Chapter 138

Iris

“Mommy? Mommy, wake up!”

I jolt awake to find Miles shaking my shoulder. The studio floor is hard beneath me, and my neck aches from the awkward angle I must have slept in. Scattered around me are paint tubes, brushes soaking in water, and a half-empty coffee mug with a film on top that makes me almost gag.

“What time is it?” I groan, pushing myself up.

“It’s morning time,” Miles informs me. “I’m hungry.”

Of course he is. I rub my eyes, trying to orient myself. The last thing I remember is adding the final touches to the sky in my painting, determined to get the exact shade of blue I wanted.

My gaze drifts to the massive canvas propped against the far wall, and despite my exhaustion, I feel a rush of excitement course through me. It’s done. Finally, after weeks of work, my final piece is complete.

The painting shows us on horseback, exactly as we were that day at the ranch. Arthur sits tall on Thunder, one arm around Miles, who points excitedly toward a ridge in the distance.

I’m on Buttercup, slightly behind them, my hair caught in the wind. And there, in the foreground, is the pine branch obstructing the view of what exactly Miles is pointing at.

The she-wolf.

I meant for the wolf to be our little secret, something only Arthur and I would recognize. But looking at it now in the morning light, I wonder if others might sense her presence too, might feel the quiet power emanating from that hidden corner of the canvas.

“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Miles repeats, tugging at my paint-splattered shirt.

“Right, sorry.” I scramble to my feet, my joints protesting the movement after hours on the hard floor. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

As Miles eats his breakfast, I mentally organize my day. The exhibition is in two days, which means I still have time to finalize my presentation. I’ve decided to focus on the lack of arts funding for schools in Ordan—an issue that’s close to my heart and perfectly aligned with the conversation I had with my mother at the estate.

But I need more than just statistics and my own experience. I need firsthand accounts from the people dealing with these cuts every day.

After getting Miles ready for the day, I make some calls. By noon, I’ve arranged interviews with three art teachers from different schools across the city—one from an affluent district, one from a middle-class area, and one from a school in a neighborhood similar to where I grew up.

I drop Miles off with Alice, who’s more than happy to watch him for a few hours. “So the mysterious painting is finally done?” she asks as Miles runs off to play with her cat.

“Yep,” I confirm with a nod. “I’ll give you a sneak peek before the exhibition if you want.”

“Obviously I want,” she says with mock offense. “I’m your best friend. I deserve exclusive previews.”

I laugh and promise to text her later, then head off to my first interview.

My first interview is at Westside Elementary, one of the better-funded schools in Ordan—and where I’ve actually signed Miles up to start kindergarten in a month. Even so, the art room shows signs of budget constraints—dried-up markers, brushes with splayed bristles, paper that’s too thin for proper watercolors.

“It gets worse every year,” the teacher tells me as we sit at the tiny desks that are meant for the children. “Five years ago, I had a budget of five thousand dollars per semester. Last year, it was down to fifteen hundred. This year, they gave me eight hundred and told me to be grateful.”

“Where is the money going?” I ask.

She shrugs. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Administration says enrollment is down, costs are up. But when I look at the football team getting new uniforms every season…” She trails off, clearly not wanting to say something she might regret.

My next interview at Midtown Junior High tells a similar story. The teacher, a dedicated man in his fifties, points to shelves of musical instruments gathering dust.

“We had to cut the band program completely,” he explains. “Now I teach visual arts in the morning and drama in the afternoon, trying to cover everything with less than half the resources we had before. The kids are the ones who suffer.”

When I ask where the funding went, just like the first interview, he seems reluctant to speculate. “All I know is that it wasn’t redirected to any other department. Science still uses textbooks from the nineties. The gym ceiling leaks. It’s not like anyone in this building is seeing that money.”

By the time I reach my final interview at Eastside Elementary—a school serving one of Ordan’s poorest neighborhoods—I have a gnawing suspicion in my gut. The teacher is young, but I can already tell her passion is fading.

“It’s not just arts funding,” she says quietly, glancing around as if worried about being overheard even though we’re alone in her classroom. “It’s everything. Last year, we were approved for a major renovation—new windows, updated wiring, a proper ventilation system. The money was allocated, then suddenly ‘redirected.’ No explanation, no timeline for when we might see those improvements.”

She shows me a storage closet where black mold grows freely on the ceiling. “I bring my own supplies most days,” she admits. “I can’t stand the thought of these kids not having at least one bright spot in their day, so I use part of my paycheck to buy new stuff.”

By the time I leave Eastside, my blood is boiling. Money allocated for schools—especially those serving more human students on average—is disappearing, and no one seems to be asking where it’s going.

I call Arthur as soon as I get back to my car.

“Hey,” he answers on the first ring. “How’s the painting coming along?”

“It’s done,” I say, too distracted to elaborate. “But listen, I’ve been interviewing art teachers today for my presentation, and I think there’s something seriously wrong with school funding in Ordan.”

I explain what I’ve discovered. Arthur listens quietly the entire time. “The money isn’t being redirected to other departments,” I finish. “It’s just… gone. Someone’s pocketing it, Arthur. I’m sure of it.”

There’s a pause, and then: “Do you have any documentation? Specific budget numbers, names of officials involved?”

“Not yet,” I admit, biting my lower lip. “Just what these teachers have told me. But if you looked into it—”

“I will,” he promises, and I can tell he means it. “This is exactly the kind of thing I need to know about. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Iris.”

The sincerity in his voice makes me pause. It’s easy to forget sometimes that Arthur isn’t just my mate and Miles’ father—he’s the leader of our country, responsible for protecting all of its citizens, human and werewolf alike.

“I’ll keep digging on my end,” I offer. “Maybe there’s something in the public records that could help.”

“Okay, but be careful. If someone is embezzling government funds, they won’t appreciate being exposed.”

“I will be,” I promise. “Actually, can we meet for dinner tonight? I want to discuss this more, and… there’s something else I want to talk about too.”

“Of course. Pick you and Miles up at seven?”

“Perfect.”

When Arthur picks us up later, I expect to go to a restaurant for dinner. But I’m pleasantly surprised when we get in the car and the smell of takeout food hits me.

“I thought you might be tired after your interviews,” Arthur explains when I raise an eyebrow at the takeout bags. “Plus, it’s nice out. We can have a picnic in the park.”

We arrive at the park not long after, just the one that’s right next to Arthur’s apartment. Miles runs off to play first before dinner, and Arthur and I lay out a blanket on the grass beneath the shade of a large tree and dig in while we watch Miles hang upside down from the monkey bars.

“So, you mentioned there was something else you wanted to discuss?” Arthur asks.

I take a deep breath. “Yeah. So, my residency ends in three days.”

“I know,” he says, twirling his noodles around his fork.

“And I’ve been thinking… it doesn’t make sense for Miles and me to keep living separately from you. Not anymore.”

Arthur’s eyes widen slightly. “Are you saying…?”

“I’m saying I’m ready to move back in with you,” I say firmly. “If the offer still stands.”

“If it still—Iris, of course it stands!” He stands so quickly he nearly knocks over our food. Before I can react, he’s pulling my container from my hands, hauling me to my feet and into his arms. “Yes. Absolutely yes.”

Before I can respond, he lifts me off my feet in a bear hug, spinning me around until I’m laughing and dizzy.

“Put me down, you lunatic!”

He obliges, but keeps his arms around me, beaming like I’ve just given him the moon. “When? How soon can you move in?”

“I was thinking a week after the exhibition,” I reply. “That gives me a few days to pack up the apartment and get everything situated.”

Arthur’s face is split into a wide grin. As we settle back down, discussing the logistics—and, of course, filling in Miles, who quite literally leaps into the air with a wild “Woohoo!”—I can’t help but grin, too.

This feels… right. I’m ready. Ready to move back in with my mate after five-plus years apart.

Ready for a fresh start.

Later, laying in my bed, I’m too excited to sleep—so, as one does, I’m scrolling on my phone. Halfway down the page, my eyes catch an article with mine and Arthur’s name on it.

I should probably know better by now, but I click the link anyway, and my jaw drops when it loads.

There, on the homepage of Ordan’s most popular gossip site, is a photo of Arthur and me from earlier. He’s lifting me off the ground, spinning me around, both of us laughing, clearly caught in a moment of pure joy.

The headline reads: “WEDDING BELLS? Alpha President and Luna Sparking Engagement Rumors.”

I can’t help but blush.

An engagement—now that is a dream I let go of many years ago.

But lately, my dreams seem to be coming true one after the other, don’t they?