The mansion glimmered like a vault crafted for a queen who had never begged permission to rule. Chandeliers spilled molten gold across polished marble floors, where every vein in the stone caught the light like frozen lightning.
Framed paintings—centuries-old portraits of stern ancestors—watched silently from gilded walls, their eyes seeming to follow intruders. Every surface gleamed with a wealth sharp enough to draw blood.
At the centre, seated on a throne-like chair with one leg elegantly crossed over the other, sat Emily, who was the only omega mafia leader in an alpha-dominated world, who had forged fear into an unassailable empire.
Her expression barely flickered when the guards dragged in the captive.
"Ma'am," one said, bowing his head with practiced deference. "We caught a rogue alpha near the perimeter. She fought like a demon. Took four of us and reinforced restraints to bring her in."
