"We lost the black SUV at the estate checkpoint, Miss Beaumont," the driver announced. He kept his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.
"Good. Keep the engine running tonight," I told him, leaning back against the leather seat. "I won't be staying long."
The towering iron gates of the Beaumont manor parted slowly, groaning under their own weight. I stared at the sprawling grounds, the manicured hedges illuminated by harsh floodlights.
When I first met Kael Ashcroft, I assumed he was a starving art student. I had no idea his surname carried the bloodline of ancient Alpha kings. He ran three massive corporations—media, mining, and tech—while painting in his spare time. That was merely the tip of the Ashcroft empire.
Yet Kael always carved out hours for me and our daughter, Aria Ashcroft. If the long flight wouldn't have exhausted her, he would be sitting right beside me tonight. He would be tearing this pack apart on my behalf.
"Park near the side entrance," I instructed as the car pulled up to the valet.
"Understood," the driver replied, shifting the gear. "Will you need me to come inside?"
"No," I said, grabbing my clutch. "I can handle my family."
Three hours later, the deafening chatter in the grand banquet hall died instantly. The sudden silence was heavier than the noise. The crowd parted like a severed artery, leaving a clear path down the center of the room.
Rosalie Hart stepped into the open space.
Edward and Catherine Beaumont adopted her when I went missing for six months as a child, trapped in a slum pack. Rosalie shared my features. When I finally escaped and returned home, the war began. She played the victim perfectly, twisting every interaction until the pack decided I was the villain.
Rosalie locked eyes with me. She walked forward, her silver gown dragging across the polished marble floor. Tears immediately welled up in her eyes, spilling over her lashes before she even spoke a word.
"You're here, sister," Rosalie whispered. Her voice trembled, pitched perfectly so the nearest guests could hear her fragile tone.
"Of course I came," I replied smoothly. I plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter's tray, ignoring the nervous look the servant gave me. "Grandfather Harold Beaumont expects me."
"I thought you wouldn't show up," Rosalie sniffled. She wiped a tear from her cheek, her shoulders shaking. "I thought you still hated me."
"I don't think about you at all, Rosalie," I said, keeping my tone perfectly flat. "Grandfather was the only person in this house who ever offered me warmth. I came for him. Not for you."
Vincent Beaumont stepped out from the shadows of a towering pillar. He moved between us, physically shielding Rosalie from me.
"Enough, Celeste," Vincent warned. His voice carried a low, threatening edge that demanded obedience. "You're bullying her again."
I raised an eyebrow. "She walked up to me, Vincent. I was standing here in silence."
"Your presence is an insult to her," Vincent argued, pointing a finger at my chest. "You're looking at her like she's trash. Why is it that every time you appear, Rosalie cries?"
I laughed. A bright, sharp sound that echoed in the quiet hall. Several guests flinched at the noise. A woman to my left gasped.
"Is it my fault whenever she sheds a tear?" I asked. I raised my glass toward him in a mock toast. "Then she really shouldn't have been born. I'm sure she cried on her first day alive. That must have been my fault, too."
"Watch your mouth," Vincent growled. His fists clenched at his sides. "You have no respect for this family."
"This family has no respect for the truth," I countered, taking a small sip of the champagne. The liquid tasted oddly bitter, but I ignored it.
Damian Sinclair pushed his way through the onlookers. He glared at me, disgust radiating from his rigid posture.
"Stop pushing people, Celeste," Damian ordered. "You're causing a scene on your grandfather's birthday."
"I'm holding a glass, Damian," I pointed out, gesturing with the flute. "Who exactly am I pushing?"
"You push with your words," Damian snapped, closing the distance between us. "You need to apologize to Rosalie right now. You owe her."
"For what?" I challenged, staring directly into my fiancé's eyes. "For surviving?"
"For ruining her life three years ago," Leon Foster interjected. He stepped up beside Damian, crossing his arms over his chest. "You owe her a debt you can never repay."
"A debt?" I repeated.
A sudden, violent wave of dizziness hit me. The room tilted sharply to the left. I blinked hard, trying to focus on the crystal flute in my hand. My vision blurred, doubling the edges of the glass. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead.
"Are you ignoring me?" Damian demanded, his voice sounding muffled, as if he were speaking underwater.
"I..." I started, but my tongue felt numb and heavy.
I looked at Rosalie. She peeked out from behind Vincent's broad shoulder. Behind her meek, tear-stained cheeks, a sharp, wicked gleam danced in her eyes. She smirked, just for a fraction of a second, before twisting her face back into a mask of terror.
My fingers lost all sensation.
The glass slipped from my grip.
Champagne splashed across the front of Rosalie's pale designer dress. The crystal shattered on the marble floor with a loud, violent crash.
"Ah!" Rosalie shrieked. She jumped back, covering her face with her hands. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, sister, I didn't mean to upset you! Please don't hurt me!"
Damian lunged forward. He snatched my wrist, his fingers digging into my skin like iron claws.
"Your heart is completely wicked," Damian spat. He shook my arm, forcing me to look at him. "She just welcomed you home, and you attack her?"
"I feel sick," I muttered. My knees buckled slightly, and I leaned heavily against Damian's grip just to stay upright. The chandeliers spun above me, blindingly bright. "My head..."
"Stop acting," Vincent snapped. He waved a hand at the estate guards standing by the double doors. "She did it on purpose. She threw the drink right at her."
"I didn't," I whispered, swaying on my feet. The metallic taste in my mouth grew stronger.
"Take her down to the guest quarters," Vincent commanded the guards, his voice booming over the whispers of the crowd. "Lock the door until she learns how to behave."
Leon shook his head, a disappointed scowl plastered on his face. "Always playing games, Celeste. You haven't changed at all. You're just as cruel as the day you left."
The guards marched over. They grabbed my arms, hauling me backward away from the shattered glass.
"Rosalie drugged my wine," I said. My words slurred heavily as the toxin spread through my veins. "Check the glass..."
Damian scoffed. He dropped my wrist and turned his back to me, wrapping his arms around his crying little victim. "You're pathetic, Celeste. Blaming her for your own vicious actions."
Nobody even looked at me. The guests whispered among themselves, casting disgusted glares in my direction as the guards dragged me into the dark hallway.
"Wait," I tried to say, but my throat tightened, cutting off my air.
The heavy wooden doors slammed shut, sealing me away from the banquet hall.