He Won an Award With My Song then Cast Me Aside

The rain hammered against my apartment windows like an accusation, each drop a reminder of how thoroughly my life had shattered in the span of a single evening. I sat on my couch—the same couch where Jax and I had spent countless nights planning our future—staring at my phone screen through swollen eyes.

The internet had exploded. #AveryGate was trending worldwide, with grainy videos of my ring-throwing moment playing on repeat across every social platform. The comments ranged from supportive to vicious, but I couldn't bring myself to read them. What was the point? The damage was done.

My bank account showed a balance of $347.82. Jax had frozen everything else—our joint accounts, my credit cards, even my access to the penthouse we'd shared for three years. I was effectively homeless, penniless, and completely alone.

But I wasn't broken. Not yet.

I pulled out the USB drive I'd been carrying in my purse like a talisman, its small weight somehow reassuring in my palm. Ten years of careful documentation. Every copyright registration I'd filed in secret. Every receipt for studio time I'd paid for with my own money. Every email where Jax had acknowledged my contributions, back when he still bothered to pretend I mattered.

And then there were the other files. The ones I'd stumbled across while organizing his office last month, thinking I was being a helpful mate. Tax documents with suspicious gaps. Receipts for jewelry and designer clothes purchased with pack funds—all of them addressed to Sienna Blake. Bank transfers that didn't match the official books.

Jax had always been careless with paperwork, assuming I'd never look too closely. He was wrong.

My fingers hovered over my phone's keypad as I stared at the number I'd found buried in industry forums and whispered conversations. Cole Voss. The name that made hardened Alphas go pale and crooked businessmen suddenly find religion. Silver City's legendary "cleaner"—the man who could make problems disappear or, depending on your perspective, make you disappear along with them.

I'd never imagined I'd be desperate enough to contact someone like him. But then again, I'd never imagined my mate would steal my life's work and hand it to his mistress on national television.

The phone rang once. Twice.

"Voss." The voice was smooth, cultured, with just a hint of something dangerous underneath.

"I need to meet with you," I said, surprised by how steady my own voice sounded. "I have information you might find... interesting."

A pause. "Who is this?"

"Avery Tate. And I have a proposition."

Another pause, longer this time. When he spoke again, there was something like amusement in his tone. "The infamous ring-thrower. How delightfully unexpected. There's a jazz bar called Nocturne, corner of Fifth and Maple. Neutral territory. One hour."

The line went dead.

Nocturne was exactly the kind of place I'd expected—dimly lit, smoky, and filled with the kind of people who conducted business in shadows. I found Cole Voss at a corner booth, partially hidden by the club's architectural features but impossible to miss.

He was nothing like I'd imagined. No leather jacket or visible tattoos, no obvious displays of power. Instead, he wore an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, gold-rimmed glasses that gave him an almost professorial air, and a watch that caught the low light with understated elegance.

But the moment I stepped within ten feet of his table, every instinct I possessed screamed danger.

It wasn't his appearance—it was his scent. Beneath the expensive cologne and the faint aroma of good whiskey, there was something else. Something wild and predatory that made my wolf want to bare her throat in submission or run as fast as possible in the opposite direction.

"Ms. Tate." He stood as I approached, the gesture old-fashioned and courteous, but his pale green eyes never left mine. "Please, sit."

I slid into the booth across from him, hyperaware of how his gaze seemed to catalog every detail—my rumpled dress, my red-rimmed eyes, the way my hands trembled slightly as I placed them on the table.

"You look like hell," he observed, but his tone held no judgment. "Which, considering your evening, is entirely understandable. Drink?"

"I need to keep a clear head."

"Admirable. Also smart." He signaled the waitress with a subtle gesture. "Coffee for the lady. Another whiskey for me."

We sat in silence until our drinks arrived, the jazz quartet in the corner providing cover for our conversation. Cole Voss studied me with the intensity of a predator sizing up potential prey, but I refused to look away. I'd spent ten years being invisible, being overlooked. Not tonight.

"So," he said finally, "what's your proposition?"

I pulled out the USB drive and placed it on the table between us. "Everything Jax Arnold has built his career on belongs to me. Every song, every melody, every lyric that's made him famous—I wrote them. And I can prove it."

Cole's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Interest.

"Additionally," I continued, "Crimson Shadow has been cooking their books for years. Tax evasion, misappropriation of pack funds, fraudulent contracts. It's all here."

He leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled. "And what exactly do you want from me, Ms. Tate?"

"Protection. A fresh start. And help destroying the man who stole my life."

"Revenge can be expensive."

"I'm not looking for revenge," I said, meeting his gaze steadily. "I'm looking for justice. There's a difference."

Cole Voss smiled then, and it was the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen. Not because it was cruel or cold, but because it was genuinely pleased.

"You know," he said, picking up the USB drive and examining it, "I had you pegged as another weeping victim looking for a shoulder to cry on. I'm delighted to be wrong."

He slipped the drive into his jacket pocket. "I'll have my people verify this information. If it checks out—and I suspect it will—Silver City can offer you sanctuary and legal representation. Our contract lawyers are... quite thorough."

"What's the catch?"

"Smart girl." His smile widened slightly. "I need a favor in return. Three months of your time, to be specific."

I waited.

"My father has been pressuring me to accept a politically advantageous mating. The candidate is perfectly suitable and utterly tedious. I need a convincing reason to decline his generous offer."

Understanding dawned. "You want me to be your fake fiancée."

"I want you to be my very real, very public fiancée for exactly ninety days. In return, you get Silver City's protection, a generous salary as my personal consultant, and the full weight of our legal team dedicated to reclaiming everything that's rightfully yours."

He pulled a contract from his jacket—apparently he'd come prepared—and slid it across the table. "Standard non-disclosure agreements, of course. Compensation details are on page three. Your duties are outlined on page five."

I scanned the document quickly, my heart racing. The salary alone was more than I'd made in two years of ghostwriting. The legal team he was offering had a reputation for being absolutely ruthless.

"Why me?" I asked.

"Because," Cole said, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, "you just proved you're willing to burn down your entire world rather than accept being treated as disposable. That takes a particular kind of strength."

He leaned forward slightly. "And because anyone who can throw a ring with that kind of accuracy under pressure has excellent reflexes. I appreciate competence."

I looked at the contract, then at the man across from me. Cole Voss was dangerous—that much was obvious. But he was also offering me exactly what I needed: a chance to rebuild, to fight back, to reclaim what was mine.

I picked up his pen and signed my name with a flourish.

"Excellent," Cole said, countersigning the document. "Welcome to Silver City, Ms. Tate. I think you're going to fit in perfectly."

He stood, straightening his jacket. "I'll have a car pick you up in an hour. Pack light—we'll provide everything you need. And Ms. Tate?"

I looked up at him.

"Tomorrow morning, Jax Arnold is going to discover that stealing from the wrong woman was the biggest mistake of his pathetic life."