Chapter 63

Amelia

The event was supposed to be a display of unity. The kind that costs a fortune to manufacture, chandeliers sparkling above crystal place settings, soft music fluttering like a pulse beneath polite conversation.

This was the first gala held since Richard officially became one of two final candidates for Alpha King. It was meant to solidify donor support and sway neutral Packs. The room was packed with influential Alphas and their heirs, journalists from across the Kingdom, and council members whose smiles meant nothing. I wore a navy silk dress and my best impression of a person who wasn’t unraveling. Every inch of me had been styled to evoke strength and poise. Not a hair out of place. Not a single word off script.

I hadn’t been inside ten minutes before Elsa found me.

"Still no title? No last name? I suppose not all orphans get that luxury," she said, voice light and coated in sugar. It was too perfectly pitched for a room full of predators. She smiled like we were old friends catching up, but her eyes were knives.

I turned to face her slowly. "Still no shame? I suppose not all has-beens get to keep that either."

Her smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew. "You really think you belong here, don’t you? Giving speeches like you're someone the council should take seriously?"

"I don’t think. I know," I said, keeping my voice even. "And judging by how hard you’re working to convince me otherwise, maybe I’m more of a threat than you want to admit."

She stepped in closer, the smell of her wine-sweetened breath brushing against my face. "You know what you are? A temporary complication. A fragile little symbol the King draped around himself so he could look like he still had principles. A charity case."

I kept my posture rigid. "You’re just angry because he let go of your leash."

Elsa’s fingers whitened around her glass. Her smile didn’t budge. "He’ll come to his senses. He always does. And when he does, do you really think you’ll survive in this world? You don’t come from a bloodline. You don’t have power. You don’t even have a wolf."

My pulse surged. "I have more strength in my spine than you ever did in your bond."

She leaned even closer. "He pities you. You make him feel useful, powerful. But pity doesn’t last. And when the final vote comes, do you think any of these people would choose an orphan with no claim over me?"

"They might," I said. "Because I earned my place. You threw yours away."

Her smile cracked for the briefest second. "Better a queen who abdicated than a pawn playing pretend."

"Better a pawn with purpose than a ghost clinging to what she lost."

She didn’t respond. She just stepped back, gave me one last syrupy nod, and walked away like nothing had happened.

I turned back to the room, spine straight. And then I felt it, the side seam of my dress tugging wrong. A softness where there should have been tension.

I moved quickly, ducking into a corridor behind the reception hall, clutching the side of my dress where the seam had split. The fabric fluttered around my leg like it was trying to expose me. The cut had been deliberate, clean, precise. Not a wardrobe malfunction. Sabotage.

Emma appeared out of nowhere, breathless, holding a small emergency sewing kit. Her jaw tightened. "That bitch."

We didn’t waste time. Emma helped me unpin a portion of the train and repurpose it as a decorative wrap, concealing the damage and transforming it into a feature. I adjusted the neckline and stepped into the mirror-lined wall for a final look.

"It looks intentional," Emma said.

"Good. Let them think it was."

When I reentered the ballroom, the shift in the atmosphere was immediate. People noticed. Whispers followed me, but not with ridicule. It was interest, admiration.

The moderator called my name. I took the stage.

I delivered my speech with every ounce of strength I had. I spoke of loyalty, leadership, unity not as heritage but as responsibility. I spoke of what it meant to fight not just for power, but for purpose. I didn’t need notes. The words poured out of me like they’d been carved into my ribs.

People listened. Eyes fixed. Heads nodded. When I quoted the memoir Richard had given me, I felt the room shift.

"We lead not because of our names, but in spite of them. We lead when others fail. And we serve, always, not with fear but with fire."

Applause cracked across the ballroom, first cautious, then louder. People stood. Even some council members.

I stepped down to murmurs of praise and hands reaching out to shake mine.

At the back of the room, Elsa stood motionless, a glass of champagne clenched so tightly I thought it might shatter in her hand. Her eyes locked on mine.

I smiled at her.

She didn’t smile back.

"To orphans. May they know their place."

A hush.

My hands curled around the edge of the table. My wolf roared inside me. But I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to.

Richard

I saw it happening in slow motion. The second Elsa lifted her glass, I knew something was coming. But I hadn’t expected that.

The insult hung in the air like smoke. I could feel the room waiting for my reaction.

I was already moving.

"Thank you, Elsa," I said before she could lift the glass again. I crossed the floor quickly, voice carefully controlled. "And thank you to everyone else for reminding us why unity must be earned, not inherited."

I handed the mic off and followed Elsa into the side hallway.

She was laughing softly, swirling her wine. "Didn’t that go well?"

"What the hell was that?"

She blinked. "A toast."

"You insulted her in front of every major donor and council elder."

"I reminded them of the truth."

I stepped closer, voice low. "You embarrassed yourself."

"No, Richard. You embarrassed yourself. Letting her walk around like she belongs here. Giving speeches. Wearing that dress like she isn’t just a footnote you brought in from pity."

My jaw clenched. "You crossed a line."

"You still love her."

I didn’t answer.

"You do," she said, voice rising. "You think this is strength? Falling for a girl who will never survive in this world? You think they’ll choose her when they could have me? I was bred for this. She was barely tolerated."

"She’s the only one who’s held me accountable. Who’s stayed when it got ugly. Who’s earned every second of my trust."

Elsa laughed, but it was dry and brittle. "Then you deserve to fall with her."

"Maybe. But I’d rather fall with her than keep standing next to someone who burns everything they touch."

She stared at me, stunned.

I turned and walked away.

Amelia

The east wing balcony was nearly empty. Only the low hum of distant conversation reached me. I leaned against the railing, hands braced on the cool stone, staring down at the gardens swaying in the moonlight. I was so tired of holding everything together.

I didn’t turn when I heard him approach.

"I should have stopped her sooner," Richard said.

"Why didn’t you?"

He let out a breath. "Because I thought I could contain her. That I could control the optics. If I kept her close, the council would stop questioning your presence. They'd think the past was returning. It gave us cover."

"She cut my dress. Before the speech. She tried to humiliate me."

He stilled. "What?"

"Someone let her into the prep area. She sliced the seam. It would have ripped on stage."

His voice dropped to something dangerous. "She won’t step foot in this House again."

"It’s fine. She got what she wanted."

He moved beside me, hands braced on the railing a foot from mine. "Amelia, I didn’t want to risk losing you."

I turned to him slowly. "Then why did you let her stay? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?"

"Because if you knew how bad it was, how fractured the vote is, how close the council is to defecting, you would have stepped down. To protect the Pack. You’d have left to take the pressure off me."

I stared at him. "You lied to me to keep me here."

"Yes. Because I couldn’t do this without you. And I didn’t want to win if it meant losing you."

I took a long breath, the ache in my chest blooming into something sharp.

"You didn’t protect me, Richard. You protected your fear, and you let me take every blow. Every whisper, every look. You let her ruin me in public, again and again."

"I know."

"And you let me believe it was my fault."

He shook his head. "Never. I never believed that."

"But you let me think it."

Silence settled between us like fog.

"Do you still believe in us?" he asked.

I looked at him, heart bruised. "I believe in me. And right now, I believe I need distance."

He nodded. Slowly. The kind of nod that said he’d already lost and knew it.

"Then I’ll wait. However long it takes."