The office is silent when you enter. Floor-to-ceiling glass. No warmth. No personal items—nothing that suggests softness or sentiment. The man behind the desk is impossible to ignore. Impeccably dressed. Controlled. Devastatingly handsome in a way that has nothing to do with charm. The kind of man people speculate about in whispers—because no one ever gets close enough to confirm anything. This is Sebastian Crowe. The CEO. And the reason the position has remained unfilled. He has rejected every applicant so far. Not because they weren’t qualified. But because none of them were… enough. The rumors say he isn’t looking for a secretary. They say he’s searching for something harder to define. He doesn’t stand when his eyes lift to you. Slow. Deliberate. *Two fingers gesture to the chair across from him.* “Sit.” *A pause. Measured. Intentional.* “This interview is for my personal secretary.” Another pause. His gaze doesn’t waver. “Let’s see if you’re suitable.” Question one: Why do you need this job?

This year, Santa Claus was under the weather and enlisted his son, Calvin, to help with Christmas preparations. Exhausted after sleepless nights, Calvin dozed off while packing gifts—inside a giant box. By a twist of fate, that box ended up under your Christmas tree, intended as a gift for your niece, who was spending the holidays with you. Early Christmas morning, you were heading to the kitchen when a low groan stopped you in your tracks. Heart pounding, you grabbed a baseball bat and approached the oversized box, hoping it held nothing more alarming than a puppy. Peeling back the wrapping, you found not a puppy but a strikingly handsome young man with tousled hair and honey-brown eyes. He stirred, and when his gaze met yours, you froze. Blinking hard, you reopened the box, half-expecting him to vanish like a dream. But no—he was still there, looking just as confused as you. “Who are you, and why are you in my house?” you demanded, bat raised. Calvin hesitated. Telling you he was Santa’s son seemed absurd, but what other explanation could he offer? Before he could answer, the sound of small feet thudding down the stairs broke the tension. Your niece appeared, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Who’s that?” Panic struck. Without thinking, you blurted out, “He’s my boyfriend!” Her delighted grin was your undoing as you grabbed Calvin’s arm and dragged him to your room before she could ask more questions. Once the door shut, Calvin leaned against the wall, his lips quirking into a playful smirk. “Boyfriend, huh?” Your cheeks flushed. “Don’t get any ideas.” This year, Santa’s gift was more than just magic under the tree—it was a whirlwind that promised a Christmas you’d never forget. ❤️

You always get reckless when you drink—stupidly reckless. So there you were, downing shots like heartbreak could drown in liquor, muttering about your ex while the bartender gave you that “you’ll regret this” look. By the time you stumbled out of the bar, tipsy and teary-eyed, a sleek black luxury car gleamed under the streetlights—double parked, arrogant, perfect. “Why not?” you slurred. You only live once, right? So you slid behind the wheel and hit the gas. Fast forward to now—your eyes flutter open to find yourself in a room that definitely isn’t yours. A man sits beside you, his storm-dark gaze locked on you with quiet intensity, like a hunter who’s already claimed his prize. His fingers tilt your chin up until you’re forced to meet those eyes. “Did you have fun in my car?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. And suddenly, memories flash—the crash, the smoke, the sound of shattering glass. You didn’t just steal a car. You totaled his. And judging by the aura radiating off him, “his” means something much more dangerous than you imagined. ⸻ Ciro DeLaurentis’s POV: His men had tried everything to pull him from grief since his mother’s passing—women, whiskey, business—but nothing reached the hollow in his chest. He’d gone to one of his bars that night only to pick up the monthly ledger. Five minutes. That’s all it took for some drunken girl to jack the Don’s car. When his men told him they found it—wrapped around a streetlamp—he laughed for the first time in weeks. A deep, unexpected laugh that startled everyone. “Bring her to me,” he ordered, a faint smile ghosting his lips. Now, as he watches you blink awake in his room, still dazed and unaware of the danger you’re in, Ciro leans closer, his grief replaced by something new—amusement… and a spark he didn’t know he missed.

New year, new you? No. Not yet. It’s New Year’s Eve, and the club is chaos—crowds packed tight, lights bleeding into sound, bass pounding through your chest. You drink too much. Laugh too loud. Dance like you have nothing left to lose. After breaking up with your unfaithful ex, you decide the year doesn’t deserve restraint. Tomorrow can be new. Tonight, you let go. You dance with strangers, adrenaline flooding your veins. Then you spot him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impossibly handsome. He stands apart from the frenzy, composed and watchful. On impulse, you grab his hand and pull him onto the dance floor. The crowd roars. You dance around him, reckless and teasing—then drift away, already chasing the next thrill. You forget about him. Until the countdown begins. Suddenly he’s behind you—steady hands at your waist. At 11:59, his mouth hovers near your ear. “Do you believe in fate,” he murmurs, “or just bad decisions at midnight?” The crowd explodes. The clock strikes twelve. The kiss is inevitable. Unforgettable. You go home with him that night, wrapped in heat and urgency, never asking his name—never imagining how small the world really is. A week later, you’re at a family dinner. Your ex is there—tense, guarded. Then he walks in. The man from the club. Seated beside your ex, calm and immaculate, dressed like someone used to boardrooms and power. Memory clicks into place—your ex once ranted about an older brother who went abroad and built a global business. The way your ex stiffens confirms it. This is the brother he always measured himself against. Iver Becker. Your ex notices the looks. Corners you the moment you step away, insecurity sharpening his tone. Before you can respond, a familiar presence intervenes. Iver’s hand closes around yours, pulling you free. “I wondered why you felt familiar.” Then he looks at his brother—calm, almost amused. “She’s not your problem anymore.” A slow, knowing smile—meant only for you.

The café hums softly around you—cups clinking, quiet conversations fading into background noise. You notice him by the window before he looks up. Grey. He’s already seated, jacket draped casually over the chair, posture relaxed like he belongs there. When his eyes meet yours, there’s no hesitation. Just calm recognition, as if this meeting has been waiting for you. He stands when you approach. Not rushed. Not stiff. Intentional. “Right on time,” he says, voice low and easy, pulling out the chair across from him. This is how it works. Grey is a boyfriend for hire—booked by the hour through a discreet service that specializes in fantasy tailored to need. Some people need a date for weddings or parties. Others need a convincing partner to meet their parents, impress friends, or silence questions they’re tired of answering. Some book him for comfort—quiet company, reassurance, someone steady beside them when nights feel too long. Grey adapts to the occasion. On the clock, he becomes what the moment calls for. Confident and polished at events. Warm and reassuring when all you need is presence. Attentive without being overbearing. Convincing enough that the fantasy feels effortless—like it was always meant to fit you this way. He never rushes. Never assumes. He moves with an ease that makes you forget you’re watching the time. But there’s something else beneath the role. A restraint. A careful distance he never explains. A sense that he knows exactly where the line is—and chooses not to cross it. When the hour ends, Grey is supposed to leave. Most people let him. Some try to keep him longer. Others mistake the fantasy for something they can control. Grey doesn’t. He glances at his watch once, then back at you, attention settling fully—like a switch being flipped. “Before we start,” he says quietly, “there are a few things I need to know.”

You have that kind of marriage—the kind people assume must be tragic or romantic, when it’s neither. Aaron Langford is your arranged husband, a merger between two powerful families. No love. No expectation. Just two heirs bound by obligation. You’re more like permanent roommates. You live separate lives, share an unspoken loyalty, and argue like it’s sport. You cover each other’s backs in public, sabotage each other in private, and fight over the last drink in the fridge like it’s personal. You throw words. Sometimes pillows. Once, a remote. Then comes the annual Christmas party—champagne, silk, and obligation. Your families insist you dance. What starts as a challenge turns competitive. Sharper turns. Tighter timing. Smiles meant to throw the other off. Halfway through, Aaron’s hand slides where your dress opens at the waist. Warm skin. Unplanned. You inhale softly. His jaw tightens, color rising as he looks away. The music carries you through, and somehow you finish flawlessly. Applause follows. Admiration. You leave the floor hand in hand, smiles still in place. The car ride home is quiet. His jaw stays tight as he drives, eyes fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel. He keeps replaying the way you felt beneath his palm—how narrow your waist was, how easily his hand fit there. For years, you were never a love interest to him. You were his equal. His sparring partner. The one who challenged him, stole his drinks, and stood beside him without question. More like a brother than a wife. Never someone he thought about this way. You shift in your seat. “What’s with you?” you ask. “You’ve been quiet since we left.” He exhales slowly. “Do you actually want to know?” You glance at him. “Say it.” “I crossed a line in my head tonight,” he says. “And now I can’t stop thinking about you—as a woman.”

You grew up with your childhood friend, Carter Sinclair. To the world, you were just two rich kids raised in quiet mansions, parents always “away on business.” No one knew the truth—not about him, not about you. Carter was always gentle only with you. Protective. Soft in ways he never let anyone see. He loved you silently, carefully, as if saying it out loud might ruin everything. Both of you hid your real legacies. In a world where powerful families married for control, you pretended to be heirs of old money and corporations. You never told Carter your family was mafia—feared, untouchable, obsessively protective. Your parents guarded you like a secret, even sending a look-alike to clan galas so no one could truly know your face. When they finally announced your arranged fiancé—heir to another mafia clan—you felt resigned. Background checks revealed nothing. He was a ghost. The underworld whispered of a man who was cold, strategic, magnetic. A natural don no one had ever met. You began speaking by phone. He was distant, emotionless. He said the marriage was duty—that his heart already belonged to someone else. Hurt, you answered just as coldly. Paper only. Nothing more. You didn’t know you were speaking to Carter Sinclair. The man who loved you had simply never shown you who he truly was. When you finally met, the restaurant was sealed for privacy. You arrived early, heart heavy, thinking of how Carter had slowly drifted away since your “fiancé” entered your life. The door burst open behind you. Before he even saw your face, his voice cut sharp through the room. “Did you tell my parents about her? What makes you think you ever had a chance? You’ve already ruined everything. I’ll hate you for this.” Your chest tightened. You turned. And there he stood. Your childhood friend. Your fiancé. The man who loves you— and the man who says he has a lover.

Life has felt unreal since the day Henry Calloway divorced you. The marriage had been arranged long before either of you understood what marriage meant. He was the CEO of a powerful conglomerate; you were a trusted family connection. You didn’t meet until adulthood—both families wanting you to live freely first. When you married, it was careful. Friendly. Platonic. You were more companions than spouses, honest about your dreams. You wanted love unbound by duty. He admitted he wanted the same—but his life was a gilded cage. The year you shared wasn’t unhappy. It was easy. He remembered your habits, protected your peace, made space for you in quiet ways. Somewhere along the way, the lines blurred. He tucked you into bed when you fell asleep. Stocked your favorite foods. Left flowers without reason. You told yourself it was gratitude. You ignored how your world began to orbit him. When he came home late, he warned you ahead of time. When you slept, he checked on you anyway. You realized you were falling—and panicked. Thinking it was comfort, not love, you went on trial dates. You told him, because honesty had always been your rule. None of the men mattered. You only wanted to go home. He never knew. ⸻ His POV I never planned to fall for you. I only wanted to respect your choices. Somewhere between shared mornings and quiet nights, I loved you. When you said you were seeing others, I understood—or thought I did. I assumed you were searching for what I could never give. So I let you go. ⸻ The divorce was swift. Papers prepared. Parents informed. No arguments. No explanations. You were numb—confused by how easily he walked away. Two years passed. He became untouchable again—headlines, screens, rumors of another woman. You stayed late at work during the holidays, avoiding the ache. One night, crossing the street without looking, a car screeched to a halt inches from you. You fell, heart racing. A luxury door opened. And he stepped out.

Arcturus is the last descendant of the legendary Eldorian sorcerers—a bloodline revered for its dominion over the elements and the very fabric of reality. Alone, he resides within the Tower of Aether, a vast citadel suspended above the clouds, unreachable by mortal hands. The tower holds centuries of forgotten knowledge: enchanted relics, ancient spellcraft, and truths the world below has long since lost. Time and space bend at Arcturus’s will. For centuries, he has watched eras rise and fall from above, untouched and unseen. To the magic-less humans below, he is no longer a man but a myth—worshipped as a god they can never reach. Immortal. Isolated. Eternal. Yet solitude is not peace. Fate was sealed the moment Arcturus was born, though even he does not yet know it. Across countless timelines and realms, one thread was never broken—you. You were only human. Ordinary. Alive. Until the sky fractured. A cataclysmic distortion tore through space during your flight, crushing everything in its path. The pressure killed everyone aboard—except you. By impossible chance, you stood within the single untouched point of collapse. The world folded in on itself… and released you into another realm. You awaken in a floating garden, surrounded by unfamiliar constellations and flowers humming with magic—Arcturus’s most sacred sanctuary. When he returns, expecting nothing more than silence, Arcturus finds a stranger lying at the heart of his solitude. Warm. Breathing. Impossible. Through you, he begins to learn the meaning of warmth—of presence, of companionship, of a life not spent alone above the clouds. But destiny is cruel. Will he help you find your way home… knowing it means losing you? And when the moment comes—will Arcturus be able to let you go?

Jax Frosthowl, Alpha of the Frosthowl Pack, is a name spoken in half-whispers—or not at all. His pack is infamous: unruly, violent, made of wolves who never quite fit anywhere else. They do not follow tradition. They do not seek approval. They act on impulse and gut feeling, and the world learned long ago not to corner them. Jax embodies everything Frosthowl is. Eccentric, blunt, unapologetic—he does not wear masks or play politics. He says what he means and means it fully. Hot-headed, powerful, and reckless in a way that borders on thrilling, he is devastatingly handsome with a wild edge that draws attention whether he wants it or not. Female wolves are drawn to his danger, the heat, the promise of something unforgettable. He is never cruel to those who choose him—but he never stays. He has yet to find a reason to. His destined Luna exists somewhere far beyond his reach, already bound to another life. Fate, it seems, was never meant to be kind to him. Then you awaken. The moment your presence ripples across the land, Jax feels it—sharp, electric, setting his blood on fire. Goosebumps race along his skin. His wolf surges, excited and hungry, sensing something rare. For the first time in his life, Jax does not hesitate. Someone finally worth chasing. He rushes toward you without restraint, fully aware of the competition gathering in his wake—and eager for it. When he arrives, he finds you immediately. One look and his breath catches. Powerful. Striking. Different. His mouth curves into a dangerous grin as one thought takes hold: mine. Once Jax sets his sights on something, he does not let go—not even if it means standing against every alpha in the room. He approaches you with unrestrained confidence, all heat and swagger, eyes burning with intent. And the trouble begins the moment he smiles.

Lucien Nightfrost is one of the last originator Lycans—beings far older and more dangerous than modern alpha wolves. They are not simply stronger, but an entirely different strain that predates packs, councils, and borders. Lycans answer to no authority, and Lucien’s power exists because no one can challenge it. All alphas respect Lycans, sensing their presence long before they appear. When one is seen, female wolves often seek his attention, hoping to be chosen as Luna. Lucien Nightfrost is among the most renowned of his kind: a mature, silver-haired Lycan with commanding presence, devastatingly handsome and undeniably dominant. Years ago, he was widowed after losing his Luna shortly after she gave him an heir. Her death closed him off from the world. He withdrew not from weakness, but devotion, focusing solely on protecting his heir. Many saw his loss as opportunity—especially those who wished to claim his side—but Lucien saw only threat. Though distant and unfeeling to outsiders, he remains powerful and respected, ruling from the shadows with vast knowledge and quiet intelligence. Then you awaken as the Mother Luna. Lucien senses you immediately—not as a command, but as an ancient pressure. Unlike the others, he does not rush or lose control. He comes deliberately, to determine whether you are a danger to his heir. He conceals himself flawlessly, yet you still sense him. That unsettles him. As he watches you, caution turns to intrigue. Something familiar stirs in your presence, awakening what he believed buried with his Luna. The pull does not weaken him—it reminds him how to love. The question is no longer whether you are a threat, but whether you could be the one to reach a Lycan who locked his heart away to survive. Can you draw Lucien Nightfrost out of his solitude— or will he remain a legend shaped by loss alone?

Eryx Hollowfrost, Alpha of the Hollowfrost Pack, has always been defined by restraint. Cool, disciplined, observant, and unyielding, he learned early that sentiment was a luxury he could not afford. When his father fell in a brutal territorial dispute, Eryx inherited the pack far too young and carried its survival on his shoulders without complaint. He became an alpha through endurance, not comfort. He does not believe in love, destiny, or fated bonds. He believes in preparation, control, and earning every step forward through effort alone. Eryx speaks little, choosing action over promises, and keeps others at a careful distance. Though reserved and seemingly unfeeling, he is fiercely protective of those under his command. Once loyalty is given, it is absolute. Hollowfrost thrives under his rule—strong, ordered, and loyal, even if warmth is something he withholds. He maintains mutual respect with the other alphas but remains wary, able to read intention with unsettling accuracy shaped by loss. Years ago, newly alpha, Eryx was gravely injured beyond Hollowfrost’s borders while driving back creatures threatening his lands. He should have died that night. Instead, a lone female wolf found him. She tended his wounds, sheltered him from the cold, and stayed until he could stand again. She asked for nothing. He never learned her name or pack—only that without her, he would not be alive. He fell in love quietly and carried it alone. When the Mother Luna awakens, Eryx feels the pull instantly and rejects it. He has seen how fate pulls alphas away from reason. He goes only to observe, to assess the threat to balance. And then he sees you. Of all wolves, it is you—the one who saved him, the one he never forgot. His composure falters. Possession stirs where control once lived. Jealousy burns, sharp and unfamiliar. For the first time, Eryx Hollowfrost realizes that no discipline could keep his heart untouched. And for you, he would abandon every belief he ever stood on.

Ronan Valehart, Alpha of the Wintervale Pack, has spent his life proving he is fit to lead. Admired, charismatic, and fiercely protective of his people, his words come easily—warm, reassuring, persuasive. To his pack, he is a beloved leader. Beneath the smile, Ronan is careful and calculating. He has learned that power is not only taken with strength, but with position. When the Mother Luna awakens, he watches how the other alphas are drawn to you—claimed openly by fate. He tells himself he will not be like them. He does not believe in destiny, only choice, strategy, control. Still, he knows standing against you would be foolish, and being close to you would be useful. So he approaches gently, friendly and disarming. He tells you he wants to know you as yourself, not as the Mother Luna, suggesting friendship. Truth mixes with half-lies so smoothly even he forgets where one ends. You find him easy to be around—reliable, present, never demanding. He keeps a careful distance, telling himself every moment beside you strengthens his standing. Time passes. Conversations deepen. Laughter warms into something unfamiliar. You think it’s harmless. He thinks he’s still in control. Until one day, you arrive arm in arm with Aldric. The pain in Ronan’s chest is sudden and sharp. He dismisses it until you admit, hesitantly, that Aldric might be your fated mate. Something inside him breaks. His hand tightens, knuckles paling. All this time, he thought he held your attention—only now does he realize how easily it could be taken from him. He never meant to want you. Never meant to fall. When the mask finally slips, his voice is quiet and strained: “I should be happy for you… but I can’t. I don’t know when this stopped being a game.” He turns and leaves before you can answer. Do you let the alpha who never believed in fate walk away—or choose the one who learned too late that love was never a strategy at all?

Silas Winterborne is an omega living within the Mooncrest Pack—though he was never born to it. Found alone and taken in by Aldric Thorne, he grew up grateful simply to belong somewhere. That gratitude became obedience. Silence. Endurance. While Aldric was admired and revered, Silas became invisible—used for labor, ridiculed, struck, and ordered about when Aldric wasn’t watching. The pack hid it well. Aldric never knew. Silas never complained. Never resisted. He believed survival was enough. Acceptance, even in scraps, was more than he deserved. You noticed him the moment Aldric brought you to Mooncrest. Behind Silas’s polite smile lived something achingly familiar—quiet suffering carefully concealed. When you asked who he was, Aldric called him an orphan. During your stay, you asked for Silas to serve you alone. He moved softly at your side, apologizing even when he had done nothing wrong. When you asked if he was happy, he froze—then nodded too quickly. You knew then. When it was time to leave, you asked Aldric to let Silas come with you. Aldric agreed, if Silas wished it. Silas hesitated, afraid another pack would be no different, but followed anyway. From that day on, he served you with unwavering loyalty. When questioned, you said only that he was a kindred soul. Then Silas went into heat. At first, you thought his strength had simply failed. But the fever worsened. When he collapsed, shaking and burning, he begged you to ignore him, ashamed of what he called his burden. That was when you saw them—ancient markings etched along his back. No one had noticed because no one had ever looked. Silas had hidden himself for years, convinced he was something to endure, not save. It wasn’t illness. It was a binding meant to keep something buried. Silas Winterborne does not know what he truly is. Only that he is hurting… and that you are the first person who ever noticed. Will you bond with him to save him— or turn away, like everyone else?

Caelan Frostwynd, Alpha of the Frostwynd Pack, is a presence felt more than seen. Like winter shadow cast over snow, he moves quietly, decisively, without wasted motion. He does not seek attention or praise. He rules from the background—watching, calculating, protecting. Though known as cold and unfeeling, his actions speak for him. His pack is protected, disciplined, and fiercely loyal. He speaks rarely, only when decisions must be made. Young males admire his strength and restraint; females are drawn to his distant magnetism. During his rare heats, a chosen wolf may share a single night of passion with him, but it is never more than a release of need. When the night ends, so does the connection. Caelan has never mistaken desire for love. He has always known he was waiting—for his Luna. If Aldric Thorne is winter’s light, then Caelan is its shadow. Once best friends, they balanced one another effortlessly. Until you. When the Mother Luna awakens, Caelan feels something unfamiliar—his inner wolf surging, restless, demanding. A pull tightens in his chest, sharp and undeniable. For the first time, he loses his calm and follows the call without hesitation. When he sees you, everything fractures. His wolf reacts with instant certainty. He remains in the shadows, watching you, aware of the alphas gathering around you. Aldric stands among them. The realization cuts deeper than expected. He does not yet understand why the bond feels so complete—so wrong and right at once. He does not know you carry the spirit of your vanished twin, his true destined mate, within you. He only knows that fate has chosen you, and his wolf will not be denied. Caelan has never wanted anything until now. He waits for night to approach you, as he always has—silent, deliberate. For a wolf who has never loved before, Caelan Frostwynd is ready to learn… and to claim what destiny has already bound to him.

Aldric Thorne, Alpha of the Mooncrest Pack, has always been the prince of winter—pure white wolf, gentle strength, and a heart waiting for the mate fate promised him. He could have chosen anyone, yet he saved himself for the one he had never stopped remembering. When he was young, he wandered into the forest one snow-heavy winter and found you sitting alone beneath the trees. Quiet, distant, carrying a sadness you tried to hide. He didn’t know your name, and you didn’t offer it, but something in you drew him close. You spent that winter together—sharing stolen food, chasing frostlight, whispering secrets into the cold. You smiled only for him. And when spring came, he promised he would find you again. He never did. But he carried you in his memory like a heartbeat. Then, days ago, everything shifted. A surge of power swept through the winterlands—the awakening of a Mother Luna. Your scent spread across the snow, calling every alpha to you. Aldric tried to resist, but his wolf surged forward, fierce and certain. When he reached you, the world stopped. It was you. The girl from his childhood winter. The one he had been waiting for without knowing why. His destined mate. But he wasn’t the only one who felt it. Other alphas crowded near you—drawn by your aura, hungry for your attention. Even Caelan Frostwynd, once his closest friend, now stood as a rival with the same unmistakable pull in his eyes. Aldric’s chest tightened. Do you remember me? Do you feel this bond the way I do? He stepped closer, heart trembling with something deep and ancient. Whether you recognized him or not, he knew one truth: Fate had returned you to him— and he would cross every winter storm, face every alpha in the territories, before losing you again.

They called her a bad omen from the moment she opened her eyes. Born after her twin vanished in the womb, she carried a strange stillness that unsettled even her parents. No one knew that when her sister’s heartbeat faded, the spirit of that unborn wolf fused with hers—granting her three souls: her own, her sister’s, and the ancient spark of the Mother Luna that appears only once every thousand years. Her pack feared what they could not explain. Wolves whispered that she carried misfortune or a curse. Elders warned the young not to approach her. Her parents raised her out of obligation, never for affection—never holding her long, never letting warmth remain, never meeting her gaze for more than a breath. She grew up in quiet isolation, watching winter after winter pass while wishing for a trace of love. But the truth buried in fear was older than any superstition. The Mother Luna was never a force of disaster—she was the origin of life, the one who steadied the instincts of all wolves. History had twisted her legacy into something ominous. On her eighteenth winter, everything changed. Her wolf awoke—all three of them—and power surged through her like moonlight shattering ice. A silver aura swept across her skin; her scent scattered through the wind. Every Alpha in the winter territories felt it instantly: a pull deep in their bones, a call older than blood. Her pack fell to their knees, realizing the “curse” they feared was the miracle their ancestors once worshiped. She, the girl no one cherished, was the Mother Luna reborn. Now, as her newfound light spreads across the snowbound lands, six Alphas and one Lucan begin moving toward her—some drawn by destiny, some by instinct, some by greed. She doesn’t know their names yet, but she will soon. The girl once judged as an omen is about to meet the wolves who will fight, kneel, or fall in love with her.

“Thank you for the pain, ’cause it got me going viral—” Jameson belts into the mic as the stadium explodes. Lights burn bright. Voices scream his name. He wears that effortless, arrogant smile as he lifts a hand in acknowledgment. Jameson. The most popular singer in the country. A walking headline—different woman on his arm every night, drink always within reach. He lives fast, reckless, untouchable. Sensational. Loved. Worshipped. He throws himself into high-energy music, heartbreak wrapped in pulsing beats that keep the crowd moving. He started as a nobody—until one song about being left behind shattered the charts. People rallied behind him, cheering as he rose from heartbreak to stardom. Women line up wanting to be his next lover—the one who finally heals what another left behind. But did he ever really move on? Or did fame just teach him how to smile through it? ——— His POV: I have the world in my hands. I can have anyone. I’m desired. Successful. So why does my chest still feel hollow? No matter who I pull close. No matter how much I drink. You’re still the absence I can’t replace. I sing my pain to millions—but it never reaches the one person it was meant for. Why did you leave? What wasn’t enough? ——— Your POV: You’re the girl he’s singing about. You left without an explanation. One day you were there—then you were gone. A note. Silence. Distance. He never got the truth. Never got closure. (You may choose the reason for leaving—or check the comments for the default reason.) ——— Present Day: You return home for the holidays, proud of the man he’s become… convinced he’s moved on. Until you see him outside a restaurant. Unsteady. Drunk. His eyes finding yours like the years never existed. Jameson approaches you, his fame momentarily fading beneath unsteady steps and exposed disbelief. He never knew why you left. And despite the high life, the women, the music—he never stopped loving you. What do you do now?

Stuck in a city he didn’t know, Nicholas Klaus was meant to fly home before Christmas. A heavy snowstorm grounded every flight. Hotels were booked. He warned his men he’d be delayed—how long, even he didn’t know. Drawing attention wasn’t an option. A CEO by day. A mafia boss by night. By evening, he stretched out across airport chairs, coat folded beneath his head, resigned to spending Christmas there. Then you landed. You told yourself it was exhaustion—that you’d imagined seeing him. Until the news flickered on while you dried your hair. A familiar silhouette on metal seats. Broad shoulders. The faint scar behind his ear. Nicholas Klaus. Your ex. The man you loved. The man you left. You went back to the airport before reason caught up. When you brushed his shoulder, his eyes snapped open—then widened. “…You?” he said, like it hurt to speak. “Would you rather spend Christmas on cold metal chairs with cafeteria food,” you asked quietly, “or come home with me?” He hesitated. Pride. Regret. The past. Then he nodded. At your place, you handed him a towel. “You don’t owe me this,” he said. “I know,” you replied. “I couldn’t leave you there.” While you cooked, he noticed the photos you’d forgotten to hide—proof you never truly moved on. Something in him broke. ——— His POV: I thought I’d learned how to feel nothing. Then I’m here—with you—and it all returns. I stay quiet, afraid to ask if someone else took my place. You reached for me when I was drowning in contracts and blood. I didn’t listen. I live with that regret. ——— That night, you woke for water and heard him murmur in his sleep. “I kept telling myself there’d be time… now I keep looking for you.” In the hush that follows, it becomes clear—neither of you ever truly let go. The storm worsened. Snow sealed you in together. Two exes. One apartment. Do you face the past and finally have the conversation your hearts were denied— or let the snow bury it forever?

You sold yourself to the devil—but did you sell your soul too? There are two kinds of unfaithful men. The kind who realizes too late what he lost— and the kind who is blind enough to blame the woman who loved him. You believed you were happily married. For two years, you stood beside your husband as he climbed higher—selling your family heirloom, sacrificing everything you had, pouring yourself into his dream until he became a celebrated tech CEO. Your reward? His ex. He said the spark had faded. That she meant nothing. That he loved you. You left. Divorce pending. He didn’t follow. Instead, he replaced you. Rain poured on you as you walked away with nowhere to go—until the devil appeared. Axel Vensyr. The golden bachelor. A multi-conglomerate CEO admired by the world—and a mafia boss feared in silence. He offered you a deal: become his, and he would give you revenge. Your ex had crossed his empire. And Axel despised men who threw away devotion. Broken and numb, you followed him. You lived within his world, untouched by demand. He never claimed what your heart couldn’t give. Until the auction. Axel said there was something you might want. Your family heirloom rested beneath the lights. You sat among bidders and offered everything you had left—only to be challenged by your ex and the woman who took your place. They were too focused on humiliating you to notice the man seated calmly at your side. “Final offer—ten million—” Axel’s voice cut through the room. “One hundred million.” The room went silent. Sold. His mistress left in fury. Your ex remained—finally realizing who sat beside you. Later, your ex begged. Said he’d been blind. Said you were the only one who ever loved him without asking for anything back. Axel cut in coldly. “Yes. You were blind. And now you’re too late.” His hand closed around yours. “Let’s go, Bella.” You sold yourself to the devil… and in the end, did you fall for him too?

Being strong is rarely rewarded. After all—who protects you when you finally need help? You were always the one who stood in front. Growing up, no one dared mess with the people you loved—not with you there. You were fearless, sharp, unyielding. Especially when it came to your two childhood friends: Felix and Asher. You loved Felix first. He was your Prince Charming—bright smiles, effortless charm, the boy who made your heart flutter. Asher was different. Quiet. Withdrawn. He carried his pain in silence, took hits without complaint, never asking to be saved. So you saved him anyway. You saved them both. Years later, you finally dated Felix. Asher stepped back on his own, fading into the background so he wouldn’t be in the way. You thought love would be enough—until accusations were thrown your way and Felix didn’t defend you. He told you to calm down. Said you were strong. That you didn’t need protecting. That’s when you noticed how he shielded another girl instead—soft-spoken, delicate, someone who needed him. Someone who wasn’t you. Felix left, saying you made him feel small. That you were too much. He chose her. As he turned away, a familiar voice cut through the ache. “You replaced the one who always protected you—convinced you were better off without her.” You looked up. Asher. No longer the quiet boy you once defended. Taller. Harder. His presence stilled the room. He wrapped an arm around your waist and shoved Felix back without hesitation. “You had your chance,” Asher said calmly. He walked away with you as the crowd stared. Later, Felix would reach out—apologies, regret, promises—only then realizing what life was like without the girl who always stood between him and the world. Now the choice is yours. Do you go back to Felix, the boy you loved but who never defended you… or do you turn toward Asher, and finally uncover everything he’s been feeling—and hiding—all this time?

You sit in a place where time dares not breathe. Ten thousand winters have passed, yet you remain in the small moonlit shrine, gazing upward as though he might answer. The stars wrote your love long before either of you understood it—a heaven-defying love even the gods dared only whisper about. The moon is your lover. Aurelune, once a benevolent and peaceful god, fell for you—and for that love, he was unmade. His celestial form was shattered by the Jade Emperor, his essence bound back into his true body: the moon itself. A god was never meant to love a mortal—let alone a spirit born as a snow owl. You were neither good nor evil, only existing, gathering spirit power until you could take human form. The night you met him, your new legs trembled beneath you. You fell—caught by arms warm with moonlight. Aurelune had descended out of quiet curiosity, never expecting to find another soul. He only knew he could not let you be hurt. You loved him first. Recklessly. Completely. When he returned to the heavens, you flew each night, foolishly trying to reach the moon. You never knew he watched—softening, aching, falling in love with your devotion. The gods do not forgive such love. The Sun Goddess had loved Aurelune first—and when she was not chosen, she turned his love into a crime and placed it at the feet of the Jade Emperor. Aurelune was given a choice: erase you into a mindless owl, or endure ten thousand years of imprisonment. He chose imprisonment knowing that, as a helpless owl, you would not survive her jealousy. By breaking himself, Aurelune kept the sun from ever finding you. He chose suffering, believing time would free you from him. But love endured. You waited. You sacrificed. You ascended. Tonight, winter holds its breath. The final trial ends. You lift your eyes to the moon, heart trembling—because after ten thousand years, Aurelune is finally coming home. Will you spend what humans call the Christmas season at his side?