I'd found the invitation on the kitchen counter, half-hidden under a stack of mail. Two tickets to the Versailles Valentine's Day Ball, embossed in gold, with my name written on the envelope in Julian's careful, elegant script. He'd been planning to ask me. He'd been ready to invite me to this glittering nightmare of a social event.
And then he'd heard about my interview, and he'd walked away.
He'd put my needs before his own. My dreams before his reputation. My opportunity before his desire to not arrive alone at an event where everyone was apparently waiting to tear him apart.
No Alpha has ever done that for me. Not once. Not ever. Every Alpha I've known has expected me to sacrifice, to compromise, to make myself smaller so they could shine brighter. My family treated me like a commodity. My ex-pack treated me like property. The arranged match they tried to force on me would have treated me like a decoration—something pretty to display and control.
But Julian heard me talking about my dreams and decided, without being asked, that those dreams were more important than his needs. That my happiness mattered more than his comfort.
I don't have words for what that means to me. I'm not sure words exist that are big enough.
So I'd done something potentially stupid. I'd called the woman coordinating the business collaboration and asked—politely, professionally, with every ounce of charm I could muster—if we could reschedule.
It was a risk. A massive, terrifying risk. She could have said no. She could have decided I wasn't serious about the opportunity, that I was flaky and unreliable, that there were dozens of other Omegas who would kill for this chance andwouldn't ask for schedule changes. I could have lost everything—the shop, the collaboration, the dream I've been nurturing since before I knew what dreams even meant.
But she hadn't said no. She'd laughed—actually laughed, warm and understanding like she'd been in exactly this position before—and said she completely understood. The traffic due to "that ridiculous luxury event" was terrible anyway, she'd commiserated. A different day, a better location, fewer logistical headaches for everyone involved. We'd rescheduled for next week.
Best of both worlds. My dream and my Alpha, without having to choose between them.
Which is exactly why I'm standing at the top of this staircase in a gown that costs more than my monthly rent—possibly more than several months of rent combined—wearing a mask that took three increasingly frantic phone calls and what can only be described as a minor miracle to acquire on such short notice, ready to walk into a den of wolves and claim what's mine.
The mask is delicate black lace, fitted perfectly to the contours of my face by a very patient seamstress who didn't even flinch when I showed up at her shop three hours before closing and begged for help. Hints of purple sparkle woven through the intricate patterns catch the light when I move, throwing tiny stars across my cheekbones. It adds to the mystery of the ball's theme—faces half-hidden, identities obscured, everyone pretending to be something they're not. But I'm not wearing it to hide. I'm wearing it to make a statement. To announce my presence before I even open my mouth.
This took a pack effort to pull off. A genuine, all-hands-on-deck, drop-everything pack effort.
Tank's AMEX took a serious hit—he'd handed the black card over without question when I explained what I needed, justgrunted something about "making that bastard's night worth showing up for" and went back to cleaning his guns like I'd asked him for grocery money instead of an unlimited credit line. The gown alone was more than I've ever spent on anything in my life, and the accessories—the mask, the jewelry, the shoes that are currently killing my feet but look absolutely divine—added up to a number I'm trying very hard not to think about.
Elias dropped everything—literally dropped it, abandoned a poker game with his firefighter buddies mid-hand—to drive me into the city, weaving through traffic with the kind of reckless determination that probably should have terrified me but instead just made me laugh. He'd played the siren once, just once, to get through a particularly stubborn intersection, and winked at me in the rearview mirror like we were partners in crime. He'd kissed my cheek at the curb, told me to "go get our grumpy boy," and promised to wait exactly where he'd dropped me off until I texted that I needed a ride home.
Our grumpy boy. Our Alpha. Our pack. The words feel more real every time I think them.
I take a breath, feeling the corset of my gown press against my ribs. Square my shoulders. Adjust the fall of my skirt. And begin my descent.
The staircase is marble and endless, each step bringing me closer to the glittering chaos below. My gown whispers against the stone as I move—purple and black silk flowing around me like dark water, the massive skirt swaying with each careful placement of my heeled feet. The train trails behind me like a shadow, three feet of silk and lace that I've practiced walking in for exactly forty-five minutes and am praying I don't trip over. I keep my chin high, my posture perfect, every inch the society princess I was raised to be before I learned to be something better. Something real.
People are starting to notice. Heads turn in my direction, one by one, like dominoes falling. Conversations pause mid-sentence. Champagne flutes freeze halfway to painted lips. I can feel their eyes on me—dozens of them, hundreds maybe, assessing and evaluating and trying to place me in their mental catalog of who matters and who doesn't. The whispers start almost immediately, rippling through the crowd like stones dropped in still water.
"Who is that?"
"I don't recognize her... is she new money?"
"That gown must have cost a fortune."
"She's heading toward Julian North..."
Let them whisper. Let them speculate. Let them choke on their curiosity.
My eyes stay locked on Julian. I watch him notice me—watch the exact moment recognition flickers across his carefully neutral features. His body goes still. His champagne flute freezes halfway to his lips. Even from here, I can see the way his chest expands with a sharp inhale, the way his jaw tightens, the way something raw and unguarded flashes in his eyes before he manages to lock it away behind his usual walls.
There you are. There's the real Julian, hiding behind all that carefully constructed armor. I see you.
The crowd parts as I approach—whether from curiosity or instinct, I can't tell. Maybe both. The massive skirt of my gown demands space, and people give it willingly, stepping aside to let me pass like I'm royalty and they're merely subjects. The mask adds an air of mystery that seems to fascinate them, drawing eyes and holding attention in ways my bare face never would.
Good. Let them look. Let them wonder. Let them see that Julian North’s Omega is very much real and very much present.
I've been catching fragments of gossip since I arrived—whispers about Julian, about his pack, about the D&G campaign that apparently almost fell through. The rumors have spread like wildfire through this crowd of vultures, everyone eager to discuss his near-failure, his struggle, his humiliation. You could know nothing about Julian North and still learn everything from how these people talk about him—with glee thinly disguised as concern, with schadenfreude dressed up as sympathy.
It makes me furious. It makes me want to burn this entire ballroom to the ground and salt the earth where it stood.
