Chapter 472

Dallas had built a cage around me with that contract, but his own cruelty had provided the loophole. His brutal public rejection, parading Yara around, threatening Azalea — it was all about control. Pulling the funding for my life’s work was simply his latest attempt to break me. But I was done playing his victim.

Isabelle studied me for a long moment. There was a complex, almost sympathetic gleam in her eyes that I couldn’t quite decipher. Without a word, she picked up her pen and signed the approval line.

“Take care of yourself, Adella,” she said softly.

I didn’t look back as I walked out of the S&D Design Restoration Wing. Stepping onto the bustling New York sidewalk outside Marshall Tower, the cold wind hit my face and brought a fleeting sense of relief. I was free from his building. Free from his immediate grasp.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting a message from Azalea. Instead, it was a text from an unknown number.

Please don’t hate him. He loves you. He’s doing this for you. He’s in surgery for his life right now. — Duncan.

I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. The words blurred as a hot, venomous wave of anger crashed over me.

He loves you.

The memory of Dallas’s cold eyes during the rejection flashed in my mind. The way he looked at Yara. The way he had systematically dismantled my life. This was just another manipulation — another sick game designed to make me feel guilty and reel me back into his orbit.

“Lies,” I whispered, my voice trembling with rage.

Without a second thought, I deleted the message and blocked the number. I shoved the phone back into my coat, turned my back on Marshall Tower, and stepped into the sea of pedestrians — completely unaware of the digital exile already closing in around me.

Adella

The cold silk sheets of the Hyde Manor guest suite offered no comfort. I curled into a tight ball, staring blankly at the wall. The memory of yesterday’s failed resignation attempt was still fresh, but my grief wasn’t just for my severed mate-bond. It was for Elara Vance. My only true friend had been banished to the underground archives, forced to sign a magically binding NDA just to protect Dallas’s secrets. I had dragged her into my chaotic orbit, and she had paid the price. The guilt was a heavy stone on my chest, amplifying my absolute isolation.

I dragged myself out of bed and down to the dining room. The heavy mahogany table felt less like a place for breakfast and more like a tribunal.

Marcus Hyde slammed a Pack bulletin onto the polished wood. “Thirty million dollars,” he snarled. “The Blackwood Pack just indefinitely suspended the Moonstone Ridge project. Our investments are frozen. You are a catastrophic investment, Adella.”

I didn’t say a word. I turned on my heel and marched back to my guest suite, my hands trembling. If they wanted me to fix it, I needed my research. I opened my laptop to log into the S&D Design servers.

Access Revoked.

Panic flared in my chest. I grabbed my phone and dialed Duncan Whitaker. It went straight to voicemail. Desperate, I called Isabelle Thorne’s office.