Third Person's POV "Some people really have no self-awareness," Lana said, her tone laced with biting sarcasm. "Three years, and the company goes public. Then Freya leaves, and the whole empire collapses. Three years from now? Maybe there won't even be a SilverTech Forgeworks left… if it even lasts that long." Caelum Grafton's face turned red with anger. His jaw clenched as he raised his hand toward Lana, the aura of a predator ready to strike. But before his hand could make contact, Freya's instincts took over. She lunged forward, her grip like iron, seizing his wrist with brutal precision. Pain shot up Caelum's arm. The next moment, Freya's knee slammed into his midsection with all the force of a warrior defending her territory, and he collapsed to the polished marble floor with a humiliating thud. "Caelum," Freya's voice was low and deadly, her gaze sharp enough to cut through steel, "if you even think about laying a hand on my friend again, you'll regret it." For the first time, Caelum felt fear-not of the law, not of Silas Whitmor, but of the wrath of his ex-wife. Freya and Lana turned away, leaving him scrambling to his feet, humiliated but still scheming. He wouldn't submit. If Aurora could manipulate and threaten him, then he could do the same to Freya. All he needed was her back in the company, helping him stabilize SilverTech Forgeworks-and the empire could rise from its current peril. From his pocket, Caelum produced a seemingly innocuous lighter. But embedded within it was a micro-camera, designed to capture anything he deemed useful. His lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Freya," he muttered under his breath, "you're forcing my hand." Half an hour later, the atmosphere in the private lounge was tense, nearly suffocating. Caelum knelt on the floor, two massive bodyguards pinning his arms to either side. His knees bore the weight of his defiance, but the pain radiating through his body quickly eroded any remaining composure. Across from him, Silas Whitmor reclined on a sleek black leather sofa, his piercing amber eyes cold and calculating. Every detail of the room-the dim lighting, the polished steel accents, even the scent of bourbon lingering in the air-seemed orchestrated to intimidate. "Sir Whitmor," Wren, Silas's secretary, said as he approached, holding out the lighter Caelum had attempted to hide. "This is the micro-camera he was using." Silas's long fingers toyed with the device, turning it over and over as if weighing its purpose. Then, with a simple flick, he summoned Wren closer. The secretary obeyed instantly, offering a slender black cigarette. Silas lit it with the very lighter Caelum had been using, the flame flickering like a warning in the shadowed room. Finally, he tossed the lighter onto the nearby table. His voice, calm yet lethal, cut the air. "Caelum Grafton, what exactly did you intend to film with this?" Caelum's voice trembled, sweat pearling across his brow. "I… I was just curious… to… play with it… nothing serious, sir Whitmor…" "Curious?" Silas's amber gaze sharpened, cold as a wolf stalking its prey. "Y-yes! Curious… purely curious!" Caelum stammered. Silas let out a single, disbelieving laugh, his finger snapping sharply in the air. "We'll see about that. Make him talk." Two of Silas's enforcers moved forward, their hands gripping Caelum's wrists and twisting with methodical cruelty. A sickening snap echoed through the room-his right wrist fractured under their strength. He screamed, a sound full of both pain and panic. Before he could recover, another enforcer dislocated his shoulder with a practiced twist. Caelum howled, the sound echoing like a wounded wolf through the lounge. When they raised a heavy hammer toward his legs, he broke, his voice shrill and desperate. "I-I'll tell you! The camera… I only… I only wanted to capture things about Freya!" Silas's gaze darkened, amber fire flaring in his eyes. Then one of the enforcers brought forward a bottle of liquor, identical to the one Caelum had handled earlier in the lounge. The sight made him flinch, his body tightening with fear. "Sir Whitmor," Wren explained, "this bottle was spiked. Only used at nightclubs for people who… don't obey." Silas stared coldly at Caelum. "So, your plan was to have Freya drink this… and then capture compromising footage with your little camera?" Caelum choked, panic overtaking him. "I… I just wanted to remarry Freya! Sir Whitmor, you abandoned her! Seeing you cast her aside… that's what made me… think about reuniting with her!" "Remarry?" Silas's voice dropped, dark and lethal. He rose from the sofa, approaching Caelum. In a swift, controlled motion, he pressed the burning end of his cigarette against Caelum's forehead, extinguishing it with deliberate cruelty. Flesh hissed, and Caelum screamed, his scalp blistering instantly. "Caelum Grafton," Silas said, his tone as cold and hard as iron, "you will never, in this lifetime, remarry Freya Thorne."With that, he picked up the bottle, pouring a glass for himself and signaling to his men. "The rest-force it down him. Then drag him out. Let him learn the consequences of his actions." "Yes, sir!" The enforcers obeyed, forcing the remaining liquor into Caelum's mouth until he gagged, the bitter liquid burning him from throat to stomach. They dragged him out like a defeated wolf, howling in pain and humiliation. Silas sat back on the sofa, the remaining glass of liquor in hand, his amber eyes fixed on Wren. "Tell me, if I drink this, do you think Freya will come to save me?" Wren swallowed, glancing at the Alpha with caution. In the shadows of the lounge, with the city skyline glowing outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, even the smallest ripple of action felt like the movement of an entire pack.