The bar smelled like cheap whiskey and Cigarette smoke clung to the wood paneling like regret soaked into old bone.
Rosie's glass of wine sweated against her fingers, the condensation tracing down to pool in her palm—a red stain that looked too much like blood.
Her thumb rubbed the moisture absentmindedly, smearing it into her skin like an omen she didn't want to name.
"I'm twenty," she muttered, voice brittle as glass about to crack. "Still no first shift. No wolf. They whisper the Moon Goddess cursed me—like I'm some half-born joke." Her eyes stayed locked on the rim of the glass, as if the truth might be at the bottom if she stared hard enough.
Her throat burned with each sip, the wine tart and metallic on her tongue.
She wanted it to numb her, but instead, it sharpened her awareness, turned her inside out.
Every sound in the bar—glasses clinking, a chair scraping, laughter sharp as knives—cut too close, too loud. Like the whole world was leaning in, waiting to see her break.
Bella didn't flinch. She reached across, palm over Rosie's, soft but grounding, like a sandbag against a flood that threatened to sweep everything away.
"Noise," she said. "That's all it is. Haters talk because their lives are dust. Michael loves you. That's what matters. Fuck the rest."
Rosie's smile was thin, breaking like old parchment at the seams. She wanted to believe Bella, wanted to let that warmth patch the holes in her chest.
But her thumb toyed with the ring, silver catching the bar's flickering light, and the weight of it pressed heavy against her skin. A promise. A prison. Both.
"Thanks. Really. Tomorrow I marry him. Means I finally get to leave your couch." The words didn't sound like victory. They sounded like surrender.
Bella snorted, raising her glass high like a battle flag. "Cheers to you abandoning me, bitch."
The crystal ting cracked the silence between them, sharp and defiant. Both women laughed too loud, laughter clattering like armor they wore to keep the dark from crawling inside.
For a moment, Rosie let herself lean into that sound, let herself pretend the laughter could hold back the tide.
Then—shift.
The door creaked open, and a pack of men stormed the bar. They carried violence in their posture, shoulders squared like wolves in human skin.
One of them—gray hair, green eyes sharp as a knife, beard trimmed to threat-level handsome—drew the air into his chest like he owned oxygen. The entire room tilted, subtly, as if gravity bent toward him.
A girl at the corner booth waved, hopeful. He didn't even glance. His voice cut through the stale air, gravel and command: "My mates here?"
"They've checked every pack," another man murmured, deferent, gaze lowered.
"She must be Silver Shadow," the gray-haired man replied. His eyes swept the bar, not seeing but dissecting, hunting prey that didn't yet know it was being stalked.
"Find her. Fast. If I'm not married soon, my father won't make me king." His glass slammed against the table, amber liquor sloshing over his knuckles. "I don't need complications."
The words clung in the air, metallic and sour, a warning dressed as a threat.
Bella's phone buzzed, sharp against the wood. She cursed softly, fished it out, and her lips twisted.
"Shit. Work thing. And I need to grab James." She leaned over, kissed Rosie's cheek—quick, rushed, not nearly enough. "Love you. Don't drown in wine."
"Tell James I said hi," Rosie forced out, voice hollow in her own ears.
Then she was alone. Just Rosie, her ring, and a bar that suddenly felt cavernous, like the walls had pulled back and left her stranded.
The fluorescent buzz overhead grew louder, a wasp burrowing into her skull. The weight of the ring burned against her skin like a brand.
She slipped off her stool and moved toward the bathroom, her boots thudding against the sticky floor. The silence trailed her like a leash she hadn't chosen.
Her hand touched the knob—then scent.
Familiar. Intimate. Wrong.
"Oh, sweetheart," a voice drawled from inside, low and lazy. "You're still so damn pretty."
Michael.
Her stomach dropped, cold and heavy, as if the floor had given way beneath her. For a moment she just stood, ear pressed against the door, heart pounding in a rhythm that didn't feel like her own. Breath shallow. A part of her begged not to open it. Not to know.
But then—fuck it.
She shoved the door open.
The smell hit first—cheap perfume tangled with his cologne, sticky-sweet and cloying. Then the sight: Michael's mouth devouring another woman's lips, red lipstick smeared across his face like war paint. Her hands tangled in his hair, his hands everywhere, greedy, claiming.
They froze. Silence collapsed around them. His eyes locked with hers.
"Michael?" The word cracked,
splintered out of her like glass breaking.
"You're fucking another girl—tonight? The night before our wedding?"
The room seemed to shrink, air thinning, walls pressing in. Her own voice echoed in her ears like it belonged to someone else.
She remembered, absurdly, the first time he'd kissed her under the winter moon, his lips chapped, his promises soft as snow.
Michael stuttered, mouth opening, but no words formed. Just guilt, raw and ugly, staining his features. They looked like kids caught burning down a church—wide-eyed, guilty, waiting for punishment.
Rosie stepped closer, rage coiling tight, sharp as a blade. Her palm flew.
Plaappp. A slap across his face, the sound cracking through the room.
Plaaap, plaaappp. Another. And another. Her hand stung, but she welcomed the sting. Better her hand than her heart.
"I thought you were thoughtful," she spat, voice raw. "But I was wrong. You're an asshole. A cheater. A motherfucking liar!" The scream tore from her throat, jagged and hot, vibrating through her bones.
"Rosie, wait—let me explain!" Michael stumbled forward, hands grasping for hers, desperate.
His skin was clammy, his eyes wild. "I'm sorry. I was just—tempted. Please, forgive me. Tomorrow's our wedding. I'll be with you forever. I promise." His arms closed around her, trying to pull her into a hug, as if his embrace could erase what she'd just seen.
She shoved him away so hard he staggered against the sink. The ring burned against her finger, searing. She ripped it off, the silver digging into her skin, and hurled it at his face. It struck with a sharp ping, falling to the tiles with a finality that echoed louder than her screams.
"We're done, Michael." Her voice trembled, but not with weakness—with fury. "The wedding is cancelled. I am not marrying a fucking cheater like you."
She turned, eyes locking on the other woman slouched against the sink, lipstick smeared like a crime scene. Rosie's finger stabbed toward her, shaking. "And you? Keep him. He really suits you. You're both immature loser bitches."
The woman flinched, head ducking, shame—or maybe just annoyance—shadowing her features. Rosie didn't care enough to parse it.
She spun, slammed the door so hard the mirror rattled, and stalked down the hallway before the bile in her throat spilled out. Her chest burned, rage hissing through her teeth, every step ringing like a war drum.
She didn't cry. Didn't scream. She just walked back into the bar, spine stiff as rebar, the world tilting under her feet.
People glanced up—saw her wild eyes, her shaking hands, the storm clinging to her like a second skin—and quickly looked away.