The banquet hall was a theater of grand delusions. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, tiered cakes, and vintage wines, while the Alphas sat like preening peacocks, unaware that the floor beneath them was ready to give way.
I sat at the head of the Blackwood section, my posture loose, my mind a thousand miles deep in the violet void of my own making. Beside me, my brothers were engaged in the hollow politics of the evening, but I was focused on the rhythm of the room. I could feel Isla approaching before she even entered the hall. Her heartbeat was a steady, rhythmic thud—nervous, yet resilient.
She moved through the tables with the grace of a ghost, carrying a heavy silver platter of honey-glazed boar. As she reached the Lotus Pack’s section, Prince Scott leaned back,
