Chapter 239
(Third Person).
Wanda’s car screeched softly as it rolled to a halt at the driveway of the estate, but the anger on her face outshone any afternoon glow.
She slammed the car door shut, her heels clicking against the stone pavement as she marched away. Just then, a house servant crossed the driveway with his head bowed.
Without a second of hesitation, Wanda snapped, “You. Get my bags from the trunk. Take them to my room. Carefully.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the servant said, hurrying toward the vehicle.
Wanda paused just long enough to ask, “Where’s Dennis?”
“At the stables, ma’am.”
Almost immediately, her heels cut through the silence as she made her way down the familiar path to the stables, brushing past hedges and gravel. Her fists were clenched at her sides.
The taste of rage hadn’t left her since she walked out of that blood-splattered surveillance room.
Inside the stables, Dennis stood beside a chestnut mare, gently brushing its coat, the steady rhythm of the brush a stark contrast to Wanda’s stormy approach.
He glanced up, spotted her furious expression, and smirked. “Tell me you didn’t burn down a boutique again. Or should I be worried my brother’s bank account just suffered a near-death experience?”
“Save your idiotic jokes,” Wanda snapped, striding toward him. “I’m not in the mood.”
Dennis raised an eyebrow. “Then this must be serious.”
She planted both hands on her hips and said flatly, “I was attacked. At the mall.”
Dennis straightened, his expression shifting, though amusement still flickered in his eyes. “You look perfectly fine to me. Not a scratch. Unless emotional trauma from spending too much money counts.”
Wanda let out a growl, kicked off one of her black stilettos, and flung it at him.
He dodged easily with a huff. “Hey! This is a stable, not a warzone. Keep your shoes on your feet like a civilized adult.”
“If I had a choice, I wouldn’t even be here speaking to you,” she snapped, retrieving the heel and dusting it off. “But your precious brother left you in charge. Otherwise, I’d be speaking to the real Alpha right now.”
Dennis sighed and leaned casually against the stable gate. “Alright, alright. You’re burning with fury, and I’m supposed to care. So, what do you want from me, Wanda? A sympathy card? A massage?”
“I got evidence,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm.
That made Dennis go still.
Wanda pulled out her phone and tapped the screen a few times, then shoved it toward him. “Watch.”
He took it and held it up, gaze scanning the footage as Wanda watched him closely. The brief flashes of violence—the five armed men, the attack, the blood, her cold efficiency. He watched without blinking.
When it was over, he handed the phone back. “Well,” he said with a dry chuckle, “I can’t say you disappointed. That was… thorough. Merciless, even.”
“One of them stabbed me,” Wanda remarked with a hiss. “So yes, they had to die. It was a warning.”
Dennis crossed his arms. “Fine. Now, what do you want?”
“I want a video meeting with Draven,” she said without hesitation.
Dennis looked at her for a long moment. “You sure you want to show him that? He won’t clap for you, Wanda.”
“I didn’t ask for applause,” she said. “I want him to see that the humans are not listening, that Brackham probably didn’t take heed to his words. I want him to see what they tried to do to me.”
Dennis gave a half-shrug, then nodded. “Alright. You went through all that trouble to get footage—it’s worth bothering him for.”
Wanda rolled her eyes. “Finally, some sense.”
She bent down, slipped her heel back on, dusted her skirt, and turned toward the house.
“Let me know when the meeting is set,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“You can rest assured that I don’t play dirty, unlike someone I know,” Dennis muttered, returning to his horse.
Wanda didn’t reply. She just walked off, pretending not to hear him as her silhouette disappeared behind the tall stone columns of the estate—like a storm cloud retreating, but not yet spent.
A few moments later, Wanda stormed into the house, the doors swinging shut behind her with a bang.
Her heels clacked sharply against the marble floor as she entered the hallway, irritation still written across every inch of her face. Then, she saw Meredith.
Straightening her back, she lifted her chin and quickened her pace.
Meredith, who had just come from the stairs, paused mid-step when she noticed the other woman heading toward her like a storm.
Wanda didn’t slow down. As they crossed paths, she deliberately bumped her shoulder hard against Meredith’s, throwing her slightly off balance.
Meredith’s steps faltered. She turned sharply, eyes narrowing with heat.
“Have you lost your mind, Wanda? Or is it all the scheming and losing lately that finally drove you insane?”
Wanda didn’t stop walking. Her voice floated back, laced with venom. “If I were you, I’d stay off my path. I’m not in a good mood.”
Meredith scoffed. “You’re mad, alright. Completely unhinged.”
Wanda froze mid-stride. Her shoulders tensed, her breathing heavy. Slowly, she turned around, her expression twisted with anger.
“Your saviour isn’t here, Meredith. Draven’s not around to protect you this time.” Then she took a threatening step closer. “Do you want to get beaten up?”
Meredith blinked, momentarily speechless at the audacity. Her lips parted, but before she could respond, Wanda turned her back once more and walked away without another word.
Silence settled in the hallway, heavy and awkward.
Meredith watched her disappear around the corner, brows knitting tightly together. She shook her head and muttered under her breath, “She’s lost it… completely.”
And with that, she turned and continued her walk, reminding herself that some things just weren’t worth the energy.
—
~Two Hours Later~
In the dim glow of the small meeting room’s crystal wall sconces, the large screen on the far side of the room came to life, casting a soft blue light over the space.
Wanda sat on one side of the table, legs crossed, arms folded tightly across her chest. Dennis stood near the window, sipping a drink, only half-interested in the conversation about to unfold.
The screen flickered once more—then Draven appeared, seated in what looked like the quiet lounge of the Oatrun estate in Stormveil.
His hair was damp, likely from a shower, and his dark shirt clung slightly to his chest. Behind him, the faint hum of background voices and the rustle of paper hinted at a still-active house.