A Genealogist's Broken Pact

The breaking point had come three months ago. It all came down to a matter of priorities.

That day in the garden, Corinne had brushed her hand against a faintly cursed vine. At the same time, Travis had sent me to a territorial negotiation with a rogue werewolf leader. The meeting went south, and his silver-dipped dagger sliced my arm to the bone, a dark curse spreading from the wound. Even in the same city, our fates stood in stark contrast.

Travis's only concern for me was a cold command sent through our mind-link: "Handle it yourself."

Meanwhile, he interrupted an important international conference to personally summon the pack's best healer for Corinne's trivial scratch. He even made a dramatic post in the elders' group chat: "Urgent! What can purify a faint curse from a vine?"

From the photo he sent, I could see Corinne sitting on the sofa in his office, looking deceptively fragile and charming. And I was alone in the syndicate's infirmary, the acrid smell of antiseptic filling my lungs.

I watched as Travis joked with the elders in the group chat, ignoring the distress signals I sent through our mind-link, pained by the silver poison. His indifference stung more than the wound on my arm.

After a sleepless night, I went to his office, my arm wrapped in thick bandages. I found him staring at Corinne's political stunt on his screen, his brow furrowed as if it were a thousand times more important than my life or death.

"Hold on, Aveline," he said, not even bothering to turn around. "There's a logical flaw here."

I stood outside the glass door, watching him coach Corinne for a full two hours. In that time, I finally understood: even her shoddy political performance was more important to him than I was.

On the glass door, the "North American Alpha of the Year" award he had won last year still hung.

Halfway through, his Beta approached me and whispered, "Aveline, the Alpha is still meeting with Miss Corinne. It'll likely be at least another two hours."

He watched my reaction, then continued softly, "Maybe you could come back later?"

I shook my head stubbornly. "I'll wait for him."

His Beta's face tightened with concern.

"You might disturb them by staying here."

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my wound, and the silver's toxicity made me go weak. His Beta caught me just in time.

The commotion finally caught Travis's attention. He glanced in my direction, his eyes filled with the annoyance of being interrupted.

"Please remove any non-essential personnel from the area," he commanded with his Alpha authority, dismissing me like an impertinent subordinate.

Then, his gaze lingered on my pale face for a moment. His lips seemed to tremble slightly, as if he wanted to ask if I was okay.

"Travis, this market projection model..."

Corinne's soft voice pulled his attention back to the screen. The flicker of concern in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

The message was clear. Stop making a scene, be professional, and get out before he had to publicly humiliate me. Once he was done, perhaps he would generously send me a copy of his and Corinne's meeting minutes as "compensation."

The central air conditioning hummed with a monotonous drone. Only a glass wall separated us. He was the one with the power to control the temperature, while I shivered in a suffocating mix of July humidity and icy air conditioning.

I wrapped my coat tighter, hiding the silver wound that was leaking a dark, cursed energy, and turned toward the elevator.

Five years ago, we had sworn to make the name of the Scarlet Sun Syndicate echo throughout North America.

Now, I had to accept the painful truth—the man who'd once stood by my side was a ghost.