Chapter 17

Dorothy's POV I walked to the edge of the balcony, feeling the power of the moment surge through my wolf. Time seemed to slow as I tipped the silver Montblanc briefcase forward, watching as bundles of hundred-dollar bills cascaded down like expensive confetti. The cash rained onto the patio below, creating a surreal snow of green as thirty million dollars fluttered through the night air. Gasps echoed across the gathering. Several guests lunged forward instinctively, then caught themselves, remembering their breeding. A few weren't so restrained—I noted with amusement as a banker's wife snatched a bundle mid-air before her husband could stop her. My wolf howled with satisfaction inside me as I watched Isolde's face. Her expression was frozen in horror, her mouth hanging open as the evidence of her dependency—of my sacrifice—fell around her like judgment. "That's three years of my blood," I called out, my voice carrying clearly in the stunned silence. "Three years of needles and transfus