The Wolf Auction

[Bailee’s POV]

"We're sorry for your loss, Ms…" The pause stretches—one second, two—the lawyer's eyes flick to a sheet on the table, scan, return. "…Reed."

There it is. The half-second where my last name required a cross-reference. Across the table, a junior associate marks something in his margins—non-pack, hybrid blood, underlined twice.

"Can we begin?" Celeste occupies the opposite center chair like it was built around her—black dress sharp enough to cut glass, every hair pinned into obedience. "Some of us have arrangements to finalise."

The conference room smells like old leather and fresh lilies. My father has been dead for three days, and I sit on the left side of the table, alone—on-brand for Reed family events.

Celeste's daughter Maya flanks her—twenty-two, full-blooded, cheekbones that could open letters. She watches me the way you watch a nature documentary about an animal that won't survive winter.

I know what Celeste has been constructing—Maya positioned for one of the Wallace brothers, the most powerful young wolves in the territory, sons of the father’s Beta. Maya catches me looking and her mouth curves. Not a smile. A border check.

"Of course, Mrs. Reed." The lawyer clears his throat. "Standard provisions first—trust distributions, property allocations, board seats. All outlined in sections two through five."

I let it wash past—every clause, every subsection—waiting for the only word I'm here for.

"A stipend has been allocated for the ongoing medical care of Mara Reed." My spine unlocks by a single vertebra. "Contingent upon Ms. Bailee Reed's full cooperation with estate terms."

"Contingent," I repeat, and the word sits in my mouth like a stone. "Meaning if I don't cooperate, my mother's care—"

"Is addressed in the supplementary provisions." The lawyer doesn't look up. "Shall I continue?"

"The controlling interest in Reed Industries," the lawyer continues, and every body in the room goes rigid, "passes neither to Mrs. Celeste Reed nor to Ms. Bailee Reed."

"Explain that," Celeste says, her voice perfectly level, which is how I know she wants to shatter the table.

"The estate will be held in trust until such time as Ms. Bailee Reed produces a child with verified werewolf blood." He says it like a weather report—flat, factual, catastrophic. "At that point, controlling interest transfers to the child."

The silence that follows has teeth. I hear my own pulse behind my ears, the associate's pen halting.

"Could you repeat that?" My voice doesn't sound like mine, and my hands have gone numb in my lap.

"Certainly, Ms. Reed." He does—word for word, same inflection. Celeste's composure fractures, a hairline crack through porcelain.

"This is absurd," Maya says quietly, the first words out of her mouth all morning. Her hand tightens on Celeste's wrist—not comfort, a leash.

"And the blood verification?" Celeste asks, each syllable filed to a surgical point. "How exactly does that work, given Ms. Reed's… condition?"

"Pack-certified testing," the lawyer says, adjusting his glasses. "Standard protocol. Since Ms. Reed is unable to shift, secondary genetic markers will be used."

"You could just say hybrid," I offer. "Fewer syllables." Nobody laughs. My nails carve crescents into my palms under the table.

"Is there a deadline?" I ask, because the room has frozen solid and someone has to crack the ice.

"No formal timeline. The trust remains active indefinitely." He closes the folder. "If there are no further questions—"

"There will be further questions," Celeste says, rising, her chair pushed back with surgical precision. "Many of them. But not today."

Maya follows her mother out, spine straight, not a glance in my direction—the trained disregard of someone who's been taught I don't count.

"Ms. Reed? Any questions about the provisions?" The junior associate pauses by the door, looking like a man who'd rather be anywhere else.

"Not one I can ask a lawyer," I say, and he has the decency to look uncomfortable before disappearing.

I make it to the corridor before my jaw unclenches. Halfway to the elevator, heels click behind me—sharp and deliberate as gunshots.

"Bailee." Celeste's voice is warm the way antifreeze is sweet—engineered to kill things that don't know better. "Walk with me."

"I was actually heading out, Celeste." I keep my eyes on the elevator's brushed steel doors.

"This won't take long." She appears at my shoulder, hallway light turning her into a magazine editorial. "Your mother looked so thin at the memorial. I barely recognised her."

"She's managing." The words come out too fast, too sharp, and I feel her catalogue the flinch like a predator cataloguing weakness.

"Of course. She's always been a fighter—everyone says so." Celeste lets that land, then tilts her head. "It must just be hard, watching someone deteriorate when the treatments are right there. When the only missing piece is the money."

"Is there a point to this, Celeste?" My jaw aches from clenching, and my nails are finding new crescents to carve.

"The point is that I care." Her mouth does something that mimics compassion. "The positions you applied for—assistant, office coordinator—those were filled weeks ago. But Edric asked me to look after you, and I take promises to my late husband seriously."

"I'm sure he'd be touched." My voice comes out flat, a river running over rocks that could snap ankles.