The flight cancellation board at the airport flickered with a depressing shade of red—'CANCELLED DUE TO ROGUE ACTIVITY.'

I sighed, adjusting the strap of my laptop bag on my shoulder. The European Lycan Council meeting would have to wait. As a Beta, and one of the most sought-after architects on the continent, I was used to plans changing. But this time, the disruption felt like a gift from the Moon Goddess herself.

It meant I could go home early.

I drove my sleek black SUV toward the Silver River Pack lands, a small smile playing on my lips. My mate, Alpha Tate Snyder, didn't know I was coming. We had been pouring everything into the new Pack House extension. It was my design, my funding, and—most importantly—our future home. I imagined Tate’s face lighting up when I walked in a day early, maybe catching him reviewing the blueprints for the solar roofing I’d insisted on.

I parked the car a half-mile down the road to keep the surprise intact and shifted my approach, walking through the dense treeline. The air was crisp, smelling of pine and damp earth. It was a good day to be home.

But as I neared the construction site of the East Wing—the wing specifically designed to be the Alpha and Luna’s private quarters—my smile faltered.

Something was wrong.

From the outside, the structure looked fine. My clean, modern lines were there. But piled near the entrance were stacks of materials that definitely weren’t on my manifest. I saw rolls of velvet. Crates of what looked like faux-gold trim. And the smell… instead of the clean scent of treated cedar and fresh concrete, the air reeked of cheap perfume and something musky.

I stepped through the open framing of the side entrance, my boots silent on the subfloor. My heart gave a strange, uneven thud.

"What in the name of the Goddess…" I whispered.

The main hallway, which I had designed to be an airy, minimalist gallery with floor-to-ceiling windows to let in the moonlight, was unrecognizable. The walls, which were supposed to be a calming slate grey, had been slapped with a coat of aggressive, garish crimson paint. It looked less like a home and more like the inside of a cheap heart.

I reached out and touched a roll of carpet leaning against the wall. It wasn't the high-traffic, sustainable wool blend I had ordered from Italy. It was synthetic shag. Deep, tacky red shag.

My stomach churned. Tate knew my style. He knew I hated clutter, hated excess. Why would he approve this? I had signed the checks for the marble and the glass. Where were they?

I moved deeper into the house, my Beta instincts flaring. The silence of the construction site was heavy. It was late afternoon, and the crew should have been wrapping up, yet the place was empty. Empty, except for voices drifting from the master suite at the end of the hall.

The double doors to the master bedroom were closed, but the intercom panel on the wall next to me was lit up. The little green light blinked rhythmically. Someone had left the internal comms open on the 'All House' setting.

I froze as a high-pitched, breathy giggle crackled through the speaker.

"Oh, Tate, stop it! The paint isn't even dry yet!" a woman’s voice squealed. It wasn't a voice I recognized from the pack leadership. It sounded young, needy.

Then, I heard him. My mate.

"Let it dry," Tate’s voice came through, low and thick with a tone I rarely heard directed at me. It was his Alpha command voice, but twisted into something lustful. "I don't care about the paint. I care about breaking this room in properly."

I felt the blood drain from my face. I stood paralyzed in the hallway, staring at the speaker as if it were a venomous snake.

"But what about her?" the woman asked, her voice dropping to a mock whisper that the microphone picked up perfectly. "What if the 'Architect' comes back and sees we turned her boring grey box into a proper love nest?"

I gripped the doorframe so hard my knuckles turned white. The Architect. That’s what they called me.

"Eileen?" Tate scoffed, the sound like a physical slap. "She's in Europe boring the Council to death with talk of zoning laws. She won't be back for days. Besides, she doesn't understand what a real Alpha needs."

"And what does a real Alpha need?" the woman purred.

"A place to breed," Tate growled. "Not a museum. I’m turning this suite into a den for us, Maddison. For marking you. For raising our pups."

The world tilted on its axis. Pups.

I looked around the hallway again. The red paint suddenly looked like blood. The cheap velvet, the tacky gold—it wasn't just bad taste. It was a replacement. He was erasing me. He was taking my money, my design, my territory, and building a shrine to his infidelity.

"Our pups," the woman—Maddison—cooed. "I like the sound of that. Much better than her cold, empty designs. She’s so… stiff."

"She's useful," Tate corrected her, and that single word hurt more than the cheating. "Her bank account built this roof over our heads, sweetheart. Let her have her drawings. You get the Alpha."

A cold, icy calm settled over me. It was the same feeling I got right before a difficult negotiation, or when a structural beam snapped on a site. Panic was for Omegas. Rage was for Alphas. I was a Beta. I was the one who fixed things, or in this case, the one who condemned them.

I didn't storm in. I didn't scream. I simply reached into my bag and pulled out my phone, hitting the record button on the voice memo app to capture the intercom feed. Evidence first. Emotion later.

"Just wait until I get that chandelier up," Maddison giggled through the speaker. "The iron one with the shackles."

"Whatever you want," Tate groaned. "It's all yours."

I stopped the recording and slipped the phone back into my pocket. My hands weren't shaking anymore. I looked at the red walls one last time. They thought they were building a love nest on my dime.

I straightened my blazer, smoothed my hair, and stepped toward the door. They were about to find out that when you mess with the architect, the whole house comes down.

The voices from the intercom cut off with a sharp click as I silenced my phone. The recording was saved, backed up to the cloud, and locked in a folder named 'Demolition.'

For a moment, I just stood there in the hallway that was supposed to be my sanctuary. My chest felt like it had been hollowed out with an excavator. The pain was physical, a sharp, twisting knot right behind my sternum where the mate bond lived. My wolf was pacing in the back of my mind, whining, confused by the scent of betrayal that clung to the air like cheap cologne. She wanted to shift, to tear the door down, to howl until Tate remembered who I was.

But I wasn't just a wolf. I was Eileen Parker. I was a Beta. And Betas didn't howl at the moon when things went wrong; we fixed the structural integrity.

I took a deep breath, forcing the air into my lungs until the burning sensation subsided. Panic was inefficient. Heartbreak was a luxury I couldn't afford right now. If I stormed in there screaming, Tate would use his Alpha voice to cow me, to make me doubt myself. He’d spin it. He’d say I was hysterical, jealous, unstable.

No. I needed more than a voice recording. I needed a paper trail so thick he’d choke on it.

Reaching into my bag, I pulled out a small silver vial—my high-grade scent blocker. I usually only used it for meetings with human clients or the high-stress negotiations with the Lycan Council where pheromones could be seen as aggression. I spritzed it on my wrists and neck. The familiar, sterile smell of ozone and nothingness washed over me, masking my unique scent of parchment and rain.

To them, I was now just a generic, scentless human contractor.

I pulled my hair back into a severe bun and put on my hard hat, which I always kept in the car. I grabbed my clipboard. I wasn't Eileen, the loving mate coming home early. I was the Inspector.

I walked further into the site, my heels clicking with purpose on the unfinished subfloor.

A man in a dusty orange vest was crouched by a stack of drywall, his head in his hands. It was Miller, the Delta foreman. I’d hired him myself because he was honest and meticulous. Now, he looked like he’d aged ten years in a week.

"Miller," I said, my voice crisp.

He jumped, scrambling to his feet. His eyes widened when he saw me, panic flashing across his face. "Beta Parker! I... we didn't expect you... the schedule said..."

"Plans change," I said, keeping my face impassive. I gestured to the hideous red walls with my pen. "Explain this. The blueprints specified 'Slate Mist' for the corridors. This looks like a crime scene."

Miller swallowed hard, wringing his hands. He looked toward the master suite doors, fear radiating off him in waves. "I know, Beta. I tried to tell them. But... the orders came from the top."

"From Alpha Tate?" I asked.

"From The Lady," Miller whispered, lowering his voice as if saying her name might summon a demon. "She said the slate was 'depressing.' She said if we didn't paint it 'Passion Red' by yesterday, she'd have Alpha Tate exile the whole crew."

My grip on the clipboard tightened until the plastic creaked. Exile. For paint. Tate was letting a mistress threaten loyal Pack members with exile over interior design choices.

"I see," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "And the materials? The shag carpet? The gold trim?"

"She ordered it all," Miller said, looking miserable. "She signed for it. Said to put it on the 'Emergency Fund' tab."

The Emergency Fund. The account I had set up for structural failures or weather damage. My personal savings.

"Do you have the invoices, Miller?"

He nodded vigorously, fumbling in his back pocket to produce a crumpled stack of receipts. I took them, scanning the lines. 'Imported Velvet - $5,000.' 'Custom Gold Leaf - $8,000.' 'Consultation Fee - M. Gray - $10,000.'

She was paying herself a consultation fee to ruin my house with my money.

"Thank you, Miller," I said, tucking the receipts into my clipboard. "Get the crew to the break area. I'll handle the rest."

Before he could argue, the double doors at the end of the hall banged open.

A woman stepped out, and the air instantly soured with an overpowering scent of synthetic vanilla and heavy musk. It was Maddison Gray. I recognized her vaguely from pack gatherings years ago—a flighty Omega who always hung around the buffet table looking for a wealthy mate.

She was wearing a fur coat. Not just any fur coat. It was a silver fox fur, floor-length, dragged carelessly over the dusty construction floor.

I recognized the coat. I had seen the invoice for 'Roofing Insulation - Premium Grade' just last week. It cost exactly as much as a custom silver fox coat.

Maddison didn't look at my face. She looked at my clipboard, then at my boots, dismissing me instantly as 'help.'

"You!" she barked, snapping her fingers at me. Her nails were long, painted the same garish red as the walls. "Don't just stand there gawking. The Alpha is thirsty."

She adjusted the coat, flashing a glimpse of lingerie underneath that cost more than Miller made in a month.

"I need a bottle of sparkling water," she demanded, waving a hand dismissively. "And make sure it's chilled. This dust is drying out my throat. And tell those idiots to stop hammering so loud; Tate and I are trying to... brainstorm."

I stared at her. She had no idea who I was. The scent blocker was working perfectly. To her, I was just a faceless bureaucrat, a servant to be ordered around in my own house.

A cold smile touched my lips. "Brainstorming," I repeated, my tone flat. "Is that what you call it?"

Maddison narrowed her eyes, finally looking at my face. She didn't see a rival. She saw insubordination. "Excuse me? Do you know who I am? I am the future Luna of this Pack. You watch your tone, or I'll have you thrown off this property before you can blink."

"Future Luna," I said, writing it down on my clipboard as if taking a note. "Interesting title. Does the current Luna know she's been replaced? Or is the position open due to... incompetence?"

Her face flushed an ugly, blotchy pink. "Who do you think you are?" she screeched, stepping closer. "I want your name! I'm going to have Tate fire you!"

"Oh, I don't think Tate can fire me," I said softly, tapping the pen against the stack of incriminating receipts. "But please, do go get him. I have a few questions about the insulation budget."

Maddison snarled, a pathetic sound for an Omega trying to play Alpha. "I'm going to make sure you never work in this town again!"

She spun on her heel, the stolen fur coat swishing dramatically, and stormed back toward the bedroom. "Tate! Tate, baby! There's some rude inspector out here refusing to get my water!"

I watched her go, my heart pounding a steady, war-drum rhythm against my ribs.

*Let him come,* my wolf growled.

I uncapped my pen. *Yes,* I thought. *Let him come.*

The hallway smelled like disaster. Not the clean, honest dust of demolition, but the sour tang of incompetence mixed with cheap perfume. I watched Maddison storm back toward the master suite, her stolen silver fox coat trailing behind her like a bridal train from hell.

"Move it!" she shrieked at two young Omega workers who were struggling with a massive crate near the doorway. "Tate wants the mood lighting up before sunset!"

I stepped closer, my clipboard acting as a shield against the urge to shift and tear her throat out. The crate was marked 'Industrial Iron Fixture - Custom.' My architect's eye did the math instantly. Based on the size and the strain on the workers' faces, that thing weighed at least four hundred pounds.

"Careful!" one of the Omegas gasped, his knees buckling. "It's slipping!"

"Just get it up there!" Maddison snapped, checking her nails. "It's for the mating rituals. It needs to hang directly over the bed. And if you drop it, I'll have Tate dock your pay for a year."

My blood ran cold. The master suite ceiling was framed with standard residential joists, designed for drywall and maybe a ceiling fan. It wasn't reinforced for a quarter-ton of iron shackles and chains. If they hung that monstrosity, it would rip through the plaster and crush whoever was in the bed below.

Ideally, that would be Tate and Maddison. But I couldn't let innocent workers get hurt installing their death trap.

The taller Omega lost his grip. The crate tilted dangerously, sliding toward Maddison’s unsuspecting ankles.

I didn't think. I moved.

Dropping the clipboard, I surged forward with Beta speed. I wasn't as fast as an Alpha, but I was faster than any human or Omega. I slammed my shoulder into the crate, catching the weight just as it tipped past the point of no return. The wood groaned, biting into my blazer, but I held it. My boots skid an inch on the subfloor, finding traction in the dust.

"Stabilize it!" I barked, my voice dropping into the command tone I used on high-rise sites. "Now!"

The Omegas scrambled, terrified, and together we shoved the crate back to a safe angle. I exhaled, brushing the sawdust off my shoulder. My muscles burned, but the adrenaline felt good. It felt like control.

Maddison stared at me, her mouth hanging open. She looked from the heavy crate to my relatively slender frame, confusion warring with her arrogance.

"You..." she stammered. "You almost dropped it on my foot!"

I picked up my clipboard, stepping into her personal space. She flinched, expecting a blow, but I just tapped the paper with my pen. "That fixture exceeds the static load capacity of a residential truss system by three hundred percent," I said, my voice cold and clinical. "You hang that without steel reinforcement, and the roof comes down. It's a structural violation. Section 4, Paragraph 2 of the Pack Safety Code."

"I don't care about codes!" Maddison hissed, recovering her composure. She crossed her arms, trying to look imposing in her lingerie and fur. "I'm the future Luna. I want the chandelier."

"Physics doesn't care about your title," I replied flatly. "And neither does the insurance company. Unless you want to explain to Alpha Tate why his new bedroom has a skylight shaped like a lawsuit, I suggest you leave it on the floor."

For a second, I thought she might actually try to fight me. Her eyes flashed a weak, muddy yellow—her wolf was surface-level, agitated but weak. But then fear flickered in her gaze. She didn't know who I was, but she recognized competence. She recognized that I wasn't afraid of her.

"Fine," she spat, turning to the trembling workers. "Leave it! Go... go polish the sconces or something! Useless, all of you!"

While she was busy berating the crew, screeching about how hard it was to find good help, I slipped past her into the temporary site office set up in what used to be the guest room.

This was where Miller kept the hard copies. The real paperwork.

I closed the door softly, drowning out Maddison’s shrill voice. The room was cluttered with blueprints and coffee cups. I moved straight to the secure laptop on the desk. Miller was good, but he used the same password for everything: 'SilverRiver1'.

The screen flickered to life. I navigated to the budget spreadsheet, my fingers flying across the keys. I needed to see where the money was really going.

I found the entries for the 'Imported Velvet' and 'Custom Gold Fixtures' almost immediately. The amounts were staggering. Five thousand here. Twelve thousand there. But it was the vendor names that made my stomach turn.

'Velvet' was listed under a vendor named *Red Tooth Supply*.

'Gold Fixtures' was paid to *Shadow Creek Logistics*.

I pulled up the vendor details. These weren't interior design firms. They were shell companies. I knew *Red Tooth Supply*. It was a front for a Rogue faction operating near the border—a group known for illegal gambling dens and trafficking stolen goods.

My breath hitched. Maddison wasn't just wasting my money on bad taste. She was laundering it.

I clicked through the transaction history. The dates aligned perfectly. Every time a 'renovation' invoice was paid, a transfer went out to these Rogue accounts. She was paying off debts. Huge ones.

"Grifting isn't enough for you, is it?" I whispered to the empty room.

She was funding the very enemies that threatened our borders. She was taking Pack funds—*my* funds—and handing them to Rogues who would happily slaughter us in our sleep. And Tate? He was either too stupid to notice or too blinded by lust to care.

This wasn't just infidelity anymore. This was treason.

I pulled a flash drive from my pocket and jammed it into the USB port. The download bar crawled across the screen—20%... 45%...

Outside, I heard heavy footsteps approaching. The floorboards creaked under a weight that was distinctly Alpha.

"Maddison?" Tate's voice boomed from the hallway, closer than I expected. "Why are the workers hiding in the kitchen?"

60%...

"Because that rude inspector woman wouldn't let them hang the shackles!" Maddison whined. "She's in the office right now! Get rid of her, Tate!"

90%...

The doorknob to the office rattled.

"Inspector?" Tate growled, his hand heavy on the latch. "Open this door."

The download hit 100%. I yanked the drive out just as the lock clicked.