Elodie POV
The silence in the ballroom was absolute, heavy with the sudden, sour scent of Bianca’s panic. She stared down at the cheap glass crystals on her bodice, a choked sob tearing from her throat. Unable to bear the crushing weight of a hundred mocking stares, she covered her face and fled the room, her heels clicking frantically against the marble floor.
Clotilde recoiled as if Bianca’s humiliation were contagious. She threw her hands up, her eyes wide with practiced innocence. "I didn't know, Bianca! I swear I thought it was real!"
Beside her, Preston Howell, ever the calculating heir, smoothly unlinked his arm from Clotilde’s. He took a deliberate half-step back, severing himself from the sinking ship. The subtle movement echoed like a thunderclap in the quiet room. Their fragile alliance was dead.
"Elodie, my dear," a voice oozing with stiff, opportunistic warmth broke the tension.
Richard Schmidt, my father and the Alpha of the Silver Creek Pack, stepped forward. His eyes gleamed with the sudden realization that I was no longer a stain on his reputation, but a shiny new asset to be claimed.
Kingsley moved faster. He eclipsed me, pulling me flush against his broad chest. His scent—cedarwood before a thunderstorm and a roaring bonfire—exploded outward, thick with lethal, unquestionable aggression.
"Back away," Kingsley’s voice was a low, vibrating growl that rattled the crystal chandeliers. "Funny, Richard, how you only just remembered how to pretend you have a daughter."
Richard’s face mottled with purple rage, the public disrespect from a Lycan burning away his fake smile. Pressed against Kingsley, I felt a strange, intoxicating safety wrapped in the suffocating weight of his absolute control.
Cornered and desperate, Clotilde shot a panicked look at her mother. Luna Victoria Schmidt stepped into the fray, her eyes glittering with venom. If she couldn't win with fashion, she would destroy my character.
"It is indeed curious," Victoria’s shrill voice sliced through the murmurs, ensuring every Alpha and Luna heard her. "How does a wolfless Omega, whose family trust funds are entirely frozen, acquire a priceless masterpiece by Pierre? Unless... she used the only asset an Omega truly possesses to please some unknown, powerful benefactor?"
The implication was a bucket of filthy water thrown directly in my face. The crowd gasped, their awe instantly curdling into disgusted suspicion.
Kingsley’s hand clamped around my waist like an iron vice. A terrifying, feral snarl ripped from his throat. His beast was clawing at the surface, ready to tear Victoria’s throat out for disrespecting his mate. A bloodbath was seconds away.
I placed my hand over his rigid forearm, pressing my fingers into his tense muscles. *Wait,* my touch commanded silently.
Under his storm-gray, murderous gaze, I slipped out of his hold. I walked calmly to a nearby table and picked up a fresh flute of champagne. The crowd parted for me as I approached Victoria. She lifted her chin, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips, expecting me to throw the drink in her face like a hysterical child.
Instead, I stopped inches from her. I lowered the glass and slowly, deliberately, poured the golden liquid over her diamond-encrusted satin shoes.
Gasps erupted around us. In old werewolf traditions, pouring a drink at someone's feet was a gesture reserved only for bidding farewell to the dead.
"You are dead to me, Victoria," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of an executioner's blade.
She stood frozen, trembling with a rage so profound she couldn't speak, the champagne soaking into her ruined shoes.
Before anyone could react to the social slaughter, the auctioneer on the main stage cleared his throat nervously, tapping the microphone. "L-ladies and gentlemen, if we may proceed. The main event of the evening. The auction for The North Lot territory will now commence."
I turned my back on Victoria’s shaking form. Ignoring the bewildered stare of my father and the dark, burning confusion in Kingsley’s eyes, I walked straight to the front row of the auction seating.
I picked up the bidding paddle resting on the velvet chair—number 707. I turned to face the room, my eyes locking onto Preston Howell, and raised the paddle high into the air.
