The air was thick with the scent of late summer roses and the nervous excitement that had been churning in Amelia's stomach all day. Tonight was the night. She knew
it with the certainty only a woman who had spent five years with the same man
could possess. Liam had planned a discreet, lavish garden party—just close
friends and family, exactly as she had always wanted. He'd even insisted she
wear the dress she felt most beautiful in: the ruby red silk gown, cut to flow
around her like liquid flame.
Standing before the full-length mirror,
Amelia smoothed the skirt one last time. The dress wasn't just beautiful; it
was a promise. It was the dress Liam had first seen her in at the university
gala, the one he'd kissed her in under the moonlight. Tonight, it would be the
dress she wore when she became his fiancée.
Liam O'Connell. He wasn't a human, like
her. He was Beta of the rising Crestwood Pack, handsome, stable, and completely
devoted to her—or so she thought.
Liam. The name settled in her mind like a
warm, familiar weight. He was handsome, ambitious, and utterly conventional.
They had dated through college, supported each other's early careers, and had
meticulously mapped out their future: the engagement, the small wedding on the
coast, the house in the suburbs. It was a predictable, safe love, the kind her
parents, Mr. and Mrs. Reed, had always approved of.
A wave of giddiness made her grip the
dressing table. She was Amelia Reed, the quiet, sensible daughter, and she was
about to have her perfect moment.
She stepped out of her suite and descended
the grand staircase of the Reed family mansion. The soft music from the
garden—a string quartet playing an instrumental version of their song—drifted
up the marble well, pulling her forward.
At the bottom step, she paused, taking a
slow, fortifying breath. Here we go.
The garden was breathtaking. Fairy lights
woven through the ancient oak trees cast a magical, golden glow over the fifty
or so guests. The centerpiece was the illuminated stone fountain, its water
shimmering like falling silver. And there, standing by the fountain, framed by
the light, was Liam.
He looked impeccable in his charcoal suit,
his blond hair slightly ruffled—the picture of the successful, slightly
romantic man she adored. He was talking, his back to her, but he turned as she
approached, his expression serious, almost solemn.
Amelia's heart hammered against her ribs.
She was so focused on him, so attuned to the gravity of the moment, that she
barely registered the other figure standing beside him: Annabeth, her
step-sister.
Annabeth, ever the glamorous distraction,
was draped in a silvery-blue designer dress that hugged every curve. She always
dressed to steal the spotlight, but Amelia dismissed it. Tonight was her night.
Annabeth was probably just serving as a temporary audience before the grand
event.
Liam stepped away from the fountain, his
eyes locked on someone. Amelia instinctively moved forward, feeling the silk of
her ruby dress swishing elegantly.
His gaze dropped. He lowered his body
slowly, gracefully, until he was resting on one knee on the pristine white
gravel.
A collective gasp went around the crowd,
quickly followed by the excited murmur of anticipation. Amelia's vision
tunneled. The music faded. The air was sucked from her lungs. This was it. The
moment she had rehearsed in her mind a thousand times, the moment that
confirmed her place, her future, her entire life plan.
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the
lights. She reached out a trembling hand, ready to meet his.
Liam reached into his jacket pocket. The
movement was slow, deliberate. He pulled out a small, velvet box—black,
classic, expensive.
He opened the box. The light caught the
diamond. It was brilliant, blindingly large, a beacon of promise and wealth.
A sob of pure joy caught in Amelia's
throat. She was too overcome to speak. She didn't need to; the look in her eyes
spoke volumes.
But Liam's eyes, those familiar blue eyes
that had only moments ago been fixed on her path, didn't meet hers. His gaze
was fixed slightly to her left.
Amelia blinked, fighting the tears, trying
to bring the moment into sharp focus. Why was he looking past her?
Liam cleared his throat, his voice steady,
carrying clearly over the hushed crowd.
"Annabeth," he said, and the
name, spoken with such tender gravity, hit Amelia like a physical blow.
Amelia's reaching hand froze mid-air. Her
smile, wide and fragile, crumpled.
Annabeth?
Annabeth, who had been standing next to
him, gasped dramatically, covering her mouth with both hands, her silvery-blue
dress shimmering like a wave.
"My beautiful Annabeth," Liam
continued, his eyes now shining with an emotion Amelia realized she had never
truly seen directed at her. "From the moment I met you, I knew you were
the only woman who could stand by my side. You challenge me, you inspire me,
and you make every single day brighter. Will you do me the greatest honor and
marry me?"
The diamond, magnificent and cruel,
sparkled for Annabeth.
The sound that left Annabeth was a
piercing, triumphant shriek. "Yes! Oh, yes, my darling! A million times,
yes!"
Annabeth lunged forward, not with the
hesitant grace of a surprised fiancée, but with the practiced eagerness of a
victorious actress. Liam rose, sweeping her into a dizzying hug, his lips
immediately finding hers in a passionate, deeply intimate kiss. The velvet box,
dropped carelessly, rolled slightly on the gravel.
The silence that had held the garden
fractured. The guests erupted into applause. Confetti cannons hidden in the
bushes burst, raining gold and silver over the couple. The string quartet,
suddenly playing louder, launched into a joyous, fanfare-like piece.
Amelia stood in the blinding, cruel
spotlight, the ruby red dress suddenly feeling heavy and ridiculous. She was
standing barely three feet away, close enough to hear the soft, satisfied sigh
Annabeth let out against Liam's mouth.
Her mind refused to process the image. It
kept throwing up illogical questions: Was this a joke? Was it a bizarre
misunderstanding? Did he mean Annabeth to fetch her?
Then, she saw them.
Mr. and Mrs. Reed, standing off to the
side, beaming. They weren't looking at Amelia, the rejected daughter. They were
looking at Annabeth, their precious, soon-to-be-engaged daughter.
Mr. Reed caught her eye. There was no
apology, no sympathy, no confusion. There was only a hard, clinical look of
warning, telling her, without words, to keep her silence and not ruin this
golden opportunity.
Mrs. Reed, Amelia's stepmother, dabbed a
perfectly dry eye with a lace handkerchief, a look of utter, fulfilled triumph
on her face.
Mr. Reed, her own father, approached the
kissing couple, pulling them apart just long enough to hug them both tightly.
He slapped Liam on the back and then turned to the crowd with a wide, proud
smile.
"Everyone! Raise a glass! To my
beautiful girl, Annabeth, and her wonderful fiancé, Liam! May they have all the
happiness they deserve!"
The words were an anvil dropped on
Amelia's chest. My beautiful girl. The words were never reserved for Amelia.
The happiness was certainly never reserved for Amelia.
The realization was a freezing wave: This
wasn't a sudden change of heart. This was calculated. The ruby red dress, the
private party, the string quartet playing their song—it had all been a
carefully orchestrated piece of theater designed to lure Amelia out, make her
presentable, and then deliver the most exquisite, public humiliation.
Amelia felt the blood drain from her face,
leaving her skin cold and clammy beneath the silk. The world tilted. She could
smell the expensive perfume Annabeth wore, the scent of her own failed future.
Liam finally broke from Annabeth, his face
flushed with happiness. His eyes flickered, briefly, catching Amelia's
petrified stare. For a split second, a tiny, uncomfortable shadow crossed his
expression—a flicker of guilt, quickly masked by the bright, confident smile of
a man who had just secured his future.
He didn't speak to her. He didn't offer an
apology, or even a glance of pity. He just adjusted his suit and put his arm
securely around Annabeth's waist, pulling her possessively into his side as
they accepted congratulations.
The pain was so sharp it felt like her
very bones were fracturing. It wasn't just the loss of Liam; it was the total
annihilation of her dignity and the cruel confirmation of her standing in her
own family. She was the decoy. She was the one who was meant to look foolish,
to serve as the backdrop for Annabeth's triumph.
She couldn't stay. Every congratulatory
cheer, every clink of champagne flutes, every joyful note of the music was a
hammer driving a nail into her soul.
Without a word, without a sound, Amelia
turned on her heel.
The thick red silk of her dress, the dress
meant for a proposal, flowed behind her as she walked—no, fled—back toward the
silent, empty mansion. She didn't run. Running would draw attention. She
maintained a pace that was just slightly too fast for elegant strolling, her
head held high, though her eyes were now streaming silently.
She passed the line of caterers who paused
their work to stare at her. She passed the grand doors, now flung wide open,
and was back inside the cool, merciful darkness of the foyer.
Climbing the stairs was an exercise in
pure willpower. Each step was a betrayal, a nail hammered into the coffin of
her former life.
When she reached the top, she didn't turn
to her own modest room at the end of the hall. She walked straight to
Annabeth's suite. It was the largest, filled with designer furniture and
expensive, imported flowers.
Amelia needed confirmation. She needed to
know this wasn't an impulsive mistake, but a calculated, months-long plot.
She found the evidence exactly where she
knew it would be: carelessly discarded on Annabeth's vanity. It was a receipt
from the most exclusive jeweler in the city, dated three weeks ago, for the
precise diamond ring Liam had just presented. Tucked beneath it was a
handwritten note in Annabeth's perfect cursive: "Finally, the real deal. Tell
him he chose well."
A hot, stinging wave of tears finally
threatened to breach her composure, but Amelia aggressively blinked them away.
No. She would not cry for him. She would not cry for them. Tears were a luxury
she couldn't afford right now.
She crumpled the receipt and the note in
her hand. This wasn't just Liam being seduced by the flashier sister; this was
a pre-meditated attack, aided and abetted by her entire family. They had all
known. They had dressed her up in the ruby-red dress—her "desperate
color"—to watch her be publicly humiliated, to ensure Liam made the
"right" choice for the family's social climb.
She moved to the closet and ripped off the
expensive, blood-red dress, letting it fall in a heap on Annabeth's pristine,
white carpet. She changed into the first thing she found—a pair of worn
sweatpants and an old, oversized cashmere sweater. The comfort of the familiar
wool felt like a fragile barrier against the cold of the world outside.
As she looked at her reflection—drained,
eyes ringed with shock, a tremor running through her lips—a deep, terrifying
chill settled in her stomach, worse than the heartbreak.
If her own family could sacrifice her so
ruthlessly, if the man she planned to marry could discard her so cruelly for
social status, what was she worth? What was her purpose?
Just as she was about to retreat to her
room, the door to Annabeth's suite burst open. Mr. and Mrs. Reed stood there,
their faces flushed with the excitement of the party.
"Amelia! There you are!" Mrs. Reed hissed,
her voice low but laced with fury. "What are you doing up here? Get downstairs!
You need to offer them your congratulations!"
Mr. Reed, her father, stepped forward, his
eyes narrowed with disappointment. "Don't be childish, Amelia. You are a Reed.
You will go down there and you will smile. Liam made the best decision for his
Pack, and Annabeth deserves this. Now, put on that dress and—"
"No," Amelia whispered. Her voice was
thin, but the word was a solid, unmoving rock.
"What did you say?" Mr. Reed demanded,
stepping closer.
Amelia looked him straight in the eye, the
pain momentarily giving way to a white-hot spark of defiance. "I said, no. I
won't congratulate them. I won't smile and pretend that watching my two years
with Liam be thrown away for a better social alignment is a wonderful thing."
Mrs. Reed let out a sharp, incredulous
laugh. "Oh, please. Don't be dramatic. You were never going to be Luna of the
Crestwood Pack, dear. Annabeth is far more suited to the role. You were always
just… the placeholder. Now, fix your hair. We have guests downstairs, and we
don't need your self-pity ruining the mood."
Amelia's world tilted. Placeholder. The
word defined her entire existence in this house.
She stood there, watching her parents, the
people who were supposed to protect her, prioritize social standing and their
favorite daughter over her dignity. This wasn't a family. It was a syndicate,
and she was the expendable asset.
Suddenly, a loud, frantic knock sounded on
the main door downstairs, followed by a staff member's panicked shout. The
celebratory atmosphere instantly fractured.
Mr. Reed visibly stiffened, his
professional façade cracking. He pulled out his phone, his face draining of
color as he read a text message.
"Father? What is it?" Amelia asked, the
genuine fear in her voice replacing her defiance.
Mr. Reed didn't look at her. His gaze was
distant, calculating. "The arrangement," he muttered, stuffing the phone away.
"The debt… it's been called."
Mrs. Reed gripped his arm. "Not the Black
Moon Pack! Not the War God?"
"Yes," Mr. Reed whispered, the word heavy
with dread. "The Alpha has sent his representative. He's here, and he's
demanding immediate payment or… immediate delivery."
Amelia heard the phrase "immediate
delivery." Her mind, still reeling from the betrayal, couldn't quite grasp
the sudden shift from a broken engagement to absolute, financial terror.
But she would soon learn what that
delivery entailed, and the price she would have to pay for the Reed family's
monumental debt. She had been cast off by a Beta for a diamond, and now, fate
was about to deliver her to an Alpha whispered to be a crippled monster, a dark
god of war, in exchange for her family's freedom.
Her heartbreak was about to become her
hell.