Chapter 171

Chapter 171
Third POV

Three hours earlier, in a cramped studio apartment on the outskirts of the city, Professor Marcus Thorne sat in darkness broken only by the cold glow of his laptop screen. Empty liquor bottles littered the floor around his chair, and the air was thick with the stale smell of unwashed clothes and desperation. The apartment was a far cry from his former faculty housing—this was all he could afford now, after the university had not only terminated his position but also blacklisted him from every reputable academic institution in the region.

On the wall behind him, dozens of photographs were pinned in chaotic clusters. Some showed a slender young man in military training gear, captured from a distance with a telephoto lens. Others were blurry shots taken through windows, or zoomed images from public events. And in the center, like a shrine, was a single professional photograph—the official portrait of Princess Rhea Winterbourne, her violet eyes staring directly at the camera with regal composure.

Thorne's bloodshot eyes moved between the images obsessively, his mind replaying the same loop of thoughts that had consumed him for weeks. She had destroyed him. That royal bitch had taken everything—his career, his reputation, his future. All because he'd recognized her for what she was and tried to secure his own position by leveraging that knowledge.

His hand trembled as he reached for another bottle, only to find it empty. With a snarl of frustration, he hurled it against the wall, where it shattered among the fragments of previous outbursts. The sound barely registered in his alcohol-numbed brain.

The rejection letter from Dean Ashford lay crumpled on the floor, though Thorne had long since memorized every cutting word. "Your conduct toward students demonstrated a fundamental breach of professional ethics and trust. Your employment with Zenith University is terminated permanently, with no possibility of future consideration."

Professional ethics. Trust. As if any of that mattered when he'd been so close to securing his position for life, so close to having leverage over one of the most powerful families in the werewolf world.

Thorne's laptop chimed with an alert, pulling him from his spiral of resentment. He clicked on the notification—a news article about the recent tournament, featuring action shots of the fights. His lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace as he zoomed in on one particular image: the slender "male" student Ray Winters sitting in the VIP section, flanked by Commander Striker and celebrating alongside Alex Winterbourne.

"Still playing your little game, Your Highness?" he muttered, his words slurring slightly. "Still pretending to be something you're not?"

But the game was changing. Thorne had spent weeks watching, documenting, piecing together patterns. He knew about the private training sessions with Striker. He'd witnessed the careful choreography of how "Ray" moved through campus, always with protection nearby, always maintaining the facade. He'd even managed to acquire copies of the medical records from the tournament incident—records that had been sealed but that a well-placed bribe to a desperate orderly had unsealed.

The truth was there, buried in clinical language and careful omissions. The princess was vulnerable. Isolated despite her guardians. And most importantly, she was valuable—not just to her family, but to others who might pay handsomely for information about her whereabouts and activities.

Thorne's fingers moved across the keyboard, pulling up a secure messaging application he'd installed weeks ago. The contact list showed only one name: an encrypted account that had reached out to him three days after his termination, offering "opportunities for mutually beneficial information exchange."

He'd been cautious at first, paranoid about traps or sting operations. But the messages had been professional, the questions intelligent and specific. Whoever was on the other end knew things—details about Winterbourne politics, about the failed engagement to the Ironfang prince, about the princess's desperate flight from her arranged marriage.

And they were willing to pay. Not just money, though there had been a generous initial transfer that had kept Thorne from complete destitution. They offered something more valuable: revenge.

His fingers hovered over the keys for a long moment before he began typing.

Subject observed returning to campus this morning. Confirmed identity through visual recognition and behavioral patterns. Currently maintaining male disguise. Close contact with both Striker and Wilde observed—physical intimacy suggested. Recommend immediate action while subject is in transitional state following break.

He attached several of his most recent photographs—images taken from the tree line that morning, showing the princess embracing both men with obvious affection, her face visible and unmistakable despite the short hair and masculine clothing.

The response came within minutes, faster than usual.

Excellent work. Information confirms our intelligence. Prepare for in-person meeting tomorrow, 1400 hours, location to be provided. Bring all documentation. Compensation will be substantial.

Thorne's heart rate picked up, a mixture of anticipation and anxiety flooding his system. An in-person meeting meant this was serious, that whatever plan was in motion was approaching its critical phase. It also meant increased risk—once he handed over physical evidence, there would be no taking it back, no plausible deniability.

But what choice did he have? The princess had destroyed his life. She deserved to face consequences for her deception, for the chaos she'd caused by refusing her duty to her people. And if Thorne could profit from her downfall while simultaneously restoring some measure of his own status...

He typed his confirmation and closed the laptop, then stood on unsteady legs and moved to the wall of photographs. His fingers traced the edge of Princess Rhea's official portrait, and his expression twisted into something ugly and bitter.

"You thought you could humiliate me and walk away," he said to the image, his voice thick with venom. "You thought your precious mates and your brother's threats would keep you safe. But you forgot something, Your Highness—you forgot that a cornered wolf is the most dangerous kind."

He pulled the portrait from the wall, careful not to damage it. This would be part of his evidence package, proof of his long-standing suspicions and meticulous research. Along with the photographs, the medical records, the detailed timeline he'd constructed of her movements and associations.

Tomorrow, he would hand it all over. And whatever happened after that... well, that would be the princess's problem, not his.

Thorne returned to his chair and opened a fresh bottle, drinking directly from it as he stared at his laptop screen. The encrypted chat window was still open, the cursor blinking steadily in the darkness.

Outside, spring rain had begun to fall, pattering against the grimy windows of his studio apartment. But Thorne barely heard it, lost in fantasies of vindication and revenge, of watching the proud princess brought low by the consequences of her own choices.

He didn't notice the way his hands shook, or the hollow emptiness in his chest that no amount of alcohol could fill. He didn't recognize the man he'd become—desperate, obsessive, willing to betray a student to faceless strangers for money and the illusion of power.

All he knew was that tomorrow, everything would change.

And Princess Rhea Winterbourne, for all her mates and guardians and royal blood, would finally learn that some enemies couldn't be defeated with strength or status alone.

Some enemies were patient enough to wait for the perfect moment to strike.