Chapter 470

The next morning, I strode into the S&D Design Restoration Wing at Marshall Tower. I needed to see for myself the woman our King was willing to die for. I needed to know if she was strong enough to fight for him — and if she was worth the risk of betraying his orders.

I stepped off the elevator just in time to witness a disaster. Adella’s workstation was ruined. A rare vial of moon-dust pigment lay shattered, bleeding across an ancient Pack treaty. Standing over the mess was Clarissa Vance, arms crossed over her expensive white suit.

“Look at this mess,” Clarissa mocked, her voice dripping with false pity. “I suppose a discarded Omega can’t even handle basic restoration work.”

Adella didn’t flinch. She didn’t argue. Instead, she calmly picked up a heavy glass bottle of highly corrosive solvent used for stripping stubborn stains from ancient manuscripts. She took one slow, deliberate step toward Clarissa.

Clarissa shrieked, stumbling backward in terror. Adella slammed the solvent down on Clarissa’s desk. Without missing a beat, she grabbed a bottle of permanent black calligraphy ink and splashed the entire contents over Clarissa’s pristine white suit.

“Next time you touch my things,” Adella said, her voice a lethal, icy whisper, “it won’t be ink.”

Up in the glass-walled office above, Isabelle Thorne watched the scene unfold with a faint, approving smirk.

I watched Adella walk away from the mess, her spine straight, her head high. She was heartbroken, discarded, and stripped of everything — yet she was still fighting. She didn’t need me to tell her the truth. She was already waging her own war. I couldn’t interrupt that. Not yet.

But I could make sure her husband was alive to see her win.

I turned and sprinted toward the private elevator lobby leading to the penthouse. I had to force Dallas to see reason. I had to tell him what Adella was becoming — what he was throwing away.

But as I approached the polished steel doors, two Dire Guard Warriors stepped into my path. Clad in black tactical gear, their eyes were dead, radiating the cold killing intent of seasoned executioners.

“Step aside,” I ordered, flashing my Beta authority.

“The Alpha King is in a closed War Council,” the guard on the left stated, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. “No visitors.”

“This is a matter of life and death!” I roared, my inner wolf clawing at the surface.

“Alpha’s Command,” the second guard replied, standing like an immovable mountain.

The absolute, suffocating weight of Dallas’s direct order hung in the air around them. They would die before letting me pass.

I stood there, fists clenched at my sides, staring at the polished steel doors that might as well have been prison walls.

You swore an oath, a voice whispered in my head. To protect the King. To obey his commands.

But another voice — the one that had watched him waste away for weeks, that had seen the blood on his lips and the hollow look in his eyes — roared louder.

He is dying for a lie. And you are letting him.

There was no right choice. Only the one I could live with.