Twelve Nights Before Christmas; The Alpha Revenge Bride

12 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS 

The limousine rolls to a stop at the base of the Vasiliev estate. Snow drifts across the drive. The mansion ahead looks more like a palace than a home, wreaths on the iron gates, an ice sculpture of a wolf at the entrance, the faint sound of Christmas carolers somewhere beyond the walls.

Eve's mother adjusts her fur shawl and says, "Remember, dear, smile when someone's looking, and say nothing when they're not."

Eve smooths her gold dress. "That's your advice for everything."

"It works," her father mutters from beside her, checking his watch. "Don Vasiliev runs on precision. Late arrivals are remembered."

They step out together. Their breath clouds the air. The doorman in a navy coat nods them through, and inside, warmth and music swallow the cold.

The ballroom glitters from floor to ceiling, garlands over marble columns, candles in crystal holders, a Christmas tree taller than the balcony itself. 

Red ornaments catch the light, scattering color across sequined gowns and polished shoes. Laughter and champagne fill the room. Somewhere, a quartet plays "Silent Night" in slow, elegant rhythm.

Eve keeps close to her parents, trying not to stare at the rows of armed men in suits along the walls. The guests dance, exchange cheek kisses, talk in Italian and Russian. It smells of pine, perfume, and expensive cigars.

Her mother whispers as they move through the crowd, "The man by the fireplace, that's a senator. Don't mention politics. And if you see Lyra D'Amato, avoid her altogether."

"I don't even know who that is," Eve whispers back.

"Exactly."

Her father's tone cuts quietly through their chatter. "Heads up. The Alpha's here."

Eve frowns. "The what?"

Before he can answer, the string quartet shifts tempo. The crowd parts near the grand staircase, and a tall man descends with the quiet attention of a king who doesn't need an announcement. Black tuxedo, clean lines, posture straight enough to look military. His gray eyes move once across the room, and people fall silent without knowing why.

Lucian Vasiliev.

Eve knows his name before anyone says it. Her parents straighten instinctively. He's younger than she expected, maybe thirty, maybe less but he carries himself like someone who's already lost things. His gray eyes scan the room until they find her.

Eve looks away, suddenly aware of how tightly she's holding her clutch. "He's staring," she murmurs.

"Everyone stares at the Alpha Don," her father says under his breath. "Don't stare back."

But she does. Not because she wants to but because she can't seem to stop. He's speaking to another guest now, but his attention keeps flicking toward her between words, small, deliberate glances that make her throat dry.

Her mother squeezes her elbow. "He'll come over if you look too long."

"I'm not-" Eve begins, but a voice interrupts.

"Signor Moretti."

Lucian stands in front of them. Close enough now that she can see the faint line of a scar under his jaw, and that his