Chapter 466
Adella POV
The guest suite at Anson Fowler’s private estate overlooked the Silver Creek territory — rolling hills and manicured gardens that stretched toward the horizon. I didn’t see any of it. I sat on the edge of the heavy four-poster bed, the television in the corner playing on mute.
My eyes drifted to the screen.
A RogueNet entertainment segment was running highlights from the Pack Museum Gala the night before. The camera panned across the red carpet, catching the elite of the werewolf world in their finery. Then the shot held.
Dallas was there.
He was in a wheelchair, dressed in a dark suit that did nothing to hide the gauntness of his face. Behind him, her hand resting possessively on the back of his chair, stood Yara. She wore a sleek silver gown, her dark hair pulled back, her smile confident. The crawl at the bottom read: Alpha King Debuts New Mate at Pack Museum Gala — Sources Say Wedding Plans Underway.
I stared at the screen. The image looped — Dallas’s pale, stoic face, Yara’s triumphant smile, the way she leaned down to whisper something in his ear.
He had moved on. While I was rotting in this gilded cage, he was parading his new life in front of cameras.
The door clicked open. I didn’t turn. I already knew who it was by the heavy, suffocating scent of copper and pine.
“Still watching the news?” Anson’s voice was smooth and unhurried. He walked to the window, glancing at the television. “Ah. The Gala. I heard he made quite the entrance. Yara looked adequate, I suppose. Not you, of course. But she’ll do for the cameras.”
My hands curled into fists in my lap. “What do you want, Anson?”
He turned to face me, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Braydon sends his regards. He wanted to be here himself, but Elder Malcolm’s emergency council meeting has him tied up until midnight. He asked me to check on you.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Check on me. Or inventory his assets?”
“You think he’s using you?” Anson tilted his head.
“Everyone uses everyone,” I said flatly. “I learned that from the best.”
He studied me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression — calculation, perhaps, or recognition. Then he gestured toward the frozen image of Dallas on the screen.
“Look at him, Adella. He’s already moved on. Parading his new mate in front of the world while you hide in this room.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “If you stay here, you prove to everyone that he broke you. You become the discarded ex-wife, the footnote in his story.”
My jaw tightened. “And if I leave?”
“If you walk out of here,” Anson said, “if you show your face, if you go back to S&D, if you stop letting him define you — you become the survivor. The one who refused to be destroyed.”
I looked at the screen again. Dallas’s face was a mask of cold indifference. He looked like a stranger.