Hugo, Sinclair, and I stared at the television, our eyes wide and jaws slack, unable to process the images flashing across the screen. Every time we seemed to make progress, Lydia and the Prince found a way to set us back—and this was no exception.

"This doesn't make any sense," Hugo exclaimed, clearly overwhelmed. "Why would he risk losing the pack's sympathy by parading another woman so soon after his wife's death?"

"Trust me, Hugo—Damon isn't calling the shots," Sinclair stated gruffly. "This is all Lydia. She's going to force her way onto the throne one way or another. Right now she's playing the doting friend, but mark my words, by the time the election ends, she'll be in his bed."

"How bad is this?" I asked, looking up at Sinclair's handsome face. "Does she have information that could hurt you?"

Sinclair squeezed my shoulders. "She knows some secrets," he said, "but luckily, nothing I'd consider a smoking gun. Most of what she knows would be more harmful to the Prince—things like my father's attack, things the public believes were accidents, but our private investigators proved malicious." His mouth tightened. "The real danger is that she knows how we think, how we operate. Not to mention that the Prince doesn't have two brain cells to rub together, but Lydia has plenty."

"So what do we do?" I asked anxiously, the newsreel replaying in my mind. "My bed rest isn't common knowledge, and they're making my absence from the public eye seem suspicious. Do we tell everyone about my condition? Or do we make an appearance?"

"I'm afraid making an appearance might play right into their hands. This could be an attempt to lure us out of hiding," Hugo advised, looking grim.

I heard the front door open and close—a surprise, as my hearing had never been so sharp before. Wheels rolled over the threshold, and Henry's voice floated up, "Good morning!"

"Henry!" I exclaimed, both surprised and unsurprised that we'd slept so late. Sinclair's father had been visiting almost daily since we'd agreed to be invalids together, and he'd been invaluable since I learned my true identity.

I grabbed some loungewear and disappeared into the bathroom to change. I might be a wolf, but my human modesty prevented me from strutting around naked like Sinclair—and I definitely wasn't changing in front of Hugo.

When I emerged, Sinclair was also dressed, though much more formally than I was. We went downstairs together, Sinclair carrying me despite my protests. My blood pressure was improving, but it wasn't enough to end my bed rest yet. We gathered around the breakfast table, the men analyzing the developments in low, serious voices, and I felt like an outsider eavesdropping on something I couldn't understand. It wasn't that they excluded me; I simply felt out of my depth.

"What do you think, Ella?" Sinclair asked, turning his blazing emerald eyes to me. They'd been debating for over half an hour.

I gnawed on my lip, trying to ignore the flash of emotion in Sinclair's eyes as he watched this nervous habit. Releasing my lip, I sighed. "Do we know what happened with Lydia's husband? The Princess is dead, but Lydia's still married to another Alpha, right?" I clarified. When the men nodded, I continued. "Where is he in all this? Even if he doesn't want her anymore, her gallivanting around another territory with another Alpha must make him look bad."

"That's a good point," Henry praised, his straight face reassuring me that he wasn't giving false compliments. "Maybe we've been going about this the wrong way. Instead of trying to understand their motivations, we can simply assume they're corrupt and respond without playing into their hands. They'll expect a countermove to challenge the media's narrative, but we might be able to spin things and refocus attention where it belongs—on them."

"Keep them busy and distract the pack by stirring up trouble with her husband," Hugo nodded approvingly. "Good idea, Ella."

Sinclair squeezed my hand, but his features remained worried. "I still don't like it. I think it's our best hope, but something about this situation feels wrong."

"Of course it does," Hugo scoffed. "You don't need a blue-ribbon committee to tell you this is completely messed up."

"No, I mean, I feel like I'm missing something," Sinclair said. "Something's bothering me, and I can't put my finger on it."

"You've been saying from the beginning that Princess Angeline's death felt off—like a political scheme," I said softly.

"Right, but the Prince is too unimaginative to have orchestrated it," Hugo confirmed.

Sinclair's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, then he clenched them shut, making a fist and muttering under his breath. "What?"

"Who isn't too unimaginative?" Sinclair growled, scanning our faces.

"Lydia," Henry supplied easily. "And while Prince Damon might have seen his mate as a trophy, he's not the type to impulsively destroy one of his prized possessions. But Lydia wouldn't have any reservations about getting the Princess out of the way."

"Are you saying what I think you are?" I gaped, both certain and disbelieving.

"As crazy as it seems, what other explanation do we have?" Sinclair asked, pacing behind the table. "If the Prince had lost his temper and killed her, I wouldn't question it. If there was a violent attack, you could blame rogues or vengeance. But poison? That's a woman's weapon."

"True, and if it was a political scheme, you'd think the royal family would have staged her death to benefit the campaign, making Damon look sympathetic," Henry agreed. "Instead, it just seemsodd."

"Exactly," Sinclair confirmed. "If it was planned, why haven't they used the opportunity to lay blame? Why haven't the Prince and his son been parading their grief?" He gestured enthusiastically. "I don't think anyone in the palace knew this was coming. I think Lydia got rid of her competition and slid into the role of 'concerned friend' to ingratiate herself with the Prince."

"You really think Lydia would go to that length?" Hugo asked skeptically.

"Don't forget how she manipulated my sons for years," Henry cut in, his voice harsher than I'd ever heard it. "Lydia is a cunning she-wolf who's willing to do anything for power. And if she can ruin her fated mate's life without remorse, she won't hesitate to ruin others."

Sinclair looked ready to argue that his life wasn't ruined, but this wasn't the time.

"Okay, let's say this is true," I said, struggling to comprehend such calculation and cruelty. "What does it mean for the campaign?"

"It means we have ammunition to use against the Prince and Lydia," Hugo assessed.

"But we have to be careful," I questioned. "They need to look like they're in this together, otherwise the story becomes 'Heartless Bitch Takes Advantage of Grieving Widower.' If we play this wrong, the Prince could look even more sympathetic."

"That's a good point," Sinclair acknowledged, the corner of his mouth twitching at my headline. "And Lydia will have plenty of dirty tricks up her sleeve. If we're right, things are even more complicated."

"So what's our move?" Henry pressed, watching his son with the look of a proud father.

"First, we track down Lydia's husband and encourage him to remind everyone that she's not the concerned citizen she seems," Sinclair decided firmly. "Second, we quietly get proof she was behind the Princess's death—even if we don't use it, we need to know for sure. Finally, we remind the pack what kind of mate the Prince was to his wife. He might not be guilty of murder, but he's certainly guilty of other crimes against her, and people need to see that."

"And us?" I asked anxiously, looking up at my mate.

Sinclair offered a grim smile. "We sit tight, focus on keeping our pup and your wolf safe, and hope we don't have to do anything desperate."