Dahlia.
Crystals surrounded me, gleaming like diamonds at a billionaire's auction. Naturally, I reached out to touch them because who wouldn't? But the second my fingers brushed their cool surfaces, reality yanked me back. I woke up—again—with that same What in the sparkly hell is going on? feeling.
I gasped and spotted the maid—Billie, the stoic glasses-wearing mystery. I really should start calling her by name instead of mentally dubbing her Specs McGee. She stood at the edge of my bed, her reflectionless glasses locked onto me like a laser.
"Good morning. I hope you had a pleasant dream," she said with a look that suggested she already knew I didn't.
I nodded, still reeling from the dream that felt more like a weird audition for a fantasy movie.
The door swang open, and my husband waltzed in with his hands in his pockets like he owned the place—which, okay, he technically did. His eyes scanned me like he was evaluating a questionable appetizer. "One of my associates is hosting a tea party. Billie will get you ready. Just don't overdress; Sheila dislikes competition," he said before strutting out, leaving me with more questions than answers. He called Billie by name, but me? Nada. I was basically wife-shaped furniture to him.
I shuffled to the shower, letting the warm water wash away the dream and my growing urge to fling a crystal at someone's head.
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"This is a blue sundress, sneakers, and a silver necklace. Paired with a sling bag," Billie said, pointing at the clothes she'd laid out like she was presenting a royal decree.
"Thank you," I signed, marveling at her ability to make casual chic look effortless.
She brushed my hair into a high ponytail and applied a glossy sheen to my lips that screamed effortlessly fabulous. The dress was perfect—comfortable, flattering, and not a single ruffle out of place.
"I love this, thanks," I signed again, feeling like I'd stepped out of a lifestyle magazine.
Billie nodded with her signature poker face, her acknowledgment subtle but there. I fastened my seatbelt in the back seat as she started the engine, the car humming to life. As we drove to the tea party of doom (or at least awkward small talk), a mix of excitement and dread bubbled up in me. Sheila might hate competition, but she hadn't met Billie's styling skills—or me, for that matter.
I stepped into the garden and immediately felt like I'd wandered into a Pinterest board come to life. A long, elegant table stretched across the lawn, draped under a soft pink canopy that gave everything an Instagram-worthy glow. Above me, dried flowers and pampas grass dangled like overachieving decorations, their earthy tones blending perfectly with the drapery.
Delicate string lights twinkled overhead, promising aesthetic vibes only. The table itself was a masterpiece—pale pink glassware, matching napkins, and chairs with cushions so plush they practically begged you to sit down and forget all your problems.
A cluster of women sat around the table, their sundresses and exaggerated gestures making me wonder if I'd accidentally crashed a reality show reunion. I couldn't hear them, but their animated lip movements suggested either deep gossip or a debate over who had the best highlights.
"This way, Mrs. Kelce," a man in black gestured politely. His lips moved, and I pieced together the words like a game of charades.
I signed to Billie, "Please come with me." She nodded, her expression stoic as ever, and followed.
The moment we approached, the group's chatter screeched to a halt. I didn't need to hear the silence to feel it—it clung to the air like cheap perfume. Their eyes did a quick scan, sizing me up like I was the main course at a dinner party they didn't want to attend.
"Good morning, ladies. My name is Dahlia, wife of Alpha Rath Titan Kelce. It's a pleasure to meet you," I signed with all the grace of a queen who absolutely did not care for their approval. Billie translated aloud, her demeanor professional, though I swore I saw a tiny smirk on her lips.
Cue the collective gasp—a synchronized act worthy of a Broadway production. Wierd looks followed, and then came the laughter. Even though I couldn't hear it, the way their faces lit up with mockery was loud enough.
"So, you're the Lycan King's wife? Oh my God! No wonder he kept this a secret," sneered the one in green, her lips curling into a smile that made me want to nominate her for Mean Girl of the Year.
Her friends joined in except one who sat on the far end with what looked like a punch mark on her jaw concealed with a layers of concealers. It wasn't hard to tell she must've been hit by someone.
Their cruel laughter silent to my ears but stabbing all the same. It was like watching a pack of hyenas in sundresses.
"Come on, ladies, she's the new human girl. Let's try to be nice," piped up a woman at the far end, her words clear but laced with condescension. She wore a tiara, the ultimate sign of a bride-to-be who thought she ruled the world—or at least the tea party. Her purple velvet dress was dramatic, with a neckline so low it nearly introduced itself before she could.
Billie pulled out a chair for me at the far end of the table, directly across from Tiara Queen Sheila. She sat beside me as the women resumed their conversation, though the tension in the air made it clear they were still auditioning for Petty Housewives of the Lycans.
I tapped Billie's arm and signed, "Do you know who they are?"
Billie leaned in, "Turquoise with blonde hair is Luna Victoria, wife of Alpha Theron. Blue dress is Luna Stephanie, married to Alpha Harry. The rude one with wavy almond hair is Luna Rose, wife of Alpha Dane. Brunette in yellow is Luna Daisy, Alpha Brandon's wife. And the bride-to-be? Sheila, soon to marry Alpha Castro Cassian."
They all exuded bubbly charm, but it was faker than a knockoff handbag. Their smiles didn't reach their eyes, and the whole scene felt like a beautifully decorated snake pit. I wasn't sure I'd remember all their names—or if I even wanted to. The hostility lingered in the air, as heavy as a thunderstorm, and I braced myself for whatever passive-aggressive chaos the rest of the tea party would bring.
I nibbled on the food and sipped the wine, pretending to care as the women droned on about the latest fashion trends—a topic so exciting, I almost fell asleep mid-bite. But my eyes? They were laser-focused on every word, every lip movement, every tiny flicker of expression. These big eyes aren't just for show, after all.
"So, how did he propose?" Rose, the one with the wavy almond hair, asked, her curiosity dripping with all the subtlety of a bulldozer.
Sheila's grin grew so wide it could have split her face in half. "We went to Spain. He rented an entire stadium for a live band performance, then got down on one knee and proposed," she recounted with enough joy to make me wonder if she was lying, exaggerating or both. Even though I couldn't hear the words, her face screamed genuine excitement—either that or she had a flair for dramatic storytelling.
A waiter topped off my champagne, the bubbling drink piquing my curiosity. I'd never tasted alcohol before, so I took a cautious sip, the bubbles tickling my throat and the rich flavor surprising me in the best way possible. But then—a sudden cough erupted from me, and I instantly became the center of attention.
I raised my hand to signal Billie that I was fine, but apparently, I had just auditioned for a coughing role. Billie, ever the professional, patted my back. "My mistress apologizes," she announced in her calm, almost monotone look. The women burst into laughter—at least, I assumed it was laughter, given the way their lips moved. They returned to their conversation, as if I hadn't just unintentionally become the evening's entertainment.
I sat back, feeling less like a guest and more like a random character dropped into a bizarre episode of The Real Housewives—minus the juicy drama, of course, but just as isolating.
Across the table, Luna Victoria's gaze caught mine. Unlike the others, whose personalities could be measured in layers of gloss, her eyes held something sharper, darker, like a secret she couldn't quite keep hidden. She quickly glanced away, leaving me to wonder just how long she had been watching me.
"I'll be in the restroom," I signed to Billie. She nodded without missing a beat.
I excused myself and headed to the restroom, where I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my hair and pretending I wasn't having an existential crisis. Why did my husband insist I meet these women? I didn't fit in here, and they hadn't exactly rolled out the welcome mat. It was like I was invisible, like I didn't even exist in this little world of petty gossip and superficial smiles.
I had imagined Lunas to be sophisticated, graceful, or at least wielding some kind of power. Instead, they were like human mean girls in prettier clothes. Just with better filters and more expensive makeup.
Victoria entered the restroom shortly after me, standing beside me as she reapplied her lipstick. I caught her glancing at me in the mirror, but her gaze wasn't the typical cold stare I'd gotten used to from the others. It was more like a cat studying a new object in its territory—curious, cautious, and definitely not hostile.
After a moment, she turned fully toward me, offering a smile that was soft and genuine, the kind of smile that didn't come with a hidden agenda.
"I don't know how to sign, but don't mind the girls," she said. "They were cold to me when I first joined the group too. Don't let them get to you. It's a pleasure to meet you, Luna Dahlia."
I nodded, appreciating the warmth of her unexpected kindness. Her eyes briefly flicked to my ring, and her smile faltered, replaced by something far more somber.
"He was my mate, but he rejected me," her words slipping out like a dark confession.
I froze, my mind scrambling to process her words. My husband was her mate? I barely even understood the whole mating thing—most of it was from a book I skimmed before I fell asleep, and the details were a blurry mess.
I didn't know how to respond, so I just stood there, trying to make sense of it all. Victoria, however, forced a smile, but her eyes were far away, like she was holding something back, something she wasn't quite ready to say.
When I returned to the table, the other women were gone, as if they had evaporated into thin air. Outside, I saw Victoria being escorted to a car by her bodyguards, the whole scene feeling like an exit straight out of a movie.
"Ready to go?" Billie signed.
I nodded, a swirl of relief, confusion, and something else entirely settling in my chest as we made our way to the car.