Calista POV:
The heavy, carved doors to the private sunroom groaned as I pushed them open, the sound slicing through the quiet clink of silverware on porcelain.
Keaton was in the middle of placing a piece of buttered toast onto Carolyn's plate, an intimate, domestic gesture that made my stomach clench. Carolyn was looking up at him, her expression one of doe-eyed adoration.
The moment the door creaked, the tableau shattered.
Keaton's hand snapped back as if burned. His face, which had been soft with affection, instantly hardened into a mask of polite concern. "Calista. You're up early."
Carolyn immediately lowered her gaze, her shoulders hunching as she adopted her usual persona: the fragile, unassuming widow. It was a masterful performance, one I had fallen for countless times.
My heels clicked sharply on the marble floor as I strode toward the breakfast table. I didn't sit. I stood at the head of the table, planting my hands flat on the cool, polished wood, and looked down at them.
Keaton stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He started to move toward me, his hand outstretched. "Did you sleep well? You seem..."
I flinched away from his touch, a violent, involuntary recoil as if he were a venomous snake. The disgust was so potent it was a physical force.
His hand froze in mid-air. A flicker of annoyance crossed his features before it was expertly replaced by a look of wounded concern. "What's wrong?"
I leaned forward, my weight on my hands, my voice low and devoid of any warmth. "I was looking for you last night. Down by the Blackwater River."
The name of the place hung in the air between us. I saw it then-a microscopic tightening around Keaton's eyes, a fractional flare of his nostrils. But his expression remained placid.
"The river?" He feigned confusion, shaking his head. "No, I was in the study until after midnight. Drowning in the Pack's quarterly financial reports. You know how it is." He even managed a weary, self-deprecating smile.
Carolyn chose that moment to lift her head, her eyes already glistening with unshed tears. "Calista, you shouldn't accuse him like that. He works so tirelessly for all of us. For the memory of my dear husband."
A laugh, sharp and humorless, escaped my lips. "Is that what you were doing on the hood of his black Ford Bronco? Honoring your husband's memory?"
The air crackled with sudden tension. Keaton's breath hitched, just for a second, but his recovery was immediate. He was already shifting his strategy. The gaslighting began.
"A Bronco?" He chuckled, a condescending sound. "Honey, I think you must have been dreaming. Or maybe the stress of the wedding delay is getting to you. I've told you, we need to be patient." He took a step toward me, his voice dropping into a soothing, patronizing tone. He was trying to use his Alpha presence, a subtle pressure meant to calm and command an Omega. "You're imagining things."
I didn't back down. I met his gaze, letting the wave of his authority wash over me without effect. It felt like nothing. A hollow threat.
"Was I also imagining it," I said, my voice cutting through his attempted manipulation, "when Sylvia called you 'Daddy'?"
The name, the word, detonated in the quiet room.
Carolyn's hand flew to her mouth. The delicate porcelain coffee cup she was holding slipped from her other hand, plummeting to the Persian rug. It shattered on impact, splashing dark brown liquid across the cream-colored silk of her skirt.
A strangled cry escaped her lips. "How could you?" she shrieked, her voice rising with manufactured hysteria. "How dare you insult my husband's memory! His bloodline!"
She scrambled up from her chair and rushed to hide behind Keaton, clutching his arm like a shield. Her body was wracked with sobs, but I could see the pure, unadulterated panic in her eyes.
Keaton's face had gone cold. All pretense of warmth vanished, replaced by a chilling authority. "Calista. That is enough. Apologize to Carolyn. Now."
"Apologize?" I repeated, the word tasting like ash.
"Sylvia is a child who misses her father," he said, his voice a low, dangerous command. "She sometimes gets confused and calls me by his name. It's a sad, simple fact of her grief. And you have twisted it into something ugly and malicious."
They were going to deny it. To the bitter end. They were going to stand there, in the wreckage of my life, and tell me I was the one holding the sledgehammer. That I was crazy.
The fire in my chest, the one that had been smoldering since last night, roared to life. It consumed every last shred of restraint, of civility, of the well-behaved Omega I was raised to be.
I moved.
I walked around the long dining table, my steps deliberate. Keaton put out an arm to block me, to protect the weeping woman behind him.
I didn't even hesitate. I shoved his arm aside with a strength I didn't know I possessed. He stumbled back, surprised by my force, knocking into his chair.
I was standing directly in front of Carolyn now. Her tear-streaked face was a mask of feigned terror.
I raised my hand.
The sound of my palm connecting with her cheek was like a gunshot in the cavernous room. It was sharp, clean, and utterly final.
Carolyn's head snapped to the side from the force of the blow. A red handprint immediately began to bloom on her pale skin. A thin trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her lip where her teeth had cut the inside of her cheek.
She stared at me, her eyes wide with genuine shock this time. The act was over. The tears stopped. Then, a raw, piercing shriek tore from her throat.
"Calista Beaumont!" Keaton's roar filled the room. He lunged forward, pulling Carolyn behind him, his eyes blazing with a fury that was finally, blessedly, real. He looked at me as if I were a monster.
I slowly lowered my arm, flexing my stinging fingers. I met his furious gaze without an ounce of fear, only a vast, empty coldness.
"That," I said, my voice steady and clear, "was just for starters."
I turned my back on them, on the shattered cup, on the ruin of my engagement, and walked out of the room.
