Free Web NovelChapter 118: Chapter 118 The Hunt
Sylvia’POV
The soft click of the door echoed in my office like a gunshot.
For a moment, I let myself sit there—spine curved, breath held—before I pulled my composure back into place like a second skin.
Caesar still lingered in my mind, but I refused to give him more space than he deserved.
I inhaled slowly. Exhaled with precision.
If I couldn’t fix my heart, I’d sharpen my focus.
My screen lit up with the name I was beginning to know all too well.
John Sinclair.
The elusive director of LC Corporation was proving harder to pin down than a rogue wolf prowling the borderlands—but that only made the hunt more interesting.
Three days of strategic messaging, and all I’d gotten were polite deflections and radio silence.
Still, I wasn’t frustrated. I was intrigued.
He thought he was dodging me.
He didn’t realize I thrived on difficult prey.
Our exchange had started diplomatically enough:
"Mr. Sinclair, I’ve long admired your work in Europe. Your reputation precedes you."
His response: "Nothing special. Just business as usual."
Dismissive. Controlled. Predictable.
I upped the ante:
"We’re hosting a private gathering at Howling Peaks. It would be an honor to have your presence."
He took his time replying, then sent the corporate equivalent of a shrug: fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm
"Let me check my schedule. If I’m available, I’ll consider it."
And just like that, he vanished.
No follow-up. No commitment. Nothing.
I leaned back in my chair, hair slipping loose around my face, my wolf stirring beneath the surface—agitated, alert.
Something didn’t add up. He’d been responsive—curious, even—until the invitation. Then he’d gone cold.
I didn’t believe in coincidences.
"Lily," I called to my assistant, "pull everything we’ve got on John Sinclair. I want contracts, partnerships, failed deals—the works."
My voice was calm. My intent was not.
Know your prey before the hunt. My mother’s advice, once meant for survival, now served me in business.
Within the hour, Lily returned with a dossier thicker than most Alpha treaties.
And there it was: the truth.
John wasn’t avoiding me. He simply didn’t see Frostline as worth his time.
Not yet.
To him, we were a regional player—ambitious, but irrelevant on the international stage. freewebnovёl.ƈom
I felt my pride bristle, both as a CEO and as the heir to the Frostfang Pack.
But clarity was power.
I compiled a new file—lean, sharp, undeniable.
Growth charts. M&A data. Market entry strategies.
It didn’t just show what we were.
It showed what we were about to become.
I attached the file with a single message:
"All I ask is one opportunity. I promise you won’t be disappointed."
When the "file received" notification pinged on my screen, my lips curled into a smile.
My wolf stilled, scenting victory.
Half an hour later, his reply arrived:
"Ms. Frost, my assistant informs me I am available on the proposed date. Count on my attendance."
I waited exactly fifteen minutes before replying.
Business, like hunting, was a matter of timing.
"Excellent," I typed back. "I’ll send the details shortly."
He responded instantly—with a thumbs-up emoji.
The first phase of my hunt was over.
Now the real game could begin.
With John’s commitment secured, I expanded my vision for the gala.
This wouldn’t be just another business meeting—it would be a showcase of Howling Peaks’ economic strength, with Frostline positioned at its center.
I sent invitations to all major business owners in our territory, particularly those who’d previously partnered with us.
I even handwrote a few of them—old-school, sure, but I knew certain alphas appreciated that kind of respect.
When Alpha Astra—my mother—questioned my sudden interest in event planning, I explained my strategy clearly.
"Alpha Astra, I realize the gala demands a lot of resources," I said evenly, meeting her gaze without flinching. "But the strategic visibility it gives Frostline? That’s an investment with long-term returns."
I paused briefly. "More importantly, this entire event is crafted to leave a lasting impression on John Sinclair—and position us to break into the European market with confidence."
I’d deliberately scheduled John’s visit to coincide with the event, giving him a chance to witness Howling Peaks’ business community firsthand.
If he left with the image of Frostline as a polished, powerhouse operation, we’d be one step closer to international expansion.
The following day, I personally inspected the venue, leaving nothing to chance.
I walked the perimeter twice, double-checked the power grid for the lighting team, and stood under every chandelier to make sure none of them flickered.
The floral arrangements? Not just pretty—they had to be local, symbolic, and allergy-safe.
With so little time remaining before the gala, I threw myself completely into preparations.
I met with the catering team at 5 a.m. to finalize the menu—no garlic, no shellfish, and nothing that might offend a werebear’s sense of smell.
Then I spent the rest of the morning reviewing security protocols, mapping out emergency exits, and coordinating staff uniforms down to the cufflink.
The weeks of setbacks and distractions had put us behind schedule, and I was determined to make up for lost time.
There was no room for error—not when our future hinged on one flawless night.
For three nights straight, I didn’t even return to my apartment, instead catching brief moments of sleep on the couch in my office.
Finally, the evening of the gala arrived.
I stood near the doors in a deep navy dress that hugged just right—tailored, sleek, and sharp enough to make a statement without trying too hard.
It was the kind of look that said, "I’m in charge," but still knew how to smile for the cameras.
I’d spent years learning how to walk that line—alpha energy in heels.
Tonight wasn’t about looking pretty. It was about power. And I meant to wear it well.
My fingers played with the edge of my clutch as I watched the town’s elite trickle in—pack leaders, business heads, old-money wolves with egos bigger than their land holdings.
They all nodded politely as they passed, but I could feel their eyes measuring, calculating.
Then John Sinclair walked in.
The shift in the room was instant. Conversations stuttered. Heads turned. Even the bartender paused mid-pour. LC Corporation’s golden boy had arrived, and every wolf in the room knew it.
Every influential business owner in Howling Peaks recognized the director of LC Corporation, a man whose connections spanned continents.
As we walked into the ballroom together, I felt the weight of dozens of evaluating stares.
The hunt had been successful. Now it was time for the feast.
