One Night With The Rival Alpha

The crystal chandeliers overhead were not just lights; they were accusations. Thousands of tiny prisms fractured the artificial brilliance of the Vance estate ballroom, casting sharp, blinding daggers into the corners where shadows tried to hide. Debra Vance stood in one of those shadows, behind a towering pyramid of champagne flutes that threatened to shatter with the slightest vibration.

Her fingers were white at the knuckles. In her grip, hidden within the folds of a dress she had worn three times before, was a small, crinkled photograph. The edges were soft from years of touching. Her mother's face, frozen in a laugh that Debra could no longer hear, looked back at her.

The air in the room was thick, almost gelatinous, composed of expensive perfume, hairspray, and the heavy, cloying scent of hypocrisy.

"Marley looks absolutely radiant," a woman in emerald silk whispered near the shrimp cocktail station.

"A perfect Luna," her companion agreed, swirling a martini. "Edward is lucky. It's good to see the pack have a strong female lead again. Finally."

Finally.

The word was a physical blow to Debra's stomach. Bile rose in her throat, tasting of acid and skipped meals. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, willing the nausea to subside. It had been four years since the funeral. Four years since the pack had a "female lead." But to hear them erase her mother so casually, as if she were a placeholder for this moment, made Debra's knees weak.

She looked toward the grand staircase.

Alpha Edward Vance stood at the top. He was a man who used to carry Debra on his shoulders, who used to smell like pine and rain. Now, he stood rigid, his eyes glassy and unfocused, pupils dilated to unnatural black disks. He swayed slightly, a marionette waiting for a tug on the strings. He offered his arm to the woman beside him, his smile mechanical, a rictus of muscle memory devoid of the warmth Debra remembered. He smelled of chemical suppressants and imported cologne.

Marley took his arm.

She was a vision of calculated perfection. The custom Vera Wang gown hugged her curves like a second skin, the silk shimmering with every breath. She moved not like a bride, but like a conqueror claiming new territory. She glided down the stairs, her chin tilted up, drinking in the adoration of the room.

Debra couldn't breathe. The walls, draped in cream and gold, felt like they were closing in. She needed air. She needed to not be here when they exchanged vows. She turned sharply, aiming for the side service door that led to the gardens.

Two chests blocked her path.

They were broad, encased in black security uniforms that strained against muscle. Not her father's men. These were new. Marley's private guard.

"Excuse me," Debra said, her voice sounding brittle to her own ears. "I need to step out."

They didn't move. They didn't even blink.

"Going somewhere, dear?"

The voice was like warm honey laced with arsenic.