The rain hammered against my apartment windows like an accusation, each drop a reminder of how thoroughly my life had shattered in the span of a single evening. I sat on my couch—the same couch where Jax and I had spent countless nights planning our future—staring at my phone screen through swollen eyes.

The internet had exploded. #AveryGate was trending worldwide, with grainy videos of my ring-throwing moment playing on repeat across every social platform. The comments ranged from supportive to vicious, but I couldn't bring myself to read them. What was the point? The damage was done.

My bank account showed a balance of $347.82. Jax had frozen everything else—our joint accounts, my credit cards, even my access to the penthouse we'd shared for three years. I was effectively homeless, penniless, and completely alone.

But I wasn't broken. Not yet.

I pulled out the USB drive I'd been carrying in my purse like a talisman, its small weight somehow reassuring in my palm. Ten years of careful documentation. Every copyright registration I'd filed in secret. Every receipt for studio time I'd paid for with my own money. Every email where Jax had acknowledged my contributions, back when he still bothered to pretend I mattered.

And then there were the other files. The ones I'd stumbled across while organizing his office last month, thinking I was being a helpful mate. Tax documents with suspicious gaps. Receipts for jewelry and designer clothes purchased with pack funds—all of them addressed to Sienna Blake. Bank transfers that didn't match the official books.

Jax had always been careless with paperwork, assuming I'd never look too closely. He was wrong.

My fingers hovered over my phone's keypad as I stared at the number I'd found buried in industry forums and whispered conversations. Cole Voss. The name that made hardened Alphas go pale and crooked businessmen suddenly find religion. Silver City's legendary "cleaner"—the man who could make problems disappear or, depending on your perspective, make you disappear along with them.

I'd never imagined I'd be desperate enough to contact someone like him. But then again, I'd never imagined my mate would steal my life's work and hand it to his mistress on national television.

The phone rang once. Twice.

"Voss." The voice was smooth, cultured, with just a hint of something dangerous underneath.

"I need to meet with you," I said, surprised by how steady my own voice sounded. "I have information you might find... interesting."

A pause. "Who is this?"

"Avery Tate. And I have a proposition."

Another pause, longer this time. When he spoke again, there was something like amusement in his tone. "The infamous ring-thrower. How delightfully unexpected. There's a jazz bar called Nocturne, corner of Fifth and Maple. Neutral territory. One hour."

The line went dead.

Nocturne was exactly the kind of place I'd expected—dimly lit, smoky, and filled with the kind of people who conducted business in shadows. I found Cole Voss at a corner booth, partially hidden by the club's architectural features but impossible to miss.

He was nothing like I'd imagined. No leather jacket or visible tattoos, no obvious displays of power. Instead, he wore an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, gold-rimmed glasses that gave him an almost professorial air, and a watch that caught the low light with understated elegance.

But the moment I stepped within ten feet of his table, every instinct I possessed screamed danger.

It wasn't his appearance—it was his scent. Beneath the expensive cologne and the faint aroma of good whiskey, there was something else. Something wild and predatory that made my wolf want to bare her throat in submission or run as fast as possible in the opposite direction.

"Ms. Tate." He stood as I approached, the gesture old-fashioned and courteous, but his pale green eyes never left mine. "Please, sit."

I slid into the booth across from him, hyperaware of how his gaze seemed to catalog every detail—my rumpled dress, my red-rimmed eyes, the way my hands trembled slightly as I placed them on the table.

"You look like hell," he observed, but his tone held no judgment. "Which, considering your evening, is entirely understandable. Drink?"

"I need to keep a clear head."

"Admirable. Also smart." He signaled the waitress with a subtle gesture. "Coffee for the lady. Another whiskey for me."

We sat in silence until our drinks arrived, the jazz quartet in the corner providing cover for our conversation. Cole Voss studied me with the intensity of a predator sizing up potential prey, but I refused to look away. I'd spent ten years being invisible, being overlooked. Not tonight.

"So," he said finally, "what's your proposition?"

I pulled out the USB drive and placed it on the table between us. "Everything Jax Arnold has built his career on belongs to me. Every song, every melody, every lyric that's made him famous—I wrote them. And I can prove it."

Cole's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Interest.

"Additionally," I continued, "Crimson Shadow has been cooking their books for years. Tax evasion, misappropriation of pack funds, fraudulent contracts. It's all here."

He leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled. "And what exactly do you want from me, Ms. Tate?"

"Protection. A fresh start. And help destroying the man who stole my life."

"Revenge can be expensive."

"I'm not looking for revenge," I said, meeting his gaze steadily. "I'm looking for justice. There's a difference."

Cole Voss smiled then, and it was the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen. Not because it was cruel or cold, but because it was genuinely pleased.

"You know," he said, picking up the USB drive and examining it, "I had you pegged as another weeping victim looking for a shoulder to cry on. I'm delighted to be wrong."

He slipped the drive into his jacket pocket. "I'll have my people verify this information. If it checks out—and I suspect it will—Silver City can offer you sanctuary and legal representation. Our contract lawyers are... quite thorough."

"What's the catch?"

"Smart girl." His smile widened slightly. "I need a favor in return. Three months of your time, to be specific."

I waited.

"My father has been pressuring me to accept a politically advantageous mating. The candidate is perfectly suitable and utterly tedious. I need a convincing reason to decline his generous offer."

Understanding dawned. "You want me to be your fake fiancée."

"I want you to be my very real, very public fiancée for exactly ninety days. In return, you get Silver City's protection, a generous salary as my personal consultant, and the full weight of our legal team dedicated to reclaiming everything that's rightfully yours."

He pulled a contract from his jacket—apparently he'd come prepared—and slid it across the table. "Standard non-disclosure agreements, of course. Compensation details are on page three. Your duties are outlined on page five."

I scanned the document quickly, my heart racing. The salary alone was more than I'd made in two years of ghostwriting. The legal team he was offering had a reputation for being absolutely ruthless.

"Why me?" I asked.

"Because," Cole said, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, "you just proved you're willing to burn down your entire world rather than accept being treated as disposable. That takes a particular kind of strength."

He leaned forward slightly. "And because anyone who can throw a ring with that kind of accuracy under pressure has excellent reflexes. I appreciate competence."

I looked at the contract, then at the man across from me. Cole Voss was dangerous—that much was obvious. But he was also offering me exactly what I needed: a chance to rebuild, to fight back, to reclaim what was mine.

I picked up his pen and signed my name with a flourish.

"Excellent," Cole said, countersigning the document. "Welcome to Silver City, Ms. Tate. I think you're going to fit in perfectly."

He stood, straightening his jacket. "I'll have a car pick you up in an hour. Pack light—we'll provide everything you need. And Ms. Tate?"

I looked up at him.

"Tomorrow morning, Jax Arnold is going to discover that stealing from the wrong woman was the biggest mistake of his pathetic life."

The morning light filtering through Cole's guest bedroom windows felt different—sharper, more purposeful. I'd slept better than I had in months, despite everything. Maybe it was the Egyptian cotton sheets, or maybe it was the knowledge that for the first time in ten years, someone was fighting for me instead of against me.

My phone buzzed with a text from Cole: *The papers were served at 6 AM. Enjoy your coffee. The show begins now.*

I padded to the kitchen of his penthouse, still wearing the silk pajamas his assistant had provided last night. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Silver City sprawled below like a kingdom waiting to be claimed. The coffee was already brewing—apparently Cole's staff anticipated everything.

Then my phone exploded.

Notification after notification flooded my screen. Missed calls from numbers I didn't recognize. Text messages from old friends I hadn't spoken to in years. But it was the news alert that made me smile:

*BREAKING: Midnight Howl's Catalog Vanishes from Streaming Platforms Amid Copyright Dispute*

I opened the article, my heart racing with something that felt dangerously close to joy. Spotify, Apple Music, Amazon—every major platform had removed eighty percent of the band's songs overnight. The ones that remained were their earliest tracks, back when Jax actually tried to write his own material. Back when he was still mediocre.

The doorbell chimed, and I heard Cole's voice in the foyer, followed by the rustle of papers. He appeared in the kitchen moments later, looking immaculate despite the early hour, carrying a stack of documents that smelled like victory.

"Good morning, Ms. Tate," he said, setting the papers on the marble counter. "I thought you might enjoy seeing the formal response to your... resignation letter."

I picked up the top document, and my breath caught. The letterhead alone was intimidating—Voss, Blackwood & Associates, with an address that screamed old money and older power. But it was the content that made my pulse quicken:

*CEASE AND DESIST - COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT*

*DEMAND FOR DAMAGES: $50,000,000*

"Fifty million?" I whispered.

"Conservative estimate," Cole replied, pouring himself coffee with the casual air of someone discussing the weather. "That's just for the provable damages. Lost royalties, licensing fees, merchandising rights. The actual number could be considerably higher."

I kept reading, each legal phrase hitting like a physical blow. *Immediate removal of all infringing content... Full accounting of profits derived from stolen intellectual property... Punitive damages for willful and malicious copyright violation...*

"This is really happening," I said, more to myself than to him.

"Indeed it is." Cole's smile was sharp as a blade. "By now, every streaming executive in the country has received similar notices. They're not taking chances—not with Silver City's legal team involved."

As if summoned by his words, my phone rang. Jax's name flashed on the screen, and for a moment, my finger hovered over the decline button. But curiosity won.

"Avery!" His voice was strained, desperate. "What the hell did you do?"

"Good morning to you too, Jax." I put the call on speaker, and Cole raised an eyebrow in approval.

"Don't play games with me! The songs are gone—all of them! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I've reclaimed what was always mine." My voice was steady, controlled. "Did you really think you could steal ten years of my work and I'd just disappear quietly?"

"Steal?" He laughed, but it sounded hollow. "Avery, we were partners! Everything we built, we built together!"

"Partners don't hand their mate's achievements to their mistress on national television."

Silence. Then: "Sienna isn't my—look, that was just for show. You know how the industry works."

"I know exactly how it works. That's why I documented everything." I glanced at Cole, who nodded encouragingly. "Every email where you acknowledged my contributions. Every studio session I paid for. Every copyright registration filed in my name."

"You can't do this to me, Avery. To us. The pack is depending on this income—"

"The pack?" I laughed, and it felt good. "Since when do you care about anyone but yourself?"

The line went dead.

Cole was watching me with something like pride. "Well done. Though I suspect that was just the opening salvo."

He was right. Within an hour, my phone was buzzing with calls from entertainment reporters, music bloggers, and gossip columnists. Cole's staff fielded most of them, but the story was already spreading like wildfire across social media.

*#MidnightHowlScandal*

*#CopyrightGate*

*#WhoWroteWhatNow*

But it was the call from Marcus Arnold that I'd been expecting. Jax's father, the current Alpha of Crimson Shadow, had always been coldly practical. If anyone could fix this mess, it would be him.

Except, according to Cole's sources, the meeting wasn't going well.

"Your boy is in his father's office right now," Cole said, checking his phone. "My contact says Marcus looks ready to commit patricide."

"He won't help Jax?"

"He can't." Cole's smile was predatory. "Crimson Shadow's influence ends at their territory. This is a federal copyright case now, with international implications. Even if Marcus wanted to intervene—which he doesn't—he lacks the resources to fight Silver City's legal machine."

The satisfaction that coursed through me was intoxicating. For ten years, I'd watched Jax coast on his father's power, using pack influence to smooth over every mistake, every failure. Not this time.

Then Sienna made her move.

It started with a Instagram Live session that went viral within minutes. She appeared on screen with perfectly tousled hair and tear-stained cheeks, wearing an oversized sweater that made her look young and vulnerable.

"I never wanted any of this," she sobbed to her hundreds of thousands of followers. "Avery was like a sister to me. I looked up to her so much. But when Jax and I started getting close as friends—just friends—she became so jealous, so angry..."

I watched the comments flood in, a mix of support and skepticism. But Sienna wasn't done.

"She's trying to destroy everything we've worked for because she can't handle that Jax and I have a creative connection. I never claimed to write those songs! I was just trying to support my bandmate during interviews. But now she's using lawyers to hurt innocent people..."

The narrative was clever, I had to admit. Paint me as the bitter ex-girlfriend, herself as the innocent victim caught in the crossfire. It was exactly the kind of manipulation she'd perfected over the years.

But she'd made one crucial mistake.

Within hours, she was appearing on every podcast and talk show that would have her, spinning the same story with increasing desperation. Each appearance was more dramatic than the last, her tears more abundant, her victimhood more pronounced.

"She's overplaying her hand," Cole observed, watching Sienna's third interview of the day. "Desperation makes people sloppy."

He was right. With each public appearance, Sienna revealed more of her true nature. The sweet, innocent mask was slipping, replaced by something calculating and vicious. The public was starting to notice.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: *We believe you. Keep fighting. —A fan*

Then another: *Sienna's story doesn't add up. Where's the proof?*

And another: *Team Avery all the way.*

The tide was beginning to turn. But this was just the beginning. Jax and Sienna had drawn first blood with their betrayal, but I had Cole Voss and the full might of Silver City behind me now.

Let them keep talking. Every word they spoke was another nail in their own coffins.

I looked out at the city below, my city now, and smiled. The real war was just beginning.