Chapter 33 ALLIES
AVRIELLE'S POV
The air between us felt like a live wire, sparking with a bitterness that had fermented over years. I stared at Ivana, taking in the way she wore my home like a stolen coat. The silk of the robe—my robe—shimmered under the hallway lights, and for a fleeting second, the old Avrielle wanted to scream, to tear it off her, to reclaim the life that had been stripped from me.
But the image of Adrian, chained and bleeding in Xavier’s dungeon, flickered in my mind like a dying candle. I didn’t have the luxury of pride anymore.
"I’m not here to fight you for the house, Ivana," I said, my voice dropping into a low, desperate register. I stepped forward, forcing her to look into my eyes. "Xavier is going to kill him. In twenty-four hours, the execution order becomes final."
"He thinks Adrian was plotting a coup, but I know—I know in my soul—that he was just trying to get away. He was buying something. He was planning a life with you, wasn't he?"
Ivana’s smug expression didn't just crumble; it shattered. The predatory gleam in her eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, hollow terror. She gripped the edge of the door so hard her knuckles turned a ghostly white.
"Executed?" she whispered, the word catching in her throat. "No... he wouldn't. They’re family.".
"Xavier doesn't have family. He has subjects and he has enemies," I spat, the cold truth of the North settling in my bones. "He’s convinced Adrian was meeting with rebels. If you have any proof—any receipt, any letter, anything that shows he was just trying to surprise you—you have to give it to me. Now."
Ivana looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time without the lens of malice. She saw the blood under my fingernails and the exhaustion etched into my face. She realized I wasn't there as a rival; I was there as a lifeline.
"I don't have one. I only found out about the surprise accidentally days ago and when I asked, he told me to wait," she choked out, her voice trembling. "He said he was settling the final payment for a villa on the coast. Outside the North's jurisdiction. He was... he was going to take me away from the pack politics."
"The vendor," I breathed, my heart leaping. "Who was he meeting?"
"I don't know his name!" she cried, a tear finally breaking free and tracking through her expensive makeup. "He just called him 'The Architect.' He said the man dealt in offshore deeds and untraceable titles. But Avrielle... even if I told you, Xavier won't listen to me. He hates me. He thinks I’m the one who corrupted Adrian."
I reached out, my hand trembling as I grabbed her shoulders. It felt wrong, touching the woman who had destroyed my marriage, but we were two sides of the same coin now—both desperate, both terrified of the man in the manor.
"Then help me find the Architect," I said. "You know Adrian’s passwords. You know where he hides his burner phones. If we can find the digital trail of that villa purchase, we can prove he wasn't buying weapons or hiring mercenaries. We can prove he was just trying to surprise you"
Ivana hesitated, her gaze darting back toward the living room. "He kept a safe. In the floorboards under the bed. He told me never to touch it."
"Then let's touch it," I said, pushing past her into the house.
The smell of the place hit me. It was a suffocating cocktail of my past and her present. We raced up the stairs, our footsteps thundering in the empty house. Every shadow seemed to hold Xavier’s icy gaze, every creak of the floorboards sounding like a countdown.
In the bedroom—the room where my world had ended—Ivana dropped to her knees. She scrambled toward the side of the bed, her manicured nails clawing at the wood until she found the loose plank. With a grunt of effort, she hauled it back, revealing a small, steel lockbox.
"The code," she whispered, her fingers hovering over the keypad. "He said it was a date. I tried our anniversary, I tried my birthday... nothing worked."
I felt a pang of something sharp and ugly in my chest. I knelt beside her, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps. "Try the date he saved me," I said quietly. "The day of the marriage verdict."
Ivana looked at me, a flash of hurt crossing her face, but she punched in the numbers.
Click.
The lid popped open. Inside wasn't a manifesto or a map of the Alpha’s defenses. There were two fake passports, a thick stack of international currency, and a single, embossed envelope from a high-end real estate firm in the South.
I grabbed the envelope, my hands shaking so violently the paper rattled. It was a contract. A deed of sale for a property in the Neutral Zones, signed by Adrian and a man named Marcus Thorne—a known 'Architect' of discreet relocations. The date of the final meeting matched the exact window Xavier claimed Adrian was meeting with the rebels.
"This is it," I breathed, a sob of relief catching in my throat. "This is the proof. He wasn't starting a war; he was plotting a surprise"
Ivana slumped against the bed, the adrenaline leaving her in a rush. She looked small, her silk robe disheveled, her eyes red-rimmed. "You're going to take that to the Alpha? He’ll still punish him for desertion, Avrielle. Desertion is a crime too."
"A crime that leads to exile, not the executioner’s block," I countered, standing up and tucking the envelope firmly against my chest. "I can work with exile. I can't work with a corpse."
I started for the door, but paused, looking back at the woman who had been my tormentor. She looked utterly lost, sitting on the floor of a house that no longer felt like a prize.
"Come with me," I said.
Ivana blinked, stunned. "What?"
"Xavier needs to hear it from both of us," I said, the cold logic of the situation settling in. "He won't trust just the paper. He needs to see the woman Adrian was willing to throw away his life for. He needs to see that this wasn't a political conspiracy—it was a pathetic, human mistake. If you want him to live, you have to stand beside me."
Ivana stood up, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She looked at the room, then at me, and finally, she nodded. The malice was gone, replaced by a grim, shared purpose.
We walked out of the house together, the Alpha’s driver watching us with an unreadable expression as we approached the car. He opened the door, and as we slid into the back seat—the wife and the mistress, joined by a thread of desperation—I felt the first spark of hope I’d had in days.
"Drive," I told the driver. "Take us back to the Devil."