Chapter 730:

🍙 🍙 🍙 🍙 🍙

Vance and Alistair immediately reached for their weapons. The metallic clack of assault rifles chambering silver-laced rounds echoed off the concrete. Their postures bristled with predatory aggression, ready to turn the garage into a bloodbath to protect their Alpha.

“Put those away,” Azalea ordered.

Her voice wasn’t a shout, but it dripped with the terrifying, aristocratic dominance of the Sterling bloodline. She stepped in front of the two hardened warriors, her golden eyes flashing with the cold arrogance of an apex predator.

“You don’t fight a war of suits with bullets,” Azalea sneered. She pulled out her encrypted satellite phone and dialed a direct number.

The most popular novels on galnovels.com

“Commissioner,” Azalea drawled, her tone shifting into a lazy, lethal purr. She was speaking directly to the human-werewolf liaison of the Geneva police force. “I see your tactical units approaching the industrial district. Let me be perfectly clear. If a single boot breaches this perimeter, I will liquidate fifty billion euros from the Blackwood and Sterling offshore trusts by dawn. Your local economy will drown before you even finish your morning espresso.”

The silence in the garage was absolute. Even without werewolf hearing, I could practically feel the human commissioner sweating through the receiver.

“Yes, a simple misunderstanding,” Azalea smiled coldly. “A no-intervention Rogue dispute. Keep your men five miles away. Have a lovely evening.”

She ended the call. The flashing red alert on Vance’s tablet vanished. The raid was called off.

Vance and Alistair stared at her in sheer shock. These were men who had spent their entire lives solving problems with claws and sniper rifles. Watching a twenty-two-year-old girl completely neutralize a heavily armed siege with nothing but a phone call and a bank account left them entirely stunned. A profound wave of respect washed over me. She was a true Blackwood Princess.

But Azalea wasn’t finished. She turned to Alistair, her expression hardening.

“Now we blind Gigi,” Azalea commanded.

Alistair blinked, struggling to catch up to her political maneuvering. “The Matriarch?”

“If my grandmother finds out Adella left little Arthur in New York to walk into a European warzone, she will send the elite Dire Guard to drag her back,” Azalea explained, her voice tight with urgency. “If Dallas loses his mate right now, he loses his anchor. He will die. Alistair, I need you to forge our digital footprints. Now.”

Alistair didn’t hesitate. His fingers flew across his military-grade laptop resting on a stack of ammo crates. Within minutes, he had fabricated a flawless trail of fake credit card receipts and altered CCTV footage. According to the global grid, Azalea and I were currently shopping on Avenue Montaigne in Paris, preparing to attend a high-profile charity gala.

Azalea looked at the glowing screen, a heavy sigh of relief escaping her lips. Her tense shoulders finally relaxed, satisfied that she had successfully protected her family from Gigi’s suffocating overprotectiveness.

She turned to me, her golden eyes softening with genuine, raw emotion. “Thank you, Adella,” she whispered, stepping close to squeeze my hand. “For risking everything to come here. You are the only light he has left.”

.

.

.