Chapter 2

Victor didn't come home for five days.

But Irene Blair seemed to think she'd earned some kind of privilege. Her messages came like clockwork—screenshots, videos, little poison-tipped love notes.

He says I'm what he really wants.

He says wives like you bore him.

Are you cold, sleeping alone?

I didn't respond to a single one. Just forwarded them to my assistant, Clara, who filed them with the rest. Evidence. Ammunition. Insurance.

On the sixth day, Victor called.

I was at the hospital when my phone buzzed. Private wing, top floor—the kind of facility that catered exclusively to pureblood wolves. The kind where discretion cost more than most people's mortgages.

"Evelyn." His voice sounded rough, post-coital lazy. "We've got a problem."

I shifted in the leather chair, tucking the blood work results into my bag. "What kind of problem?"

"Someone photographed me and Irene at Bastian's last week. It's making rounds on WolfWatch." He paused. "There's a press conference tomorrow. I need you there."

Of course he did.

"What exactly do you need me to say?"

"The usual. That it's a misunderstanding. That she's a mentorship case—young wolf from a broken pack, I'm helping her adjust to pureblood society. You were there that night too, remember?"

I hadn't been. But that was irrelevant.

"She can't handle the scrutiny," Victor continued. "She's still adjusting to the transformation. The press will eat her alive."

I almost smiled. The press was the least of Irene Blair's problems.

"All right," I said simply.

"Really?" He sounded surprised. Relieved. "Just like that?"

"We're married, Victor. Your reputation is mine."

"Christ, Evie." His voice softened, took on that familiar warmth he used when he wanted something. "I knew you'd understand. Listen, why don't I come home tonight? We haven't... it's been a while."

"I'm not feeling well," I said, which wasn't entirely a lie. The suppressants made me nauseous. "Rain check?"

"Yeah. Sure." Disappointment, but he recovered quickly. "Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

I hung up and stared at the phone for a long moment.

He thought I was being noble. Self-sacrificing. The dutiful pureblood wife, protecting the family name.

He had no idea I was protecting myself.

……

The press conference was held in the Grayson Tower lobby—all glass and steel and carefully curated corporate power. Photographers lined the walls. Council representatives sat in the front row, their expressions neutral but their eyes sharp.

Wolves didn't miss much. Especially not weakness.

I stood beside Victor in a cream Armani suit, my hand resting lightly on his arm. The perfect picture of unified strength.

When the questions started, I felt him tense.

"Mr. Grayson, care to comment on the photos of you and Ms. Blair?"

"Is it true she's living in your estate?"

"Mrs. Grayson, how do you feel about—"

I stepped forward, my smile serene. "I think there's been some confusion. Ms. Blair is a recent convert to our pack. Victor has been helping her navigate pureblood society—I've been involved in her mentorship as well. The photos in question were taken at a charity function we all attended."

"You're not concerned about the... intimacy displayed?"

I laughed softly. "Intimacy? She stumbled in heels she wasn't used to. Victor caught her. If that's scandalous, then I'm afraid we've set the bar rather low."

A few chuckles from the crowd. Victor's hand found the small of my back, a gesture of gratitude.

Then his phone buzzed.

I felt him go rigid. Saw his eyes flick to the screen.

"Excuse me." He didn't even look at me. Just pulled away and strode toward the exit, already lifting the phone to his ear.

The room erupted.

"Is it Ms. Blair?"

"Mr. Grayson, is she in the hospital?"

"Mrs. Grayson, did you know—"

I stood there, alone under the lights, still smiling.

"I'm sure it's nothing urgent," I said smoothly. "But if you'll excuse me, I should make sure everything's all right."

I didn't hurry. Didn't chase him. Just gathered my bag, thanked the moderator, and walked out with my head high.

Clara was waiting in the town car.

"How bad?" I asked, sliding into the back seat.

"Irene Blair was admitted an hour ago. High fever, disorientation. They're running a full panel."

"Good."

She glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Mrs. Grayson... are you sure about this?"

I looked out at the city—glass towers and old stone, pureblood wealth built on centuries of dominance.

"Very sure."

……

That night, Victor texted me. She's really sick. Staying at the hospital.

I replied: Take care of her.

Then added: My mother's not doing well. I'm going back to Whitridge for a few weeks.

His response came quickly. Want me to come with you?

No. You focus on the company. I'll handle family.

Okay. Love you.

I stared at those last two words. Wondered if he even remembered what they meant.

You too, I typed.

Then I deleted it and wrote: Be safe.

I turned off my phone and pulled the medical file from my bag.

The results were very clear.

Crimson Decay: Stage Three. Infectious. Irreversible.

The latency period was over.

Now, it was just a matter of time.