Lila’s POV.
I sat at my desk with the lamp turned low, scrolling slowly through the files on my laptop.
There they were. The blurry photo I took two nights ago showed Reagan pressing Irene against a tree, his body covering hers, her head thrown back in pleasure. Another clear shot captured her leaving his office at 2 a.m., hair messy, shirt buttoned wrong. I had saved timestamps, notes about her changing scent from the laundry baskets, and even a short video of Reagan staring at her during dinner with that dark, hungry look he never once gave me.
I zoomed in on Irene’s tear-streaked face from today’s meeting. She looked so small standing there while the whole pack laughed at her. So broken. So pathetic.
A slow smile spread across my lips.
She was weak. A silly little girl who thought
