"Julian!" One of the women—a blonde with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a smile sharp enough to match—spreads her arms in mock welcome. "You actually came! And alone, too. Aww." She pouts dramatically, her bottom lip pushed out in exaggerated sympathy. "No Omega willing to suck up to you and your rich tactics? That must be solonely."
I force my expression into pleasant neutrality—a mask I've perfected over years of dealing with exactly this kind of person. "You know me. Too cocky to possibly keep an average Omega around. They simply can't handle the perfection. It's a burden, really."
They laugh—all of them, in perfect unison, like a practiced choir of insincerity. The sound grates against my already frayed nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
"We heard the most interesting rumor," one of the men says, stepping closer with the predatory eagerness of someone who smells blood in the water. Dark hair, forgettable face, the kind of suit that's expensive without being memorable—like the man himself. "Something about you almost losing your shot at the D&G shoot? The Valentine's campaign you've been working toward for, what, two years now?"
"Two years of effort," another woman chimes in, her voice dripping with false sympathy sweet enough to rot teeth. "Almost thrown away because your pack is... what do they call you?" She taps her chin theatrically. "Late Alphas?" She giggles—a high, brittle sound. "Such a shame. Such atragedy."
"So what strings did you pull?" The second man leans in, eyes bright with the hunger for gossip. "To not get that rug pulled out from under your feet? Must have cost you quite a bit. A few favors called in? Some creative negotiation?"
"Did you use money to buy your way out of trouble?" The blonde tilts her head, examining me like I'm a specimen underglass. "That would be so veryJulianof you. Throwing cash at problems until they go away."
They giggle. The men smirk. All of them watching me with hungry eyes, waiting for blood, waiting for weakness, waiting for anything they can use against me the moment I walk away.
I take a slow sip of champagne, letting the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. Then I smile—not a real smile, never a real smile for people like this, but a perfect replica that's fooled better observers than them.
"Actually," I say, savoring the way their expressions flicker with surprise, "my pack has someone now. An Omega. Quite a lovely one, in fact."
The blonde's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? If that's so, why didn't she attend? Is she claustrophobic? Afraid of crowds?"
"More like invisible," one of the other women snickers. "That would explain why we can't see her."
"I thought you'd just switched to the other side," the dark-haired man drawls, making a crude gesture. "My dear 'friend.'"
And this is why I hate these people. This is why I should have stayed home. This is why coming here alone was the worst decision I've made in weeks.
"As entertaining as this is," I say, setting down my champagne flute with deliberate care, "I wasn't planning to stay long. A quick drink or two, some caviar, and I'm done for the night. You'll have to find someone else to interrogate."
I turn to leave, already calculating the fastest route to the exit?—
And then I smell it.
One of the men behind me whistles, low and appreciative. "Holy shit. Did you smell that? Someone's Omega has a scent that's fuckingdivine."
I freeze. Because I know that scent. I'd recognize it anywhere—in a crowded room, in a storm, in complete darkness.Cinnamon sugar and roasted coffee and dark vanilla and soft amber. The scent that's invaded my bedroom and my sheets and my dreams. The scent that makes my pulse quicken and my jaw clench and my entire carefully controlled facade threaten to crack.
I turn my head toward the grand staircase.
And time stops.
She's standing at the top of the stairs, framed by the arched marble entrance like she belongs in a Renaissance painting. The chandeliers cast her in golden light, making her glow like something not quite human, not quite mortal. Something divine.
Rosemarie.
But not the Rosemarie I've grown accustomed to seeing—the one in coffee-stained aprons and comfortable sweaters, the one who falls asleep on couches and steals my shirts to sleep in. This is something else entirely. This is a queen descending into a court of pretenders.
The gown is extravagant in a way that makes every other dress in the room look cheap by comparison. Deep purple silk cascades from her shoulders, the color so rich it seems to absorb the light around it rather than reflect it. Black lace overlay creates intricate patterns across the bodice—flowers and thorns and delicate spider webs that catch the candlelight and shimmer with every breath she takes. The skirt is massive, structured with hidden petticoats that make it billow around her like a dark cloud, the fabric pooling on the stairs behind her in a train that must be at least three feet long.
The neckline is a sweetheart cut that shows just enough collarbone to be tantalizing without being vulgar. Black silk ribbons are woven through the bodice, crisscrossing in an elaborate pattern that draws the eye upward to her face. Her shoulders are bare except for delicate off-the-shoulder sleevesmade of the same black lace, just enough fabric to frame her arms without covering them.
And her hair—god, herhair. It falls in cascading curls down her back, longer than I've ever seen it—extensions, probably, but done so masterfully I can't tell where her real hair ends and the additions begin. Black as midnight and gleaming under the chandeliers like liquid shadow, like ink poured through silk. Someone has woven tiny crystals into the strands, scattered like stars through a night sky, so that every movement sends sparks of light dancing around her face. A few carefully arranged curls frame her features, drawing attention to the elegant line of her jaw, the graceful curve of her neck.
Her makeup is dark and dramatic—a masterpiece of shadows and highlights that transforms her face into something almost otherworldly. Smoky eyes in shades of charcoal and deep plum that make her gaze seem to burn with inner fire. Cheekbones highlighted to sharp perfection, catching the light like blades. And her lips—those lips that I've thought about far more than I should admit—painted a deep, devastating shade of purple-black that matches her gown perfectly. The color is dark enough to be almost sinister, rich enough to demand attention.
She looks like a villain from a fairy tale. Like the dark queen who brings kingdoms to their knees. Like someone who could burn this entire ballroom to the ground with nothing but a glance and walk away without looking back at the ashes.
She lookspowerful. She looks like she belongs here more than any of these trust-fund socialites ever could.
