Sinclaire Liu knew her beauty was boundless as she stared into the gigantic expensive mirror of her suite. She touched the diamond necklace around her neck—a seventeenth-birthday gift from her mother worth millions. The stones were cool against her skin, heavy in a way that felt ceremonial rather than indulgent.
"Am I not the luckiest?" she whispered to her reflection.
Life had been perfect for as long as she could remember. Today, she was seventeen, and her mother had finally declared her future: she was to be the Luna to Julian Thorne, the son of the Vice Presidential candidate and the heir-apparent Alpha of their pack.
Julian had sent flowers that morning—white roses, pristine and excessive. The card was short. Tonight changes everything. No signature. He never signed anything meant for her.
It was a strange thought—Sinclaire had never actually seen her mother transform into a wolf. But it doesn't matter? Sheryl Liu wields power and control, hosting every Alpha and Luna at lavish galas that defined global influence. No one questioned her authority. No one ever had.
The door opened, and Sheryl Liu stepped in, her arms spread wide and a perfect smile on her face.
"I love you, Mom," Sinclaire said, melting into the embrace.
"Today marks a new beginning for your life," Sheryl replied, her voice smooth but carrying an undeniable weight. Her hands lingered at Sinclaire's back a moment too long, fingers pressing as if counting heartbeats.
They walked together to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, which towered over the city like a throne. Sheryl swept her hand across the horizon.
"The world bows to our wealth, Sinclaire. Presidents and captains of industries kneel before us. We own the world. All this, I give to you."
Sheryl's smile turned faint, almost strict. "And what do I want in return?"
Sinclaire smiled back, reciting the words she had known since childhood. "My heart, my love, my loyalty."
Sheryl's fingers brushed briefly over Sinclaire's chest, just above her heart. A touch so light it could have been affectionate—if not for the way her gaze sharpened.
Sinclaire never thought to ask why her mother's primary obsession was always her heart.
In a few hours, the official engagement would be announced at the Grand Palace Hotel in Paris. Sinclaire was buzzing with the thrill of it. She would be a Luna. It was certain, even though she hadn't experienced her first shift yet. At sixteen, many of her peers had already seen their wolves, but she felt her time was coming.
However, something had changed this morning.
Every time she tried to mind-link with Julian in Paris, a strange interference blocked her. The connection felt crowded, muffled, as though someone else were standing between them. She was forced to use her phone instead.
Julian's text replies were delayed. It's shorter than usual.
Busy. Meetings. Tonight will fix everything.
Even her best friend, Maya, felt out of reach. When Sinclaire tried to reach out mentally, the familiar warmth was gone—replaced by something brittle and defensive. The mental pathways were clogged by a foreign presence.
"Mother, I think someone is trying to link with my mind," Sinclaire admitted, noticing the sudden tension in her mother's posture.
Sheryl stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she listened to Sinclaire's heartbeat, which had begun to race. "It's not Julian? Not Maya? Then who could it be?"
"I don't know," Sinclaire whispered. "But I feel a sort of… familiarity."
The reaction was instantaneous.
Sheryl Liu's face drained of colour. She stumbled, her legs nearly giving way as a flash of genuine fear crossed her features—raw and unguarded, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
Before Sinclaire could ask what was wrong, an assistant hurried in. The jet was ready.
Across the city, at St. Jude's Home for Boys, Alec walked through the dusty courtyard.
Today was his seventeenth birthday, but there were no diamonds here.
Since he had woken up, his mind had been flooded with images of a girl he had never met—dark hair, pale skin, eyes that felt like a memory rather than a face. He rubbed his temples ferociously, the pressure behind his eyes pulsing in time with his heartbeat, feeling as if his consciousness was trying to tear itself out of his body.
The other boys gave him a wide berth. They thought he was losing his mind, especially after he'd woken the entire dormitory in the middle of the night with a sound that was less of a cry and more of a howl—low, broken, and wrong.
He pushed his taped eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose.
For a fleeting second, the world snapped into crystalline focus.
He heard everything—the scrape of shoes on stone, the flutter of pigeons, the distant hum of traffic beyond the walls. Colors deepened. Edges sharpened. His own heartbeat thundered in his ears, powerful enough to make his chest ache.
Then it faded.
The blur returned. The sound dulled. His breath came out shaky, almost disappointed.
"Today is my birthday!" he shouted at the empty air, his frustration boiling over.
The boys ignored him.
Only the Matron approached, tapping his shoulder gently. "Happy birthday, Alec," she said softly, her eyes lingering on him with concern—as though she, too, sensed something slipping out of place.
Alec pulled out his phone, staring at the cracked screen. He had applied for every international scholarship available to get out of France and into the United States, but the rejections were piling up.
He knew the rules. At eighteen, he would be forced onto the streets.
He had one hope for the night.
The Vice Presidential candidate's son was throwing a gala at the Grand Palace. The security guards were mostly St. Jude's alumni, men who remembered hunger and cold. They often looked the other way for "crashers."
The plan was simple: sneak in as a waiter, eat well, and bring back enough leftovers to last a week.
"Mom, today is my day," Sinclaire said gently during the flight.
Sheryl had been unnervingly cold since they boarded, staring out the window as if tracking something invisible far below the clouds.
Sheryl offered a hollow, forced smile. "The world is yours, my dear."
"If you've changed your mind, I can call it off," Sinclaire offered, worried by her mother's silence. "Anything to make you happy."
"Today is your happy day, my Luna," Sheryl replied, her voice tight. "I am simply… preoccupied. A minor issue with our interests in the African Sahel."
But as Sinclaire tried to focus her thoughts, she noticed that Sheryl's own heart seemed to skip a beat in sync with her own.
When they touched down in Paris, the atmosphere was electric.
Dignitaries and security chiefs swarmed the tarmac. Sheryl was whisked away into a separate car for a "crucial meeting," leaving Sinclaire to head to the hotel alone.
As the limousine pulled up to the Grand Palace Hotel, Sinclaire's chest began to ache.
Memories that weren't hers began to take shape—flashes of a crown, a forest, a king standing beneath a burning sun. The mind-link became a roar, and the image in her head solidified into a face.
At the same moment, Alec, dressed in a borrowed waiter's vest, felt the world tilt violently beneath his feet.
He looked up just as Sinclaire stepped out of the car.
Time stopped.
The noise of the Parisian street and the chatter of the elite vanished. As Alec and Sinclaire locked eyes, their frantic heartbeats suddenly slowed, falling into a perfect, rhythmic harmony.
For the first time in seventeen years, they both felt a profound, overwhelming sense of comfort.
The moment was shattered by Julian Thorne.
He stepped forward, immaculate in tailored black, his smile sharp rather than warm. His gaze flicked from Sinclaire to Alec—not with curiosity, but irritation, as if a possession had been mishandled.
He noticed the way the "help" was staring at his bride-to-be.
"Get him out of here," Julian snapped, motioning to the guards. "Now."
As Alec was seized, Sinclaire felt a surge of cold fury. Her mother was missing, the guests were whispering, and the only person who made her feel whole was being dragged away into the night.
The gala was a hollow triumph.
By the time the last dignitary had offered their hollow congratulations, Sheryl Liu finally appeared, her face a mask of cold, vibrating tension. She didn't look like a woman who had been in a meeting; she looked like a woman who had been at war.
"Where were you?" Sinclaire demanded, her voice rising with a boldness she had never felt before. The Heart Call she'd felt at the entrance was still pulsing in her veins, making her reckless. "You left me alone! You—"
CRACK.
The sound of the slap echoed through the marble hallway.
Sinclaire's head snapped to the side, her skin blooming a hot, stinging red. Sheryl's hand remained suspended in the air, trembling.
It was a reflex. A crack in the mask of the perfect mother.
"Don't you ever question me," Sheryl hissed, her eyes dark with a fear Sinclaire didn't understand.
Without another word, Sheryl turned and swept away, leaving Sinclaire standing in the silence of her own crumbling world.
Stinging from the blow and the betrayal of her mother's temperament, Sinclaire sought the only person she thought she had left: Julian.
She needed to feel his arms around her. To hear that she was still his Luna.
She hurried toward the private lounge where the inner circle had retreated and pushed the heavy oak doors open.
The words of comfort died in her throat.
There, against the velvet chaise, was Julian.
And there, tangled in his arms with her dress discarded, was Maya.
Her best friend. Her support.
Maya's eyes widened—not in shame, but calculation—as if she had been waiting for this moment to be discovered on her terms.
Julian didn't look guilty. He looked annoyed.
Sinclaire didn't scream. She didn't cry.
She simply turned and ran.