Dahlia.
I'm thrilled Billie agreed to make my dress red. In a realm where I'm about as interesting as a decorative plant, I'll take any attention I can get—especially from my husband. I'm no longer stuck in that cult, and finally, I can wear what I want. My mission? To look fabulous at all times. Even in Christian Louboutin So Kate heels, notorious for their foot-torturing reputation. After a few practice walks, my feet adjusted, and now they feel like a second skin. Pain? Discomfort? Please, I'm practically floating. Who knew torture could feel so good? These heels are my new superpower. I feel invincible. Sexy. Untouchable.
Of course, I arrived last—not late, just last. How else do you make an entrance if people aren't already seated, waiting to gawk? Yes, I crave attention. It's not like I'm here because anyone actually likes me. I'm just the human accessory to my husband's plus one.
The icy glares from the Lunas told me everything. Mission accomplished. I'll never be invited to another event again, which is exactly what I wanted. But my husband? His eyes were glued to me, and not in a how-dare-you way. More like a let-me-rip-that-dress-off kind of way.
They stuck me in the most glamorous spot near the washrooms—alone, of course. When the bride walked in, everyone stood, except me. I sat there, eyes locked on her, not out of respect but out of curiosity. My husband shot me a death glare that practically screamed, Get up, or else.
I rolled my eyes, sighed dramatically, and finally stood. Happy now?
The bride paused at the altar, standing beside her groom, draped in a simple yet elegant strapless bustier ball gown. Her tiara shimmered beneath the lights, and the veil added a touch of mystery to her face.
As the ceremony unfolded, I crossed one leg over the other, just enough to reveal my thigh-high stockings. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my husband's reaction—jaw clenched, brows furrowed. His silent disapproval was practically a third guest at this wedding. I shifted my gaze back to the altar, pretending I wasn't enjoying every second of it.
The bride and groom exchanged their vows with all the gravity of a high-stakes pact. Each cut their palm with a knife, their blood trickling down as they clasped hands. The priest wrapped their intertwined fingers with a white cloth, as if tying a knot in their fate.
"I take this oath, for my pack, for my mate, for my love," they chanted together, their lips steady. "That I will only serve and love you. My heart belongs to you. Only death can separate us."
The priest unwrapped the cloth and lit it on fire, letting the ashes fall into a wineglass. Then, in the most dramatic twist of the day, he poured wine over the ashes. If that wasn't intense enough, the couple squeezed their hands, letting their blood drip into the mix. I couldn't look away.
Wait. How did my husband and I skip this part at our wedding? Was I even legally married in this bizarre world? Or did I just show up in a nice dress for nothing?
The couple exchanged glasses, drinking the blood-infused wine with solemn determination. I watched, wondering if this ritual was binding or if it came with a no refunds clause. What happens if they don't honor it? Does the priest show up with a collection plate or a sword?
"I present you husband and wife," the priest declared. The groom kissed the bride, their bond sealed in blood, wine, and ash. I sat there, still trying to process it all. This culture? Let's just say it's extra.
***********
The bride and groom twirled gracefully, their joy radiating through the room like an infectious melody I couldn't hear. My gaze drifted to Victoria and her husband. They were locked in their little world, leaving me in mine—a familiar scene, like the quiet loner in one of those cheesy high school dramas.
I sighed and reached for my phone, taking another sip of wine to ease the boredom. Subway Surfers was my escape, my fingers dancing across the screen. Meanwhile, my husband remained engrossed in deep conversation with strangers, as if I were some invisible accessory he forgot to introduce. The cold stares and dismissive attitudes? Routine by now. Being a deaf mute felt like playing a recurring role in a film no one cared to watch.
Then, a hand suddenly blocked my screen. I blinked up into the most striking green eyes I'd ever seen, belonging to a tall man with dark, wavy hair cascading to his shoulders. His sharp jawline and intense gaze screamed dangerous yet intriguing, like a glow stick lighting up a pitch-black room. This man is ridiculously handsome!
He spoke, his words fast and unintelligible, but I got the gist—he wasn't here to play Subway Surfers. I pointed to my ears, shook my head, and gave him the universal nope, can't hear you signal. Normally, that was the end of it. But this guy? Not deterred.
"Would you like to dance?" he asked again, slower this time, with a smile that made me pause.
Dance? The thought was laughable—me, dancing to music I couldn't hear? But his persistence had a strange charm. His smile was gentle, not mocking. Against my better judgment, I found myself nodding.
"Don't worry about the music, I'll lead," he said confidently.
I'd always dreamt of dancing the salsa or Argentine tango, even though I couldn't hear a beat. Counting steps, feeling the rhythm through someone else—that I could do. I tucked my phone away, took his hand, and let him guide me to the dance floor.
For once, I decided to trust the rhythm I couldn't hear.
The allure of the Argentine tango swept over me, and I couldn't resist. My fingers lightly traced his chest, a silent invitation to embrace the intensity of the dance. His response was immediate and smooth—spinning me into a soft salsa, his hand firm on my waist, our eyes locked in a rhythm only we shared.
I counted silently, our movements fluid and seamless. Onlookers stared, their surprise evident. Who would've thought the quiet, unnoticed woman could dance like this? His guidance was sure, his touch a balance of strength and tenderness.
I playfully pulled away for a second, but he drew me back, my back pressed against his front. His arms wrapped around me, and he spun me again, tighter this time, our bodies closer than before. The firmness of his grip and the subtle flex of his muscles hinted at something more primal—his wolfish nature unmistakable.
The dance deepened, and with every twist and turn, a forbidden heat grew. His lips barely grazed my skin, setting off a spark that rippled down my spine. My heart raced, a whirlwind of emotions tangling with the wine-induced haze.
I spun away, only to face the storm waiting for me. My husband's stern eyes bore into mine, his hand gripping my back with unmistakable authority. His lips moved, forming a command I didn't need to hear. "Time to go home."
Without a word, he seized my hand, leading me away in swift, unrelenting strides. My feet protested in my So Kate heels, but he didn't care—or didn't notice. The sleek black Audi R8 flashed its lights as he clicked the keys.
Slipping off my heels with as much grace as I could muster, I placed them beside me in the car. I glanced back once, searching for my mysterious dance partner, wishing I'd at least caught his name.
But my husband's presence demanded my full attention. His clenched jaw and tight grip left no room for doubt—he was furious.