Lara's POV
I made sure to arrive at the office after Mr. Blackwell. I could not bear to see him the moment I walked in. I wanted to look strong, composed, and brave, even if deep inside I was falling apart. Pride was the only thing I had left to protect myself.
"You are almost late. Mr. Blackwell has been calling for you since he arrived," Betty said the moment I stepped inside.
"Yeah, almost," I answered softly, forcing a small smile. "I still managed to clock in before eight."
Betty gave me a sympathetic look, the kind that spoke more than words ever could. She knew. Everyone did. And though she never said it aloud, I could tell she pitied me. Maybe because, unlike the others, she wasn't one of them. She was human. She didn't carry that wild energy in her eyes like the rest of them, and she didn't look thrilled to remind me that Marco was waiting.
Betty had seen everything. She had seen how cold Marco had become. She had witnessed how the office that once whispered about our engagement now only murmured about his silence.
No one knew that I had rejected the Alpha after I found out about the contract. No one knew that I had once tried to walk away, thinking it would save me from the ache that came with being tied to him. And no one knew that today, I was going to give in.
Or maybe they did. Maybe the entire pack already knew, just like Corbin. He always knew everything. He had a way of looking at me that made me feel exposed, as if he could read every thought I tried to hide. He even knew how I felt for Marco, though I never told him.
They tricked me. I never knew they knew each other. All that time, I thought Corbin was on my side, someone who simply pitied me, someone who wanted to help. But he was part of Marco's world, and I had been too naïve to see it.
And even now, after everything I had seen, I still did not believe in werewolves. I had witnessed things that defied explanation, but my mind refused to accept it. It still sounded impossible, like something out of an old myth. How could such creatures exist in a world like ours? Sometimes I thought I was losing my grip on reality, that maybe my exhaustion and heartbreak were making me imagine things that could never be real.
Now there was no more running away. I was going to say yes to Marco's proposal.
But this time, it would be different.
There would be no illusions, no hidden hopes, no foolish dreams of love. I knew exactly what this was. Marco Blackwell did not want me. He only wanted to fulfill the agreement that bound us, the one written long before I even knew the truth about who he really was.
And still, the knowledge burned.
It hurt in a quiet, stubborn way, like a bruise that refused to heal. I kept pressing on it, as if pain was the only way to remind myself I was still alive. I told myself I no longer cared, that I could handle whatever coldness he threw at me, that pride would be enough to keep me standing. But deep down, I knew I was lying to myself.
Because even after everything, one look from Marco Blackwell could still make my world stop.
The thought alone made my heart twist. I hated how weak it made me feel, how one heartbeat, one glance, one careless word from him could unravel everything I tried to build.
I straightened my back and tried to breathe through the heaviness in my chest. I held the envelope tighter, the papers that would change everything between us, and hugged them tightly against me, as if they could give me courage.
Then I walked to his door. The air around me felt heavier, quieter. My hand trembled slightly as I lifted it.
For a brief second, I thought about turning back, about leaving everything behind. But I couldn't. It was too late.
So I took a deep breath, steadied my hand, and knocked on Marco Blackwell's door, ready to face the man I once loved and the fate I could no longer escape.
"Good morning, Mr. Blackwell," I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling and my knees from shaking. My fingers tightened around the documents pressed against my chest, the only thing anchoring me to my resolve.
Marco didn't look up. His pen moved across the paper with practiced precision, his tone sharp and distant when he finally spoke. "Ms. Quinn, I thought you would be absent again today. Another emergency leave you failed to inform me about?"
My throat went dry. He didn't even glance at me as he said it. The chill in his voice was worse than anger.
"I was looking for you," he continued, flipping a page on his desk. "I wanted to cancel all my appointments for today."
He finally raised his head, and our eyes met. The weight of his gaze struck me like a blow. It was the same look that once made me weak in the knees, the same intensity that used to make me forget how to breathe. But now it felt colder, sharper—like he was reminding me that I no longer held any power over him.
For a moment, I forgot how to speak.
"Ms. Quinn, do you even hear me?" he asked when my silence stretched too long.
"Of course, Mr. Blackwell," I said quickly, forcing a polite tone. "I will cancel all your appointments for today."
"Good," he replied, leaning back slightly in his chair. His eyes flicked toward the papers in my arms, lingering for a second longer than necessary. "Is there anything you wish to tell me, Ms. Quinn?"
There it was—the mocking edge in his voice. He already knew. Of course he knew. He could probably smell my nerves, see right through the calm expression I was struggling to keep.
I took a quiet breath, clutching the documents tighter against my chest. The contract. The agreement. The decision that would bind me to him again, this time without love, without illusion.
He watched me, his gaze unreadable. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears, my heart fighting the logic my mind clung to. Every part of me wanted to look away, but I couldn't.
"I do have something to tell you," I finally said softly, meeting his eyes despite the ache it caused. "But maybe it can wait until we are alone."
Something flickered in his expression—curiosity, maybe even surprise—but it vanished almost instantly, replaced by that familiar cold indifference.
"Very well," he said, returning his attention to the papers on his desk as if I were just another meeting to get through. "Close the door on your way out. We'll talk later."
His tone was final. Businesslike.
I nodded and turned to leave, but the moment my hand touched the doorknob, I paused. I could feel his gaze on my back, heavy and unrelenting. I didn't have to turn around to know he was watching me, waiting, daring me to crumble.
But I wouldn't. So I straightened my shoulders, lifted my chin, and stepped out of his office, carrying both my pride and my pain like invisible armor.
I knew there was no use delaying the inevitable, but a small part of me still hoped for a miracle. I hoped something, anything, would happen to save me from what I was about to do. Yet as the clock ticked, I could feel time slipping away, pulling me closer to the choice I could no longer avoid.
When lunchtime came, I grabbed my bag and quietly left my cubicle. My heart felt too heavy, my chest too tight. I needed to get out of the Blackwell Tower, even just for a few minutes, to breathe and collect myself. The moment I stepped outside, the air felt lighter, though the weight in my heart refused to fade.
When I returned, the office was unusually quiet, though it was almost one in the afternoon. The silence felt strange, almost eerie. That was when I noticed the note on my desk. It was from Betty. She wrote that everyone had gone to the mall to attend the international expo to show support for the company. I was the only one left on the floor, as per Mr. Blackwell's instruction, to answer and filter his calls.
I let out a long sigh and pressed the note against the desk. So he planned this. He wanted me here, alone.
Before I could sit down, I heard the sound of his office door opening. I didn't need to turn around to know it was him. The quiet rhythm of his footsteps was enough. My pulse quickened. My body turned rigid, aware of every movement he made as he came closer.
"Ms. Quinn," he said, and the sound of my name in his voice sent a shiver through me. His tone was calm but commanding, the kind that always managed to unsettle me no matter how hard I tried to hide it.
"There is only you and me right now on this floor," he said, and I felt his presence behind me, close enough that I could sense his breath on my neck. "Are you ready to tell me now?"
His hands came to rest on my shoulders, firm and steady, and he slowly turned me to face him.
I looked up, and for a moment, my heart forgot how to beat. He was too close. His eyes searched mine, dark and unreadable, and I could not tell if he was angry, curious, or simply indifferent.
"Have you signed the contract?" he asked, his voice quiet but cutting through the silence like a blade.
When I did not answer, he leaned closer, his gaze never leaving my face. "Or do you have the money?"
I swallowed hard and tried to hold his stare, though my knees trembled slightly. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. I leaned back against my desk, gathering every ounce of strength I had left.
Finally, I reached for the envelope beside me. My hands shook slightly as I picked it up, but I forced my chin high, refusing to let him see my fear.
"I signed the contract," I said, my voice barely above a whisper but steady enough. "I agree to be your wife until I give you a son. But I want you to file for divorce the moment I fulfill your condition. I do not want to be your wife longer than I have to. I only ask for my freedom when this is over."
I lifted my eyes to him, determined to look unbroken, but my heart was already bleeding. His expression hardened, his jaw tightening as if the words had stung him, though he quickly masked it behind cold detachment.
"Very well," he said evenly, his voice stripped of emotion. "A very good choice, Ms. Quinn. Do not worry, I have no plans of extending the arrangement. Once the terms are met, I will end it. I will marry Serene afterward. You can move into your new house immediately. It is ready. You may tell your mother and brother to settle there right away."
My brows furrowed in confusion. "A house?"
He frowned, his tone sharp with disbelief. "Do not tell me you signed the contract without reading the full content and stipulations?"
My silence gave me away.
He sighed, the sound more tired than angry. "It is included in the agreement. A brand new three-story house, three brand new cars, and a monthly allowance of one million dollars. At the end of the contract, you will have received a total of one hundred million dollars." His tone was cold, clinical, as if he were discussing another business transaction rather than my life.
My eyes widened in disbelief. My hands turned cold. I had not read the second part of the contract. I had only signed it out of anger, out of desperation, wanting to end the humiliation of our endless games. A foolish part of me had even hoped that by agreeing, he might look at me differently again.
But now I understood.
He was buying me off. He wanted me gone.
"Paying for my mother's hospital bill was more than enough, sir," I said softly, fighting the sting in my eyes. "You do not have to give me that much. I can still work after this. I am not doing this for money."
My voice faltered slightly, and I hated how fragile it sounded. I wanted to sound strong, proud, unbothered. But the truth was, every word he spoke tore me apart.
I did not want his money. I wanted his heart. But that, I reminded myself, was something Marco Blackwell had already given to someone else.