Amiyah POV
The spotlight clung to Kirsten Matthews like a second skin. She sat at the glossy black Steinway, her posture rigid with practiced perfection. As her fingers struck the keys, a complex classical piece filled the ballroom. It was technically flawless, every note hit with precision, but it was cold. It lacked the heartbeat of the wild, the sorrow of the moon. It was music played for applause, not for the soul.
When she finished, the room erupted in polite, socially mandated clapping. Kirsten stood up, basking in the attention, before turning the microphone toward me. Her smile was sharp enough to draw blood.
"That was a little piece I learned during my summer in Vienna," she purred, her voice amplified through the speakers. Her eyes locked onto mine, gleaming with malice. "But I'm sure our guest of honor has her own talents. Tell me, Amiyah, do they have pianos where you come from? Or do you stick to howling at the moon?"
A ripple of cruel laughter spread through the crowd. I saw Georgiana near the front, sipping her champagne with a satisfied smirk. She was enjoying this. She wanted me to crumble, to prove that I was nothing more than the dirt beneath her designer heels.
My *Inner Wolf* growled, pacing in the back of my mind. *Show them, Amiyah. Show them what a Queen looks like.*
"I know a tune or two," I said, my voice steady as I walked toward the stage. The crowd parted, their gazes heavy with judgment.
I climbed the stairs and sat on the bench. The keys were cool under my fingertips. I didn't need sheet music. The melody was etched into my bones, a lullaby my grandfather used to play in the halls of the Silvermoon Pack.
I closed my eyes and let my hands move.
The first chord was soft, a whisper of wind through ancient pines. Then, the music swelled. I played the same piece Kirsten had just butchered, but I poured my soul into it. The notes weren't just sounds; they were emotions—grief, power, the loneliness of a winter night, and the fierce, burning love of a mate.
The chatter in the room died instantly. The air grew heavy, charged with the raw power of my bloodline. I wasn't just playing a piano; I was singing to their wolves.
As the crescendo hit, I opened my eyes and looked straight into the crowd.
Grayson was standing near the bar, his glass halfway to his mouth. He had frozen. His golden eyes were wide, fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. The anger and disgust from earlier were gone, replaced by something darker, hungrier. He looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time—not as a nuisance, but as a creature of myth.
I held his gaze as I played the final, haunting note. It hung in the silence for a long heartbeat before fading into nothingness.
For a second, no one moved. Then, the applause broke out—not polite, but thunderous. A few wolves even let out low, appreciative howls.
I stood up and smoothed my dress, offering a small, cool nod to a pale-faced Kirsten. "Vienna is nice," I said softly as I passed her. "But nothing beats a classical education."
I walked down the stairs, feeling the shift in the room. The mockery was gone, replaced by wary respect. But before I could disappear into the shadows, the heavy double doors of the ballroom swung open again.
The Master of Ceremonies cleared his throat, his voice trembling slightly.
"Distinguished guests," he announced. "Representing the Silvermoon Pack... Beta Elias Vance."
My heart stopped.
A hush fell over the room, deeper and more profound than before. The Silvermoon Pack was a legend, reclusive and terrifyingly powerful. They rarely left their territory.
A tall, broad-shouldered man strode into the room. Elias wore a charcoal suit that strained against his muscles, his presence commanding immediate submission from the lesser wolves. His scent—rainstorm and steel—washed over the room.
He was my grandfather's right hand. He was the man who taught me how to throw a knife.
Panic flared in my chest. If he bowed to me, if he called me by my title, my cover would be blown. I would no longer be Amiyah the nobody; I would be the heiress to the most powerful pack on the continent.
Elias’s sharp gaze swept the room. His eyes landed on me.
Time seemed to stretch. I held my breath, pleading silently with him. *Don't do it, Elias.*
His eyes lingered for a fraction of a second—a flicker of recognition, a silent check to ensure I was unharmed—and then he looked away. He walked straight past me, as if I were a stranger, and headed toward Grayson and Georgiana.
"Alpha Wilder," Elias’s deep voice boomed, extending a hand. "Alpha Holloway sends his regards. He regrets he could not attend personally."
Grayson shook his hand, looking both honored and wary. "We are humbled by your presence, Beta Vance."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My secret was safe, for now. But as I watched them talk, I saw Kirsten Matthews edging closer to the circle, her eyes gleaming with a new, desperate scheme. She looked from Elias to the crowd, her expression shifting from humiliation to calculating ambition.
She had no idea she was about to walk into a lion's den.
