Chapter 7
Kara
The ballroom is too bright.
Crystal—the party planner Luna Victoria hired—stands in the center like a queen surveying her domain. She's maybe thirty-five, with dyed-red hair teased into stiff waves, a body-con leopard-print dress that clings to every curve, and heels so high they could be weapons.
She turns when I enter, and her red-painted lips curl into a sneer.
"Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up." Her voice drips with fake sweetness. "The little debt slave. Running late, are we?"
Fuck.
My jaw tightens. Heat floods my cheeks. I was gone for four hours. Four fucking hours. That's it.
"I'm sorry," I mutter, keeping my eyes down. The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "I had... schoolwork."
"Schoolwork." She laughs—a sharp, brittle sound that makes my skin crawl. "How precious. Tell me, does Luna Victoria know you've been playing dress-up instead of doing your job?"
Jesus Christ, can this bitch smell the new clothes on me?
My face burns. I'm still wearing the outfit Sophia and Emma picked out—the black mini skirt, white blouse, tights, and heeled boots. I tried to throw my old parka over it before coming inside, but Crystal's eyes have already cataloged every detail.
She's looking at me like I'm a bug she wants to squash.
"Cute outfit," she says, circling me like a predator. Her perfume—something sharp and chemical—makes my stomach turn. "Who are you trying to impress? Because let me tell you, honey—boys like the Sterling triplets don't look twice at girls like you." She taps one manicured nail against her chin. "You're pretty enough, I suppose. Nice figure. But your breeding?" She wrinkles her nose like she's smelling garbage. "Trash. And no amount of lipstick will change that."
Bitch.
The word screams through my head, hot and vicious. I want to say it out loud. Want to watch her face crumple.
But I don't.
Because that's what they want. Luna Victoria, Crystal, all of them—they want me to snap. To give them an excuse to punish me.
One more day, I remind myself, digging my nails into my palms so hard it hurts. Just one more fucking day.
I clench my fists inside my pockets. "What do you need me to do?"
Crystal smiles, victorious. "Oh, so many things. Wrap fifty party favors—and I want the ribbons perfect, understand? Not a single crooked bow. Then hang the balloon arch over the entrance. And arrange the ice sculptures." She waves toward three massive blocks of carved ice shaped like wolves. "Those represent our future Alphas. Try not to melt them with your peasant hands."
Peasant hands. Jesus fucking Christ.
I want to laugh. Or scream. Or both.
Instead, I nod and get to work.
The hours blur together.
I kneel on the cold marble floor near the ice sculptures, wrapping tiny silver boxes filled with luxury candles and jewelry. My fingers ache from tying ribbons. My knees throb against the hard floor.
The three massive carved wolves—representing the future Alphas—loom beside me like frozen sentinels, their ice-sculpted forms creating a barrier between me and the rest of the ballroom.
At least they're blocking me from view.
Crystal circles nearby like a vulture, periodically snapping, "That bow is crooked!" or "Do it again!"
Each command feels like a slap.
I hate her. I hate her so much.
The rage sits in my chest like a living thing, hot and suffocating. But I can't let it out. Can't let it show.
So I focus on the work. Tie the ribbons. Smooth the paper. Count the boxes.
One. Two. Three.
At one point, I pull out my biology notebook and try to finish Dr. Harrison's extra credit problems between boxes. The diagrams calm me. Cell structures don't lie. DNA sequences don't judge. Mitochondria don't call you trash.
Prophase, metaphase, anaphase, telophase.
The familiar patterns soothe the raw edges of my anger.
One more day, I remind myself again. Tomorrow you shift. Tomorrow you're free. Tomorrow you tell them all to go fuck themselves.
The thought makes me smile—just a little.
Around nine o'clock, I hear the front door slam open.
Voices. Laughter.
Shit.
My stomach drops.
The triplets are back.
I freeze behind the ice sculptures, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
"—and then he tackled the guy! It was insane!" A female voice, high-pitched and grating. Like nails on a chalkboard.
"Blake's always been aggressive," another woman says, her tone clipped and haughty. "It's one of his more... primal qualities."
Oh God. They brought their girlfriends.
I peek around the edge of the ice sculpture, careful to stay hidden behind the carved wolf forms.
Three unfamiliar women have entered the ballroom, each one stunning in that effortless, expensive way that makes my chest ache with something ugly. Envy? Hatred? Both?
Lillian—blonde, skeletal-thin, dressed in a white cashmere sweater and designer jeans. She's the kind of girl who looks like she's never eaten carbs in her life. Probably throws up every meal in secret.
Jade—red-haired, muscular, wearing athletic leggings and a sports bra under an open bomber jacket. She looks like she could bench-press me without breaking a sweat.
Nina—black-haired, graceful, moving like a ballerina. Everything about her screams refinement. The kind of girl who was born knowing which fork to use at fancy dinners.
These are their type, I think bitterly. Gorgeous. Perfect. Not trash.
And behind them?
Asher. Blake. Cole.
My breath catches.
Fuck.
They stride into the room with that casual confidence that comes from never doubting your place in the world. Their eyes sweep over the decorations—the balloon arch, the banners, the glittering lights—but none of them look toward the ice sculptures.
Toward me.
Thank God. They don't know I'm here.
Asher's posture is perfectly controlled, his dark suit immaculate. Blake's hands are shoved in his pockets, his jaw tight, shoulders tense. Cole is smiling at Nina, but there's something off about it. Something forced.
Lillian drapes herself over Asher's arm like a goddamn scarf. "So, darling, when do we get to see the setup for tomorrow? I have so many ideas for improvements."
Of course you do, you vapid bitch.
Jade flexes her bicep, showing off. "My grandmother was Luna of the Northridge Pack. I know what makes a proper Alpha celebration."
Nina's laugh is like tinkling glass. Fake. Performative. "Breeding and brute strength mean nothing without elegance."
Oh my God, they're competing. They're literally competing for Luna status.
The three women glare at each other, all sharp smiles and thinly veiled hostility.
And the triplets?
They look... uncomfortable. Trapped.
Asher's expression is carefully neutral, but his shoulders are tight. Blake keeps shifting his weight, restless. Cole's smile doesn't reach his eyes.
Good. I hope this is awkward as hell for them.
"Oh, you're back!" Crystal's voice cuts through the tension like a knife. She struts over, hips swaying. "Welcome home, gentlemen! I was just finishing up the decorations with your little... assistant." She practically spits the word, like it tastes bad.
Bitch. Fucking bitch.
Blake's head snaps toward her. "Assistant?"
