Chapter 183

The morning sun cast golden rays through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sebastian Blackwood's penthouse. Lillian stirred beneath the silk sheets, her body still humming from the intensity of the previous night. The scent of sandalwood and musk clung to her skin—Sebastian’s scent.

She turned her head, expecting to find him beside her, but the bed was empty. Only the faint indent on the pillow and the lingering warmth of his body remained.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Come in," Lillian called, pulling the sheets higher.

The door creaked open, revealing Giselle Beaumont, the head maid, carrying a silver tray. "Good morning, Miss Lillian. Mr. Blackwood left early for a meeting but instructed me to bring you breakfast."

Lillian sat up, her dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. "Thank you, Giselle."

The maid set the tray on the bedside table—freshly squeezed orange juice, a croissant still warm from the oven, and a single red rose in a slender vase.

"Did he say when he'd be back?" Lillian asked, trying to sound casual.

Giselle smiled knowingly. "He didn’t specify, but he mentioned he’d see you at the gala tonight."

Lillian’s pulse quickened. The annual Blackwood Charity Gala—the event where the elite of the Lycan world gathered. And she was expected to attend as Sebastian’s date.

Just then, her phone buzzed. A message from Beatrice:

"You’re still alive? I was starting to think Sebastian Blackwood had eaten you."

Lillian rolled her eyes and typed back:

"Very funny. I’ll call you later."

She took a sip of the orange juice, the tangy sweetness bursting on her tongue. Her mind wandered back to last night—Sebastian’s hands on her waist, his lips tracing the curve of her neck, the way he had whispered her name like a prayer.

A shiver ran down her spine.

But then reality crashed in.

Tonight, she would be standing beside him in front of the entire Lycan elite. Including Donovan.

And Evelyn.

Her stomach twisted.

Would they be there? Would they try to humiliate her again?

Lillian clenched her fists. No. She wouldn’t let them. Not this time.

She reached for the rose, its petals velvety against her fingertips.

Tonight, she wouldn’t be the timid werewolf girl they’d mocked.

Tonight, she would be Sebastian Blackwood’s equal.

And she would make sure everyone remembered it.

Celeste Devereaux definitely had something.

Watching Lillian get dressed after our interrupted moment was torture. My fingers itched to finish what we'd started, but duty called. There would be time for that later—once my workday ended and I had her back in my arms. For now, business demanded my attention.

The film crew had arrived early, settling into the villa before I could greet them.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, wrapping my arms around Lillian's waist as she adjusted her blouse. She turned in my hold, those warm eyes softening as she rose onto her toes to press a kiss to my lips.

"It's fine," she whispered, her fingers brushing over my chest. "I know you have responsibilities. I'll see you tonight."

I kissed her again, deeper this time, savoring the taste of her before forcing myself to pull away. After dropping her off at the mansion, I headed straight for the villa.

A sleek limo and several luxury cars were parked outside. Marcus stood by the entrance, nodding as I approached.

"They're inside," he said. "Already settled in their rooms."

I strode through the doors, the hum of conversation guiding me toward the parlor.

"—such a fan! I have your posters everywhere! You're, like, my ultimate idol!" Victoria's voice carried down the hall, brimming with excitement.

I suppressed a groan. Of course she'd latch onto Celeste the second she arrived. If I didn't intervene, the actress might reconsider filming here entirely.

Pushing open the parlor doors, I paused.

Security—both mine and unfamiliar faces—stood along the walls. On the plush couches sat a group of stunning women and sharply dressed men. Nearby, an older man—Damien Laurent, the director—spoke in low tones with one of my officers.

But my focus zeroed in on Victoria, who was practically vibrating as she gushed at the petite, dark-haired woman seated across from her.

Celeste Devereaux.

Even in casual wear, she exuded effortless elegance. But the tightness in her smile was unmistakable—she was searching for an escape.

"Victoria," I said, crossing my arms. "Give her some space."

My daughter whirled, hands flying to her hips. "Dad!"

Celeste's gaze flicked to me, relief flashing in her eyes.

Perfect. Time to save my guest—and my film deal—before Victoria scared her off for good.

"I'm merely introducing myself," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "There will be plenty of time for conversation later. For now, let her settle in without being ambushed by an overzealous admirer."

Victoria's lips parted in shock at my words, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she offered a stiff nod and quickly excused herself, practically fleeing the room. I knew I had embarrassed her, but at this moment, I couldn’t bring myself to care.

Celeste rose from her seat, her outfit leaving little to the imagination. The delicate lace of her jumpsuit clung to her like a second skin, revealing every curve of her model-perfect figure.

"Thank you for that," she murmured as she approached me, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips. "I'm Celeste Devereaux." She extended her hand, and I took it in a brief, polite shake.

"Yes, I'm aware," I replied coolly.

A faint blush tinted her cheeks, and she let out a breathy laugh. "It's an absolute pleasure to meet you, Alpha..." Her voice dipped into a purr, heavy with unspoken suggestion.

I withdrew my hand and turned toward Damien Laurent.

"Mr. Laurent, I presume?" I offered my hand again, this time to him.

He clasped it without hesitation—his grip firm, confident. A man who knew his own worth. I could respect that.

"Please, call me Damien, Alpha," he said smoothly. "It's an honor to meet you, and we deeply appreciate your hospitality in allowing us to film here. Your territory is breathtaking—perfect for our production."

I inclined my head.

"Of course," I replied. "The homes you selected for filming have been vacated and prepared. The businesses you requested have also been temporarily closed and are at your disposal."

Gratitude flickered in his eyes, and he nodded eagerly.

Naturally, those who agreed to vacate their homes or shutter their shops had been generously compensated. I made sure they wouldn’t suffer for this arrangement—their livelihoods were secure for the duration of the shoot.