Chapter 68
Chapter 68
I’m going to throw up.
Not the cute kind, where you get a little queasy and recover with a sip of water. No, this is the full–blown, holy–shit–I–might- die kind of nausea that sits deep in your gut and reminds you that you might just be the dumbest bitch alive.
Because here I am, sitting in a car outside the Imperial Palace, wearing a fucking mask and a dress that costs more than my rent, about to walk straight into the lion’s den.
Liam exhales sharply from the passenger seat. “You’re thinking too hard.”
1 glare at him. “And you’re breathing too loud.”
Zoe bounces in the back seat, practically vibrating with excitement. “Are you guys seeing this? It’s like something out of a fucking fairytale.”
A fairytale where the big bad wolf actually eats you, but sure.
The grand palace looms before us, all marble and gold, its high archways illuminated by chandeliers so massive they could crush a man if they fell. Beyond the entrance, masked figures glide through the open doors, the scent of expensive perfume and power thick in the night air.
I grip the hem of my dress, my pulse hammering.
This is it. My way in.
This is how I see him.
My fingers tighten around the edges of my mask as the driver pulls up to the entrance. A valet opens the door, and I step out into a world that doesn’t belong to me.
Masked guests sweep past, their laughter soft, their voices tinged with arrogance. Every inch of this place screams excess. Gilded staircases, crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, men in tailored suits with sharp smiles, women in gowns that cling to their bodies like second skin.
I feel the stares before I hear the whispers.
“She doesn’t belong here.”
“Who is she?”
“Oh, look–it’s her.”
Her.
I don’t have to look to know who that voice belongs to.
Lady Celeste fucking Vaelor.
I barely turn before she steps into my path, her lips curling in amusement. “Didn’t realize they were letting in beggars tonight.”
I smile sweetly. “Didn’t realize royalty was so desperate for attention.”
Celeste’s expression flickers. Just for a second. Then she leans in, her heavily jeweled hand brushing my shoulder like I’m something she accidentally touched in a sewer. “You must be lost, darling,” she purrs. “This isn’t the kind of event where….. what do you call it? Rats are welcome.”
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I tilt my head. “That’s funny, because I was just about to say the same thing to you.”
Zoe makes a choking sound beside me, barely containing her laughter. Liam mutters something under his breath, but I don’t take my eyes off Celeste.
She’s beautiful, in the way venomous things are–dripping in rubies and wealth, her blood–red gown scandalously fitted, her golden mask catching the glow of the chandeliers. Every inch of her screams privilege, power, and pure, unfiltered bitch.
But it’s the way she smirks, the way her chin tilts in quiet amusement, that sets me on edge.
She’s planning something.
realize it too late..
One second, I’m standing there, smug and victorious. The next, cold liquid splashes down my front.
I freeze.
Gasps echo around us, the music momentarily faltering.
The scent of wine–rich, expensive, staining–fills my nose. It drips down my dress, pooling at my feet.
Celeste blinks innocently. “Oops.”
Oh, she’s dead.
Before I can rip her apart in front of high society, a hand clamps around my wrist.
“Come with me. A low voice murmurs. I turn to see the same exact man that keep saving me against this girl. I’m honestly beginning to feel annoyed at him.
Beta Jacob.
His grip is firm, unyielding, dragging me away before I can make a public murder scene.
I yank against him, but he doesn’t budge. “Let me go.”
His jaw is tight. “Shut up and move.”
He leads me through an empty corridor, away from the watchful eyes of the ballroom, until we reach a small room lit only by a dim lamp. A velvet box sits waiting on a table.
Jacob releases me and nods toward it. “Wear this.”
1 frown. “What?”
He doesn’t explain. Just crosses his arms, waiting.
With a glare, I step forward and lift the lid.
My breath catches.
Inside is the most breathtaking gown I have ever seen–a midnight–blue creation laced with silver thread, adorned with tiny shimmering stars that seem to glow under the light. The fabric is impossibly soft, impossibly perfect, impossibly… Imperial.
The moment my fingers graze the gown, a shiver runs down my spine.
Midnight blue. Silver threading. Celestial embroidery that seems to move under the light.
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This isn’t just a dress–it’s a fucking statement. A Royal Family exclusive. A brand of belonging to something I’ve spent my
entire life on the outskirts of.
I swallow hard, rubbing the fabric between my fingers, the weight of it far heavier than the silk and thread should allow. I should rip it apart. Toss it back into the box and tell Jacob to shove his Imperial orders straight up his ass. But I don’t.
I look up at Jacob, my throat tight. “Why do you have this?”
He doesn’t answer. Just turns toward the door. “Get changed. Quickly.”
He leaves without another word.
\I exhale sharply, my fingers brushing over the fabric.
Something about this feels… wrong.
Like I’m walking straight into a trap.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because Enoch is here.
And I’m not leaving until I see him.
I strip out of my clothes, forcing my breath to stay even as I slide the dress over my body. The material slinks into place like a second skin, molding to my curves in a way that feels almost inappropriate. The bodice hugs me too perfectly, the neckline dipping just enough to tease. The back–well, there isn’t much of one, the sheer fabric revealing more than I’d like.
Goddamn it.
I glare at myself in the mirror.
This is a trap. I know it is.
But if they think I’m walking into it meekly, they’re in for a fucking surprise.
*
The ballroom is a predator’s den.
Golden chandeliers cast an eerie, flickering glow over the sea of silk and polished boots. The air hums with murmurs, the press of nobility and power suffocating in its extravagance. The women are elegant statues, draped in wealth, their eyes trained on the figure standing at the top of the grand staircase.
Enoch.
My heart slams against my ribs, the impact so sudden it nearly sends me stumbling.
He stands there like a goddamn phantom, taller, broader, more terrifying than I remember.
A black and gold suit tailored to perfection. A mask intricately carved, covering half his face, obscuring the man I once knew.
But I know it’s him.
I feel it.
Like the air shifts around him, like gravity itself bends in his presence.
And he doesn’t fucking look at me.
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Bastard.
I exhale through my nose, willing my hands not to shake, slipping between bodies, my steps light, silent.
A cat–and–mouse game.
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I walk through the crowd, keeping just out of reach, my pulse hammering a violent rhythm. Each time he turns, I’m already gone, slipping between silk gowns and gilded masks–a ghost in the sea of nobility.
A game of near–misses.
A flicker of movement–my pulse spikes. I turn.
Gone.
A step closer–my skin prickles. I glance back.
Empty air.
Anticipation crackles between us, this invisible threads pulling tighter, tighter.
And then-
His gaze locks onto mine.
My breath catches. My lips curve into a slow, knowing smile.
Catch me if you can.
The ballroom stills.
A shift in the air, electric and taut.
I don’t have to ask why–I already know.
This is the moment. The moment when the Alpha King chooses his partner.
The women gather, standing still, poised and waiting.
I glance at Liam beside me. He leans in, his voice a low murmur. “This is where tradition dictates you
Like hell I will.
Before my mind catches up to my body, I move.
I step into the circle.
shut up
and wait.”
A single beat of silence. Then another.
Whispers start, growing into a hum, spreading like wildfire. A human woman–an Omega–defying centuries of tradition.
My heart pounds so hard I swear it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest, but my feet stay planted. My chin lifts. My arm extends–palm up, wrist bent elegantly. I’m commanding him to dance with me, not a request.
The weight of every gaze in the room bears down on me.
Including his.
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The tension stretches. The air tightens.
And then-
He moves.
Gasps ripple through the crowd as Enoch descends the steps, his long strides cutting through the space between us.
Each footstep is deliberate. Lethal.
I don’t breathe.
don’t move.
Until his gloved fingers brush against mine, sending a sharp jolt through my veins.
Without hesitation. Enoch lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a slow, burning kiss to the back of it.
A brand. A warning.
And then–he pulls me into the dance.
The moment our bodies align, the world tilts. Every step is effortless, every movement beautiful
He leads–I follow. But not easily.
My fingers are cold. It’s the first thing I notice.
Not just cold–numb. Like I’ve plunged my hand into snow and left it there, waiting for the burn that never comes.
Except it’s not snow. It’s Enoch.
-His grip on my hand is tight, his fingers burning against my skin despite the gloves he wears. The back of my hand still
tingles from where his lips brushed it, the phantom pressure branded into my bones.
I’m still standing. Still breathing. But my heart is in my throat, hammering loud enough that I swear he can hear iL
The ballroom is silent, the air thick with the weight of a thousand eyes watching, waiting, dissecting every move we make. It’s suffocating. Stifling. Like the walls are closing in, shrinking until it’s just him and me, locked in this fragile moment suspended in time.
Then the music starts. And the world jolts back into motion.
I barely register my own steps as he pulls me into the waltz, his movements smooth, effortless. Regal. He’s taller than I remember, broader. The suit fits him like it was stitched into his skin, the black and gold embroidery shimmering under the chandeliers, each thread woven with power.
A King’s suit.
A King’s mask.
My fingers tighten around his, my stomach twisting. I should say something. Something cutting, something sharp. But the words tangle in my throat, choking on the truth I refuse to acknowledge.
He’s here. In front of me.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
His hand finds the curve of my waist, searing through the layers of fabric like an iron brand. I exhale sharply, my body
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betraying me, leaning in before my brain can catch up.
His head tilts slightly, just enough for me to see the sliver of gold beneath his mask. My pulse stutters.
I know those eyes. I know them in the dark. I know them in the light. I know them when they’re lost, when they’re desperate, when they’re breaking.
And I know them now–cool, unreadable, watching me like I’m something fragile.
As if he didn’t leave me.
As if he didn’t walk away without a fucking word.
I steel my spine, shoving every ounce of anger, every sharp edge, into my voice. “Your Highness, am I supposed to curtsy
now?”
His lips twitch, just barely. “I believe you were supposed to wait.”
A laugh slips out, light and razor–thin. “Not much for waiting.”
“I noticed.”
His fingers flex against my waist, just enough for me to feel it, just enough to remind me that he’s there. Holding me. Leading me through the steps like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
Like he didn’t leave me in the wreckage of my own life, picking up the shattered pieces with bloody hands.
I tilt my head, testing him. “Did you miss me?”
His grip tightens, his entire body tensing. A single, infinitesimal pause. Then, his voice, rough and unguarded.
“More than you know.”
I swallow hard, my throat burning. My carefully constructed walls–walls I spent years building, brick by brick, to keep him out–crack at the edges, splintering under the weight of those four words.
More than you know.
I want to shove him. I want to hit him. I want to rip that mask off his face and make him answer for every second of silence
he left me in.
Instead, I do what I do best. I smile.
“Flattering.” I tilt my chin, matching his steps with precision, refusing to let him see the way my legs shake. “Do you say that to all the women who throw themselves at you, Your Highness?”
His gaze darkens, sharp enough to cut through bone. “I don’t dance with other women.”
“Pity.” I let my voice drop into something soft, something dangerous. “Celeste looks like she wants to eat you alive.”
He doesn’t look away from me. “Let her starve.”
The words are quiet. Lethal.
Something inside me shifts, something I don’t want to name.
The music swells, the final notes curling around us like smoke. I brace myself for the end, for the moment when he lets go, when this fragile bubble we’ve built bursts into nothing.
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But he doesn’t let go.
The last note fades, and the ballroom erupts into whispers, into gasps and murmurs and scandalized laughter. I feel them a pressing in, suffocating.
He’s still holding me.
Still watching me like I’m the only thing in the room. He leans in and my heart beats twice as fast.
“You’re as beautiful as the day I lost you…”
