased her down, using my luna presence to stabilize her spiraling system. "Look at me, Mom. Focus on my voice. Slow breaths."
The ambulance seemed to take forever. By the time paramedics arrived, she'd slipped into shock-induced stupor. I rode with her, texting my father: Mom in emergency. Frost Clinic. Heart episode—bond shock. Stay away for now.
---
Morning sounds filtered in—monitor beeps, hushed voices, squeaking shoes. I woke in the chair, neck stiff. From the hallway came familiar voices—Mason Morrison's rumble, Ruby's softer responses, from the next room.
The stairwell door opened and Celeste emerged carrying soup, her face drawn with worry that transformed to recognition when she spotted me.
"Violet? What are you doing here?"
"Family emergency. My mom had a heart episode—stable now, but they're keeping her for observation."
"Oh no, I'm so sorry." Celeste's concern appeared genuine, her brow furrowing with sympathy. "That must be terrifying for you."
"What about you?" I asked, noting the insulated container in her hands. "What brings you here?"
"My dad." She gestured toward the room next door. "He's having heart surgery tomorrow morning. We finally got a specialist. He's supposed to be one of the best cardiac surgeons in the country, but normally the wait list is months long." Her expression shifted, gratitude mixing with something more complicated. "We were incredibly fortunate. A friend helped coordinate everything, pulled some strings to get Dad moved up the schedule. I don't know what we would have done otherwise."
She didn't name Daemon. Didn't need to. Combined with his three-day absence and the exhaustion through our bond, it painted a clear picture.
"That's good," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. "Having that kind of support during a medical crisis makes all the difference."
When Celeste excused herself to bring her father his breakfast, she touched my arm with gentle sympathy that seemed utterly sincere. I watched her disappear back into Mason's room, noting how perfectly crafted her sweetness appeared now that I knew what lay beneath it. But maybe that didn't matter anymore. Maybe her presence here, her father's surgery, all these mounting obligations between her and Daemon—maybe it was all just accelerating what we both wanted anyway. The end.
The elevator opened and Evan stepped out in his white coat, spotting me immediately. "Violet? What are you doing here? Is Shadow alright?"