Ingrid Bradford POV: Everyone thought I was the disgrace Derrick Fuentes had dragged back from the borderlands—a wolfless girl, fit only to keep her tail tucked and her head down. They didn't know that half an hour ago, at my mother's grave, Master Arthur had pressed a cracked cowhide medical manual into my hands and murmured, "Go to Riverport. Treat Franklin Wolfe. The silver toxin in his blood is mutating. You're the last one who can purge it." They didn't know either that the Lycan Lord my father wouldn't dare name was the man I'd been sent to save—and that I'd come back to the Fuentes house not for their surname, but for every drop of blood they owed my mother. I shoved the manual into my faded backpack and took one last look at her headstone. Bella Bradford's name was carved crookedly into cheap stone, without even a decent engraving. A freezing wind whipped dead leaves against my calves. I pushed the killing intent back into my chest and turned toward the rusted iron gate of the cemetery. Outside, a black stretch Lincoln sat on the muddy shoulder. Sunlight slammed off the dark windows, blinding enough to make my eyes ache. A uniformed Beta driver stood by the rear door. When I approached, he didn't bow. He just yanked the door open with a sneer, his gaze stripping me from head to toe like I was trash dragged out of the woods. I didn't spare him a glance. I bent down and slid into the wide leather seat. A thick cloud of cologne hit my throat, and I frowned. Across from me sat Derrick Fuentes, my biological father and the Alpha CEO of the Fuentes Group. He wore a perfectly tailored Italian suit, his eyes fixed on the financial spreadsheets on his tablet. He didn't even bother to look up. The door slammed shut, cutting off the wind. The Lincoln crunched over gravel and rolled forward. Inside the cabin, the silence felt heavy enough to sink. Finally, Derrick set down his tablet and turned his murky gray-brown eyes on me. His gaze dragged over my faded jeans and plain black jacket, and his forehead knotted with disgust. He snorted through his nose, pulled a folder from the side compartment, and tossed it onto the leather seat between us. "Remember your place, Ingrid," Derrick said, his voice low and weighted with the usual Alpha command. "Now that you're back in the Riverport Pack, keep your tail tucked." I leaned back against the seat and didn't touch the folder. My right fingers tapped against my knee, and the corner of my mouth curved up. Seeing no reaction, Derrick's face flushed. He lunged forward and released his full Alpha pressure in the cramped cabin. By werewolf law, an Alpha's command should have brought a wolfless outcast to her knees. Unfortunately for him, his pressure wasn't even enough to stir the pureblood White Wolf lineage sleeping in my veins. I tilted my head and met his glare with ice-blue eyes. "Do you really think I want the Fuentes name?" My voice was flat. "Mr. Fuentes." Derrick's face turned livid. He raised his hand, the sapphire ring on his finger flashing as he prepared to slap some rules into me. I didn't dodge. I stared straight at his raised palm, and the cold in my eyes froze his hand in midair. He trembled with rage, lowered his arm, and clenched his teeth. "In front of outsiders, you will never mention your dead mother. And keep your mouth shut about being born without an inner wolf. That genetic defect is humiliating enough." He tugged at his suit jacket and forced his tone back into false calm. "Barbara is a generous Luna. As long as you behave, the Fuentes family won't let you starve." My mother's pale, dying face flashed before my eyes. I twirled a strand of black hair around my finger and laughed softly. Derrick took my silence as submission. He turned to the window and began lecturing me on Riverport's hierarchy. "Most importantly, never offend the Lycan Lord, Franklin Wolfe. A pureblood Lycan stands above every Alpha. One word from him, and he could wipe our entire pack off the map." Franklin Wolfe. My fingers paused against my knee. The wolf-shaped birthmark on the back of my neck burned against my collar. The car merged onto the highway. Barren woods fell away, and glass-walled pack towers glowed under the setting sun. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, shutting out Derrick's voice. Hours later, the air in the cabin turned cool. I opened my eyes as tall iron gates engraved with the Fuentes wolf crest slid open. The Lincoln stopped in front of a brightly lit mansion, where a marble fountain still splashed in the dark. The driver opened Derrick's door. Derrick straightened his tie and walked off without looking back. I pushed my own door open. Cold night air mixed with the scent of roses hit my face. I slung my old backpack over one shoulder and stepped onto the marble stairs. Warm laughter drifted out through the half-open carved doors. I looked up at the mansion built on my mother's blood and fortune, and my eyes went cold. A maid in a crisp uniform stepped out and blocked the doorway, staring at my worn backpack as if I were a beggar.

Ingrid Bradford POV: I stood on the steps with one hand on my backpack strap, the night wind tugging at the hem of my jacket, and looked at the maid blocking the door. She crossed her arms, lifted her chin, and scanned me from head to toe. "So you're the eldest miss they brought back from the borderlands?" Her voice was sharp as fingernails scraping glass. "Not much to look at." I climbed another step. My leather boots thudded against the marble. She wedged herself into the doorframe and released a weak Beta pressure. "Are you deaf? The Madam hasn't given you permission to enter." I glanced at the gold nameplate on her chest: Martha Tucker. My fingers tapped twice against my backpack strap. "Move," I said. The word came out flat and cold. Martha flinched. Her face flushed—probably because she'd flinched in front of a wolfless girl. She reached out to shove my shoulder. I shifted half a step, let her hand pass, and drove my shoulder into her chest. Martha shrieked and stumbled backward through the foyer. Her high heel twisted, and she nearly went down onto the Persian rug. I stepped over the threshold into the bright hall. The crystal chandelier stung my eyes, and the imported fragrance hung so thick in the air it was suffocating. Martha braced herself against the wall and pointed a trembling finger at me. "You wild girl! How dare you lay hands on me in the Fuentes house!" I turned slowly, my ice-blue eyes locking onto her. "Rules? A servant blocking her master's path—is that a Fuentes rule?" Her breath caught. Two Omega maids wiping vases in the corridor froze, whispering behind their hands. The exiled daughter had actually fought back. Soft footsteps came from upstairs. A middle-aged woman in a silk robe glided down the staircase, pearls glowing at her throat. Martha rushed toward her, tears in her eyes. "Madam! Miss Ingrid hit me the moment she walked in!" Barbara Haney stopped halfway down the stairs. Malice flashed through her light brown eyes, then melted into a gentle smile. "Ingrid, you're finally home." Barbara tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the picture of a patient stepmother. "Martha only wanted to teach you pack etiquette. Why resort to violence?" "Teach me pack etiquette?" I laughed, not loudly, but loud enough for everyone in the foyer to hear. "Mrs. Fuentes, when you stole another woman's husband and drove the original wife to death, what etiquette were you learning?" The smile froze on Barbara's face. A muscle twitched beside her eye. She drew a breath and looked at Martha. "Take Miss Ingrid to the guest room at the end of the third floor. Let her rest." Martha shot me a gloating look and stomped up the narrow wooden stairs. I followed her into the damp, freezing corridor on the third floor. She kicked open the last door. Moldy air spilled out. Inside was a narrow cot and a wardrobe with peeling paint. "You stay here." Martha tossed a brass key onto a dusty table. "Don't wander around without the Madam's orders." Her laughter echoed down the corridor. I walked in and locked the door behind me. Moonlight was the only light. I tossed my bag onto the narrow bed, opened the hidden zipper, and pulled out a custom ultra-thin black laptop. I pushed the dusty window open to clear the mold and glanced down at the neatly trimmed lawn. I pressed the power button. Blue light washed over my face. My fingers flew across the keyboard, code scrolling down the screen. Seconds later, a blood-red inverted triangle appeared—the highest-authority portal of Section 718, the continent's top intelligence network. Founder: Phoenix. I pulled up the Fuentes Group's internal financial server. Their firewall was laughable. I hit Enter, planted a silent Trojan horse, and began extracting classified ledgers. A deep red priority alert flashed in the corner of my screen. Sender: Genesis Defense Group. Target: Ghost Healer. Bounty: one hundred million dollars.

Ingrid Bradford POV: One hundred million dollars for the Ghost Healer. Genesis Defense Group wasn't even pretending to be subtle. I sneered and rejected it. Then I took three financial espionage contracts from overseas syndicates instead. Thirty minutes later, several million dollars slid into my offshore accounts. I closed the laptop, tucked it back into the hidden compartment of my bag, and lay down fully clothed on the hard cot. At dawn, a lawnmower roared to life downstairs. My morning temper exploded. I rubbed my temples, splashed cold water on my face, changed into a clean black hoodie, and went down to the first-floor dining room. Golden sunlight fell across the long oak table, which was loaded with rare steak, eggs, and pastries. Gold-plated cutlery sat beside bone china. No silver—never silver. In a werewolf pack, one scratch from pure silver could burn through your bloodline and destroy your inner wolf. Barbara sat at the head of the table, cutting her egg. She didn't even lift her eyes when I walked in. She just raised her teacup and took a sip. I pulled out an empty chair. Martha appeared out of nowhere and slammed her elbow into my arm. "Oh, sorry." There wasn't a trace of apology in her voice. "This chair belongs to Miss Angeline. You can't sit here." I scanned the table. There was no extra set of gold-plated cutlery anywhere. "With an extra mouth appearing out of nowhere, the kitchen hasn't adjusted yet." Barbara dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin. "Ingrid, go get a few slices of toast from the back kitchen." The maids standing along the wall ducked their heads, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. They were waiting for the wolfless outcast to slink away. I kept my hands in my hoodie pockets and looked down at Barbara. "I thought Mrs. Fuentes at least knew basic table manners. Apparently I overestimated your upbringing." Barbara's face darkened. She slammed her titanium knife and fork onto the table. "What kind of tone is that? I am your mother!" "My mother is buried six feet under in Silver Creek." My voice was cold. "Should I bring her memorial tablet here so you can kowtow to her in person?" Martha rushed forward, her finger almost touching my nose. "You ungrateful little brat! How dare you speak to the Madam like—" My patience snapped. I grabbed her outstretched finger and wrenched it backward. A crisp snap echoed through the dining room. Martha let out a pig-like squeal and dropped to her knees, sweat soaking through her uniform as she convulsed. I snatched the pot of boiling black tea from the table and poured it straight over her face. Martha screamed, clawing at her blistered skin and rolling on the floor. The other maids shrank back against the wallpaper, faces white with terror. Barbara shoved her chair back with a screech and pointed a trembling finger at me. "You... you dare attack someone in this house!" I pulled a white napkin from the table and wiped a few drops of tea from my knuckles. I tossed the dirty napkin onto Martha's head and looked at Barbara. "Since you can't teach your dog, I did it for you." Before Barbara could scream, heavy footsteps came down the corridor. Derrick strode in tying his tie, then froze at the sight of Martha writhing on the rug. "What the hell are you going crazy about this early?" Barbara immediately slumped against the table, tears welling in her eyes. "Derrick, Ingrid broke Martha's hand and cursed at me..." Derrick marched up to me and raised his palm. My eyes narrowed, and my right hand slid into my pocket, gripping the hilt of my silver dagger. His hand paused in midair, as if he wanted to ask something first. Barbara immediately spoke up softly, "Derrick, don't lower yourself to a child. She just came back. She doesn't know the rules..." She said "don't bother," but her eyes kept darting to Martha writhing on the floor. Derrick's face turned darker, and his palm rose again. Just then, the phone in his pocket vibrated wildly. He scowled, pulled it out, and the rage on his face froze into panic and sycophancy. He answered and bent toward the empty air. "Yes, yes, yes! Mr. Wolfe's executive assistant? Good morning, sir!" His voice trembled with excitement. I released the dagger and stepped back half a pace, watching his pathetic display. When Derrick hung up, his grin stretched nearly to his ears. He completely ignored Martha groaning on the carpet. "Executives from Genesis Defense Group are coming to inspect our pack enterprises today!" He whipped his head toward me, eyes vicious. "Important guests are coming. Get back to your room and don't come out to embarrass me! Angeline is the Fuentes daughter. What are you?" I shrugged, turned toward the stairs, and let a cold smile touch my lips. Genesis Defense Group? It looked like Franklin Wolfe was getting desperate.