Kaelan noticed I hadn't filed a single medical or living expense request in the pack’s resource channel for a week.

He must have thought I’d finally kicked my greedy human habits. At dinner, he tossed a black card at me.

It cut a cold arc through the air, landing beside my plate.

“Your father’s treatment for next month. The wolf gene serum, the lab fees—it’s all approved.”

His voice was pure Alpha command. An order, not a suggestion.

“Bringing you and your father here was a risk. I fought the Elders for you. You are my mate. Stop begging for pack funds like a common stray. It’s a bad look.”

He didn’t know my fingers were ice-cold when I picked up the card.

The papers to sever our mate bond were already signed. So was my will.

The hoodie I wore when I left was a faded thing he’d tossed at me three years ago.

No one would believe it. The fated mate of an Alpha who ran a corporate empire… had to send a photo of a $10 painkiller receipt to a Beta assistant for approval.

All because he thought a fragile human like me was a leech who couldn’t be trusted with cash.

But a week ago, when my father’s lupus caused his organs to fail, I needed $50,000. He needed a dose of pure gene repair serum, synthesized in the pack’s high-tech med-bay. I begged him on my knees.

His childhood friend, Seraphina, just laughed. She froze my request, saying she was helping me break my bad habit of “cashing in on my mate status.”

Kaelan never knew I endured that humiliation just so my father could stay alive in his top-tier medical lab.

Now, my father was dead. The medicine was cut off, and his ashes were already in the ground.

I didn’t need to be his obedient little pet anymore.

During dinner, Kaelan tossed a black card at me. His face was a mask.

"I've approved the treatment fee for your father's lupus next month."

His voice dripped with Alpha authority. The kind you didn’t dare question.

"From now on, don't bother me with this pathetic money crap. I know humans and their families can be money pits, but you're my mate. Don't make us look ugly."

I just stared at the card.

Black. Metal. Engraved with the pack's silver moon crest.

No limit.

Three years ago, I would have trembled with excitement.

Now, it just made me sick.

"Thank you," I said calmly, pushing it back toward him.

Kaelan frowned. "Take it. That's an order."

"I said, thank you."

I stood up and walked to the study.

In the drawer, the signed Mate Bond Severance papers lay waiting.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Kaelan: Stop trying to scam me for money. This is your last warning.

I replied: OK.

Then I turned off the screen.

Three years ago, I was the youngest doctoral student in Columbia University’s genetic sciences department.

I heard werewolves might hold the cure for my father’s terminal illness, so I chased that rumor into their world without a second thought.

The moment I set foot on their land, a wave of dizziness hit me.

A strange scent. A powerful pull. Fated Mates.

My first reaction was panic.

A human girl, bonded to a supernatural creature? It was a nightmare.

Until I met Kaelan Sterling.

One of the most powerful Alphas in the North. CEO of Sterling Enterprises.

He was gorgeous, powerful, and radiated an aura that demanded submission.

"Don't be afraid," he said, taking my trembling hand. "I'll protect you."

In that moment, I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world.

I was poor, but now I had someone to lean on. My father's rare disease finally had a hope for a cure.

But I was wrong.

"Clara, bringing your sick father into our isolated pack territory was a huge exception. I had to push back against the Elders for you," Kaelan said after our bonding ceremony.

"Human supplies are expensive. They're all imported and drain the pack's funds."

"You can't hold a pack position. No more of your dangerous research, either. Just stay home. Be my Luna."

I gave up my doctorate.

I gave up a job at a top research institute. I gave up the science I lived for.

But he never gave me an allowance.

"The pack has a comprehensive financial system," he said coolly. "Just file a request for what you need."

Every single penny required a formal request.

Groceries needed approval. Feminine hygiene products needed approval. Even a $2.75 subway ticket needed a receipt uploaded for approval.

The approver was Seraphina.

A pure-blood wolf. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Kaelan's childhood friend and the pack's financial controller.

She scrutinized my every expense like I was a beggar.

"Clara, this $28 bottle of shampoo is too expensive. The pack's money is earned through hard work, not to keep a freeloader like you in luxury."

"Clara, your father's wolf gene serum expenses are over budget again this month. Synthesizing it costs the pack a fortune in rare materials. You'd better not be selling our secrets to the human world."

"Clara, human products are so wasteful. We wolves just use a simple bar of soap."

I swallowed the humiliation. It was all for my father, to keep him alive on the meager medical budget the pack allowed.

Three days ago, it all fell apart.

A critical condition notice came through from the clinic.

My father's lupus had worsened dramatically. He needed $50,000 to activate a high-tier med-pod and synthesize a dose of pure "Wolf Gene Repair Serum" to save his life.

I called Kaelan frantically.

It rang three times before her sickeningly sweet voice answered.

"Clara? The Alpha is in an important international meeting. Is it urgent?"

"Let me talk to Kaelan!" I was crying so hard my voice was raw. "My dad's dying! I need $50,000!"

Seraphina let out a small laugh. "Clara, you know the pack's financial rules. You have to go through the system."

"Please, Seraphina, this is life or death—"

"Rules are rules. That amount is way over the monthly limit for a human dependent. Just go fill out the form."

The line went dead.

My fingers trembled as I opened the pack’s resource portal.

Emergency Medical Expenses: $50,000.

Purpose: Life-saving medication and equipment rental for terminal illness.

Patient: Henry Miller, applicant's father.

Attachments: Clinic Critical Condition Notice, Treatment Plan, Medication List.

Submitted.

I knelt on the floor of the pack's remote clinic, staring at my phone. Ten minutes later, the screen lit up.

System Notification: Application Rejected.

Rejected by: Seraphina.

I stared at the rejection reason, tears blurring my vision.

Amount requested ($50,000) is excessive and involves restricted genetic material. Distribution to humans is prohibited on suspicion of intent to sell pack secrets.

Please provide a detailed list of high-grade material consumption, down to the milligram, signed by the attending physician, and wait for next month's Elder Council financial meeting for review.

My hands shook as I re-uploaded the files.

The physician's signature. Scanned. High-resolution.

Submitted.

Five minutes later, my phone buzzed again.

Application Rejected.

Rejected by: Seraphina.

Reason: Attachments do not meet pack financial standards. Resubmit. Warning: Fraudulent attempts to acquire pack funds will be punished.

I completely fell apart.

The doctor was still in surgery. How could I get a detailed financial breakdown of every single drug?

I messaged Seraphina.

"Please, just approve the funds. My dad is dying."

"Seraphina, please, I'll do anything."

"I'm on my knees begging you, save my dad."

Three minutes later, she replied with a single smiley face emoji.

Then, a text.

"Clara, I'm just helping you adjust to the pack's rules. Kaelan hates it when people bring their poor, greedy habits into the pack. You should be thanking me."

My hands were shaking.

My entire body was shaking.

The red light above the operating room was still on.

The doctor said if we waited another hour, if the gene repair serum wasn't administered, it would be too late.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and activated the mate bond.

It was my last hope.

Through the bond, I pushed all my desperation, my pain, my fear.

Save him, I screamed in my mind. Please, save my father.

From the other end of the bond, I heard faint sounds.

Music, laughter, the clinking of glasses. He was at some party.

I waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. Half an hour.

Finally, an emotion came back through the bond. He was drunk. Annoyed. And beneath it all, disgusted.

"Seraphina already checked your account. Your father just got his budget approved last week. Follow the damn rules. Stop lying about your father's life to get money. Don't bother me!"

Just that. Then, silence. He slammed the bond shut.

In that exact moment, the light above the operating room went out.

The doctor pushed the door open and took off his mask. His eyes were full of regret.

"I'm sorry, Miss Miller. We did everything we could."

He paused, his voice soft. "If the money for the medicine had been approved just an hour sooner..."

I hit the cold floor.

My father was dead.

Because of a smiley face emoji. A "budget overrun."

Because Kaelan said, "Stop lying about your father's life to get money."

The mate bond in my chest, the connection that once felt warm and safe, was now frozen solid.

I felt nothing.

No love. No affection. No attachment.

Just a dead silence.

It seemed my tears had already run dry.

Three days later, after the funeral, I went back to the apartment and mechanically handled the arrangements.

My phone rang.

A text from Kaelan: Why aren't you answering my calls? There's an important dinner tomorrow. Have a dress ready.

I stared at the message and didn't reply.

I opened social media, hoping to see a single message of comfort.

The first post on my feed was from Seraphina.

A photo: the view of the New York City skyline from Kaelan’s private helicopter.

The city lights glittered below.

The caption read: "Unlike some people who only know how to beg for money. Total buzzkill. #BlessedBeta #AlphaLife"

Posted: Three days ago. 8:37 PM.

The exact time I was on my knees outside the clinic, begging for that $50,000.

The exact time my father was fighting for his life on the operating table.

She was joyriding in a helicopter, paid for by the pack, laughing at my desperation.

I liked the post.

My phone immediately rang. Kaelan. I didn't answer.

He texted: Why did you like Seraphina's post? What are you trying to do?

I opened her post again.

In the comments, I typed:

“Was the view nice from a private helicopter? The one bought with the $50k that could have saved my father's life? Hope you two bastards rot in hell together.”

Sent.

Kaelan’s calls became frantic.

I blocked his number. Then I blocked Seraphina.

And every other pack member who treated me like a leech.

I turned off my phone.

My world finally went silent.

I stood in the bedroom of the penthouse apartment and started to pack.

I had lived here for three years, but I owned almost nothing.

In the massive walk-in closet, one wall was all Kaelan.

Armani. Brioni. Tom Ford.

Each one worth a small fortune.

The other wall was lined with locked glass cabinets. They held jewelry and gowns stamped with the pack’s silver moon crest—treasures I wasn't allowed to touch. Seraphina held the only key. They were “mate accessories,” she’d explained, bought with pack funds to maintain the Alpha’s image.

Every time I attended a formal pack event, I had to request to borrow them.

"Clara, this Harry Winston diamond necklace is worth two million. Are you sure you can be trusted with it?"

"Clara, this Valentino gown is limited edition. Don't you dare get a wrinkle on it."

"Clara, remember, return this immediately after the event. This isn't your personal property. It's not like you humans could ever afford it."

The worst was six months ago, at the pack's winter gala.

I accidentally spilled a little red wine on a white Vera Wang gown.

In front of all the servants, Seraphina pointed to the laundry room.

"Get on your knees and scrub it clean. That dress costs a hundred thousand dollars. You and your dying father couldn't afford to replace it in a lifetime."

"Since you can't pay for it, you can work it off with your knees and your tears."

I knelt for three hours. My knees were bruised purple. My hands were raw from scrubbing.

The dress came clean. But my dignity was gone forever.

I opened the small corner of the closet that was mine.

A few T-shirts, washed so many times they were nearly white. A couple pairs of faded jeans.

And a Columbia University hoodie from three years ago.

The clothes I wore when I was a genius in genetic sciences. Now, they looked like a beggar's rags.

I changed into the hoodie and jeans.

The woman in the mirror was a ghost. Pale, dangerously thin, with dead eyes. So this was what it looked like to live on a pack’s charity.

I remembered my friends at school gossiping, wondering what it would be like to be with a supernatural. How you’d never have to worry about money again.

I never imagined it would be worse than just being a normal human.

I pulled out a worn-out suitcase and placed a few of my old textbooks inside.

I hadn't opened them in three years.

There was a yellowed photo of my father and me on the day of my PhD defense.

He was smiling so brightly, so proud.

"My daughter," he'd said. "She's going to cure all the genetic diseases one day."

Now he was dead.

He died right in front of me, a victim of the pack's cold financial system.

Finally, I gently placed my father's urn inside.

A simple white ceramic box. No decorations.

Seraphina had rejected my request for funeral expenses. I couldn't even afford a decent urn for him.

I closed the suitcase.

That was it.

Three years as an Alpha's mate, and this was all I had.

I dragged the suitcase downstairs.

The housekeeper, Margaret, stood at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes full of contempt.

"Running away again, Luna?" she sneered.

"The Alpha just called. He wants your cream of mushroom soup for dinner."

"He said it's the only thing you're good for—making something that costs the pack nothing and still manages to be a disappointment."

Cream of mushroom soup.

I had made it for three years.

Twice a week, without fail. Kaelan said it tasted just like his mother used to make.

I had studied countless recipes, practiced for hours, just to make him happy. Just so maybe he'd approve a little more of my father's medical bills.

Looking back, that affection was never for me.

It was for a woman who had been dead for a decade.

"He can make it himself," I said flatly.

Margaret's eyes widened. "What?"

"Or have Seraphina do it," I added. "She's so capable. I'm sure she can make soup."

"Luna, you can't talk to the Alpha that way—"

I ignored her and dragged my suitcase toward the front door.

"Luna! Come back! The Alpha will be furious!" Margaret shouted after me.

But I didn't stop.

The elevator doors opened, then closed.

I took one last look at the lobby.

Italian marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. A million-dollar painting on the wall that looked like spilled paint.

Three years ago, I thought this was paradise.

Now I knew it was a tomb.

The tomb of Clara Miller, a brilliant scientist. The tomb of a stupid girl who believed in love.

And the tomb of a pathetic creature who gave up everything for a few thousand dollars in medicine.

The main doors opened.

The New York sun hit my face, blinding me for a second.

I squinted and walked out onto the street, dragging my suitcase behind me.

The skyscraper at my back grew smaller and smaller.

I had finally escaped the tomb.