Alpha, I Don't Need Your Love

The crystal chandelier above cast a warm glow over the Moonstone Pack's grand ballroom, its light catching the delicate beading on my custom-designed white gown. I stood at the center of the stage, my heart racing with anticipation as hundreds of guests filled the opulent space—Alphas and Lunas from neighboring packs, their eyes fixed on me with a mixture of curiosity and judgment.

Seven years. Seven years of love, devotion, and dreams had led to this moment.

I smoothed my hands over the silk of my dress, the fabric I had personally selected and sewn with trembling fingers just weeks ago. Every stitch had been infused with hope, every pearl carefully placed with the vision of becoming Vincent's Luna. Around me, the white roses I had arranged this morning filled the air with their intoxicating fragrance—imported from Europe at Vincent's insistence, or so I had believed.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the MC's voice boomed through the sound system, his enthusiasm infectious as he gestured toward the elaborate floral arrangements. "Before we begin this sacred marking ceremony, let us take a moment to appreciate the incredible thoughtfulness of our future Alpha, Vincent Howard."

My cheeks warmed with pride as murmurs of appreciation rippled through the crowd. The elders of Moonstone Pack, who had never quite accepted my humble origins, nodded with what looked like grudging respect. Elder Malcolm, his silver hair gleaming under the lights, even managed a tight smile in my direction.

"These exquisite white roses," the MC continued, his voice rising with theatrical flair, "were personally selected and flown in from the finest gardens of Provence. Alpha Vincent spared no expense to ensure this day would be perfect for his beloved mate."

I bit my lip to keep from beaming too widely. Vincent had always been thoughtful, but this gesture felt like a public declaration that I was worthy of such luxury, worthy of being his Luna despite what the pack elders whispered behind closed doors.

The massive screen behind me began to descend with a mechanical hum, and I felt my pulse quicken. Vincent had mentioned a surprise video—a retrospective of our seven years together, from our first meeting as teenagers to this moment. I could already picture the images: our first dance at the summer solstice celebration, the night he first told me he loved me under the full moon, the countless moments that had woven our lives together.

"And now," the MC announced, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the ballroom, "let us journey through the beautiful love story of Vincent Howard and Constance Stewart."

The lights dimmed, and I turned toward the screen with a smile that felt like it might split my face in half. This was it—the moment that would cement my place not just as Vincent's mate, but as the future Luna of Moonstone Pack.

But the image that flickered to life made my blood turn to ice.

It wasn't our first dance or our