Chapter 2

Ayla Davis POV:

Staring at Bennet's name on the glowing screen, I swiped left to delete the message without a second thought, then raised my chin to look coldly at the lead producer across the conference table.

"The value of a script lies in the core of its story, not the genetic rank of the writer," I said.

For the next hour, I defended every plot point until they reluctantly agreed to review the draft. Exhausted, I packed my bag, took the elevator down, and pushed through the front doors of the building into the cool evening air.

A sleek black van idled by the curb. The passenger window rolled down, revealing my best friend, Harper Hayes, an independent Beta actress who refused to bow to any pack's Alpha.

"Get in, hurry!" Harper called out, waving a hand. "We're going to be late for the charity banquet!"

I pulled the door open and climbed into the passenger seat. Harper hit the gas, merging into the heavy Silvercrest City traffic while shooting me a sidelong glance.

"The executive investors from Apex 101 Holdings are attending tonight," Harper warned in a low voice. "They control half the city's entertainment capital. You need to stay sharp."

I nodded, watching the neon city lights blur past the window, my stomach tightening at the thought of being trapped in a room full of arrogant, high-ranking Alphas.

Ten minutes later, the van pulled up before a five-star dining hall. We stepped out, smoothed our evening dresses, and walked down the red carpet into the glittering ballroom. Knowing my place at the bottom of the pack hierarchy, I found an inconspicuous seat at the very end of the long banquet table.

Just as I folded my napkin, the heavy double doors at the entrance were shoved open.

An invisible, suffocating wave of Alpha dominion crashed through the hall. The lively chatter died instantly. Around the tables, lower-ranking Betas and Omegas instinctively bowed their heads, baring their necks in genetic submission.

I looked toward the entrance and froze. It was Carmel Benton.

Dressed in a bespoke black three-piece suit, he strolled in flanked by four burly bodyguards. Despite his reputation as a useless prodigal son who only survived because his grandparents doted on him, the sheer pressure radiating from his frame made the crystal glasses on the table vibrate.

I dropped my gaze to my empty plate, shrinking my shoulders and praying he would walk right past me toward the VIP stage.

Instead, his footsteps slowed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his gaze sweep the room before locking directly onto the top of my head, a playful smirk curving his lips.

Bypassing the main host table entirely, Carmel strode down the aisle, pulled out the empty chair right next to mine, and sat down.

Dead silence fell over the hall. Every pair of eyes hit us like spotlights. Across the table, Harper kicked my shin repeatedly under the tablecloth, her wide eyes screaming a silent question.

I bit my lower lip, staring hard at my water glass while trying to ignore the scorching body heat radiating from the man beside me.

Waiters hurried over and served plates of rare Wagyu steak—essential high-protein fuel for a werewolf's rapid metabolism. Because silver is lethal poison that burns our kind to the bone, the tables were set exclusively with heavy brushed-steel cutlery.

Carmel picked up his steel knife and fork, effortlessly slicing the tenderest center piece of his steak. Then, in front of two hundred stunned elites, he leaned over and placed the meat onto my plate.

"You're too thin," his deep voice carried clearly through the pin-drop silence. "Eat more, Ayla."

Sharp intakes of breath echoed around us. Several pack heiresses glared at me as if trying to set my hair on fire.

My fingers trembled around my fork. Leaning in slightly, I hissed under my breath.

"Are you crazy? You're drawing everyone's attention to us."

Carmel tilted his head, his ocean-blue eyes pinning me in place.

"Which pack law says I can't feed my own wife?"

He spoke so softly that even a werewolf's enhanced hearing three feet away couldn't catch it, yet my heart skipped a violent beat against my ribs.

Down the table, Preston Stone—the arrogant heir of the mid-tier Stone Pack—let out a nasty laugh. Carrying a glass of bourbon, he sauntered over, his lecherous eyes raking over my collarbone.

"Young Master Benton really has an exotic appetite tonight," Preston sneered, loud enough for the whole table to hear. "Slumming it with a defective, wolfless leftover from the Davis family?"

My knuckles turned white as I balled my fists, ready to throw my water in his face. Beside me, the air temperature dropped twenty degrees.

Carmel stood up slowly. In his right hand, the solid steel steak knife groaned, the thick metal bending ninety degrees under his bare fingers with a sickening screech.

He looked down at Preston as if looking at a rotting corpse.

"What did you just say?" Carmel asked softly.

Preston stumbled back half a step, his face paling under the sudden spike of predatory aura, though he forced a stiff sneer.

"I'm just stating a genetic fact—"

Sensing blood, Harper shot up from her chair, lunged around the table, and grabbed my wrist.

"Ayla, come with me to the restroom right now!"

She yanked me out of my seat and dragged me toward the side exit. The moment the heavy wooden doors swung shut behind us in the quiet corridor, a deafening crash erupted from inside the banquet hall, followed by the splintering of tables and shrill screams.