She had met him before, fleeting encounters during holidays when he returned from abroad. Always polite. Always distant. Crestwood had never been large enough to hold him. He studied overseas, learned the world. Now he was back for good, groomed to take over the family corporation.
The money was irrelevant. Vivienne had never cared for it.
Charles was… art.
Tall, broad shouldered, authoritative posture. The Duvalls were known for their white hair, a genetic quirk whispered to be tied to old magic, but on Charles it was something else entirely. It was glorious. His eyes were a cool steel gray, observant, intelligent, and utterly unreadable.
Even Alpha Ron, with all his brute dominance and pack aura, did not compare.
Ladies of the pack would fawn whenever he walked by. It was almost ritualistic. Heads turned. Voices softened. Heels slowed. Charles Duvall did not need to scent-mark a room to dominate it. His presence did that for him. And he knew exactly how devastating he was.
