My admission of guilt regarding the Bel AME showcase had successfully scrubbed the stain from Turner Studios. The jewelry house accepted my "rogue" apology, and as Blake had planned, they moved forward with naming Riley as their official face. Their status in the Pacific Crown territories was restored, while mine was incinerated.
I was branded a "clutching stray" and a "faded talent" across the pack-links. The digital howl against me was deafening. Even the lower-ranking staff at the office felt emboldened to snap at my heels.
"Move your legs, Ava," the office cleaner sneered, shoving a mop near my boots. "Some of us actually work for the pack. Why are you even here? It’s not like you have a hunt or a runway left to your name."
I turned a glacial stare toward her. I had hit a low point,
