Ariana's POV

Six years later.

The envelope sat on my design table at the studio, stark white against the dark wood. Westwood Corporation letterhead. Hand-delivered by the courier an hour ago.

I hadn't opened it yet.

"Are you going to stare at it all day or actually read the thing?" My assistant Jade leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Neither." I pushed it aside and returned to the sketches spread before me. A commission for a tech mogul's wife, something bold, something that screamed power and elegance.

"It came by a private courier, Ari. That's not junk mail."

"I don't care."

Jade walked over and picked up the envelope. "Westwood Corporation. Isn't that…"

"Yes." I didn't look up from my sketches.

"Your ex's company?"

"The very same."

She turned it over in her hands. "Six years of radio silence and now this. Aren't you even curious?"

I wasn't. Curiosity led to mistakes.

After my fellowship in Paris, I had built something real. Sterling Designs was mine, a boutique jewelry house that catered to celebrities and old money alike. My pieces had been featured in Vogue, worn on red carpets, and auctioned for charity. I had made a name for myself.

Without him. Without Westwood.

"Throw it away," I said.

Jade hesitated. "What if it's important?"

"Then they'll send another one."

She set it back down and left, shaking her head.

But the envelope sat there, taunting me. I lasted another twenty minutes before curiosity won.

I opened it.

“Ms. Kingsley,

Your presence is requested at Westwood Corporation headquarters regarding a matter of significant importance. Please contact us within 72 hours to arrange a meeting.

Asher Westwood, CEO.”

No explanation. No context. Just a demand disguised as a request.

I read it twice, then fed it into the paper shredder beside my desk.

The metal teeth chewed through it with satisfying violence.

My phone rang. It was from an unknown number.

I ignored it.

It rang again immediately. The same number.

On the third attempt, I answered. "What?"

"Ms. Kingsley?" A woman's voice, professional and crisp. "This is Sarah Mitten from Westwood Corporation. I'm calling to follow up on the letter you received today."

"I received it. I shredded it. We're done here."

"Mr. Westwood specifically requested that I ensure you understood the urgency of this matter."

"I understand perfectly. My answer is no."

A pause. "Ms. Kingsley, perhaps if you knew what this concerned—"

"I don't care what it concerns. I have no business with Westwood Corporation or its CEO. Don't contact me again."

I hung up.

Jade appeared in the doorway again. "Everything okay?"

"Fine. Just someone who can't take no for an answer."

She studied me for a moment. "You know, in six years, you've never once talked about what happened. About why you left."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Right. That's why you physically flinch whenever someone mentions Westwood Pack territory."

I did not flinch. "I'm busy, Jade."

"You're running; there's a difference."

She left before I could argue.

My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the table, breathing slowly.

Six years. I had spent six years building walls, creating distance, and becoming someone new. Someone stronger.

And one letter had nearly cracked the foundation.

My phone buzzed. Text from Maya: “I heard Westwood Corp is trying to reach you. Want to talk about it?”

How did she know already? I typed back: “No. How did you hear?”

“Vincent mentioned it. He said Asher's been trying to locate you for weeks.”

Vincent. Of course. Asher's right-hand man would know everything.

Another text: “He wouldn't say why. Just that it was important.”

I didn't respond.

That evening, I locked up the studio early. The city streets were crowded with people heading home from work, everyone absorbed in their own lives, their own problems. None of them knew what it felt like to have your past show up uninvited.

My loft was in the heart of downtown, twenty floors up with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. I had chosen it specifically for the view, for the way it made me feel untouchable.

Tonight, it just felt empty.

I poured myself wine and stood at the window. The city glittered below, alive and indifferent.

Somewhere out there, Asher was trying to reach me. After six years of silence, he wanted something.

Too bad. He didn't want things from me anymore.

My phone lit up on the counter. Another unknown number.

I watched it ring and counted the seconds until it stopped.

Then it started again.

I grabbed it. "Stop calling me."

"Ariana." His voice. Deep and familiar and unwelcome. "Don't hang up."

My finger hovered over the end call button.

"Please," Asher said. "Just give me five minutes."

"You had three years of my time. You don't get five more minutes."

"This isn't about us. This is about something bigger."

"There is no us. There hasn't been for six years."

"I know. And I know I don't have the right to ask you for anything, but this is important. It's about the territory."

I laughed, bitter and sharp. "Your territory stopped being my concern the night you found your destined mate. Remember? When did you forget I existed?"

"I never forgot…"

"Don't. Don't you dare pretend you gave me a second thought after that night."

Silence on the other end. I could hear him breathing and could almost picture him in his office, with that massive desk he had inherited from his father and the view of Westwood territory spreading out behind him.

"I did think about you," he said finally. "More than you know."

"Not enough to call. Not enough to explain. Not enough to matter."

"You're right. I handled everything wrong. But right now, I need you to come back."

"No."

"Ariana—"

"No. I'm not coming back. Not for you, not for the territory, not for anything. Find someone else to solve whatever problem you've created."

"It's not that simple."

"It is exactly that simple. Goodbye, Asher."

I ended the call and blocked the number.

Then I blocked the Westwood Corporation number.

Then I poured myself another glass of wine and tried to convince myself I had done the right thing.

But sleep didn't come easily that night.

And when it did, I dreamed of his dark eyes and broken promises, of a gallery full of witnesses to my humiliation, of everything I had left behind.

At three in the morning, I gave up on sleep entirely. I pulled on a robe and went to the second bedroom I had converted into a home studio. My professional work happened at Sterling Designs, but this space was for personal projects, for the pieces I made when I couldn't sleep.

The workbench was covered with half-finished designs. I picked up a piece I had started months ago—a pendant shaped like a compass rose. The irony wasn't lost on me. I had spent six years finding my direction, and now the past was trying to pull me back.

I worked until dawn, losing myself in the familiar rhythm of shaping metal, setting stones, and creating something beautiful from raw materials.

My phone buzzed despite the blocks. A text from a number I recognized—Vincent.

“He won't stop, Ari. You know how he gets. Just hear him out. Please.”

I stared at the message for a long time. Vincent had always been kind to me, even after everything fell apart. He'd been the one to help me pack my apartment that horrible week, the one who had made sure I got to the airport safely.

But kindness didn't change facts.

I typed back: “Tell him I said no. And tell him to stop trying.

Vincent's response came immediately: “It's about your parents.”

My blood ran cold.

“What about my parents?

“Just talk to him. Please.’

I set the phone down with shaking hands. My parents still lived in Westwood territory, and they still worked for families connected to the pack. I had kept in touch with them over the years, brief calls and occasional visits when they came to the city.

What could Asher possibly want that involved them?

The sun was rising now, painting the city in shades of gold and pink. Beautiful and terrifying all at once.

I picked up my phone and unblocked Asher's number.

Then I typed: “You have five minutes. Start talking.”