Third Person’s POV


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    Inside the Digby Medical Center, the air was sharp and sterile, thick with the biting scent of antiseptic.


    Christine walked up to the front desk and cut straight to the chase, identifying herself and requesting a batch of Danzel.


    Since she was a new face, the desk physician stayed strictly professional, informing her that the form was a controlled high–grade substance. It required a personal diagnosis from Dr. Digby before a script could be written.


    “Oh, is it really that much of a hassle?” Christine arched an eyebrow, ying up her surprise. “You’re telling me I can’t just buy the meds without bringing the patient in?”


    “That’s correct, ma’am,” the doctor replied, polite but firm.


    “The supply of Danzel Form is extremely tight. We have to follow protocol to make sure it goes to patients who actually need it.”


    Christine didn’t push it.


    “I see. I will order a specific consultation tomorrow.”


    After expressing her thanks, she left with Sandra


    At that moment, an assistant who had previously received them hurriedly chased after them.


    “Christine! Hold on a second!”


    He caught his breath and spoke loud enough for the room to hear.


    “I know you’re trying to source those meds for Bloodmoon. Actually, they does have authorization to buy the Danzel Form.”


    A tiny spark of hope flickered in Sandra’s dull, gray eyes.


    “But,” the assistant continued, his voice dropping into a cold, clinical tone as he feigned ignorance about the suicide, “we only hold that prescription on file for Tamara. If the Bloodmoon Pack is in such a desperate rush, just have Tamarae down and pick it up herself.”


    Sandra’s hand gave a violent jerk. Tears carved paths through the deep wrinkles on her face as she let out a heavy, hollow sigh.


    }}}


    “Thanks for the heads–up,” Christine clipped out turning toward the car.


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    Back at the Bloodmoon estate, Sandra delivered the news point–nk: Unless Tamara showed up in the flesh, they’d need to find another high–ranking noble with a matching heart condition and a spare medical quota to buy it for them.


    Although there were not many nobles who needed to take Danzel, there were always some.


    However, now no family was willing to use their precious medical quota for a malicious, toxic old Luna.


    Touching the Bloodmoon Pack right now was social suicide; you’d get dragged through the mud right along with them.


    Not even Lance’s proposal for the Independent She–Wolf Center could pull the public’s focus away from the “Trial of the Bloodmoon.”


    From high–society Lunas to bottom–tier omegas–even the strays on the street–everyone was taking swings at Rosemary.


    It was pure, unadulterated karmic hatred.


    When word got out about the medical center’s “Tamara has to pick it up” policy, people practically cheered.


    Werewolves were gathering at the Moonlight Altars, thanking the Moon Goddess for the cosmic justice. “Karma” was the only word on anyone’s lips.


    Bloodmoon omegas heard the rumors but didn’t dare breathe a word to Rosemary, fearing the news would stop her heart then and there.


    198


    After Sandra finished her report, Rosemaryy in bed, staring at nothing for a long, long time.


    Whether she actually felt a shred of regret was anyone’s guess.


    Christine figured maybe she did–but for a she–wolf as pathologically selfish as Rosemary, “regret” usually only showed up when death was actually knocking on the door.


    Unfortunately, such regret could not change anything.


    Christine stayed on to help, but her “help” ended at Gloria’s door. As far as Rosemary’s survival went, she was a cold–blooded spectator.


    She never imed to be a saint; she just yed by her own rules.


    She knew that if she went to Adide and begged, she could probably score the meds.


    But if she did that, Tamara’s ghost would never find peace.


    Meanwhile, Ulrik started cutting the cord. He beganying off the omegas in droves.


    The once–mighty Bloodmoon Pack was hemorrhaging money it didn’t have.


    66%


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    Simon was a shell of a man, and Wilmot was busy building a literal wall to separate himself from the family.


    With Ulrik’s own future in the training camp up in the air and zero ieing in, he had to stop the bleeding.


    Usually, noble packs don’t just dump their omegas.


    Because in every pack, there were always some secrets.


    Those wolves know where the bodies are buried and a disgruntled ex–staffer with a mouth full of secrets can level a pack’s reputation.


    It’s the one line you don’t cross in the aristocratic werewolf circles.


    But Ulrik didn’t care.


    What secrets were left?


    The air in the capital was already thick with the public’s loathing. He had nothing left to lose.


    As he waded through the wreckage of his family’s finances, Ulrik finally felt the crushing weight that Tamara had been carrying alone.


    His feelings for Gloria turned into a messy blur: he felt for her loss and her weakness, but he was simmering with resentment over how her cruelty had invited this disaster.


    He was dying to know the truth about her past and the baby she’d lost before, but he knew that pushing for answers now would probably break whatever was left of her.


    Rosemary’s condition continued to slide.


    The <i>doctors </i>were whispering that she wouldn’t make it to the end of the year. She was on borrowed time, and the Moon Goddess wasing to collect.


    ADMINJ