The Alpha’s Fated Touch

Gala

I didn't burn the dress. I decided to weaponize it.

When the elevator doors opened to the Romano Grand Ballroom, the collective gasp from the five hundred assembled guests was so sharp it almost sucked the oxygen from the room.

I was wearing the exact silver silk dress Celeste had sent me in the black box—the very replica of the dress that marked my ruin. But I hadn’t left it untouched. I had spent the entire morning with Matteo’s elite tailors.

They had slashed the conservative neckline into a plunging, dangerous V that ended at my sternum. They had ripped the floor-length skirt completely open on the left side, exposing my leg to the hip. But the true masterpiece was the hem. I had them dip the bottom foot of the pristine silver silk into a deep, visceral crimson dye.

I didn't look like the discarded Moretti substitute. I looked like a queen who had swam through the blood of her enemies to take her throne.

And around my neck, heavy and cold, sat the Romano Pack diamond collar, resting perfectly above the bruised claim mark Matteo had left on my skin.

Matteo stood at my side, wearing a pitch-black tuxedo that looked pristine on him. His large hand was a permanent, branding weight against the bare skin of my lower back. Without that contact, the sensory overload of the crowded ballroom, the flashing cameras, and the overwhelming barrage of pack scents would have sent his Haphephobia into a feral tailspin.

With my skin under his palm, his storm-grey eyes were clear, lucid, and terrifyingly arrogant.

"Half the Alphas in this room are currently trying to figure out if it's safe to look at you," Matteo murmured, his lips brushing my ear. The low vibration of his voice sent a surprisingly delicious shiver down my spine. "And I am currently calculating how long it would take me to blind the other half."

"Behave, Alpha," I whispered back, a razor-sharp smile curving my lips for the cameras. "We are hosting. And our guest of honor just arrived."

The crowd parted near the grand entrance.

Celeste Moretti glided down the sweeping staircase, flanked by four heavily armed Moretti guards. She was wearing a pale blue gown, looking entirely angelic, fragile, and perfectly innocent.

Until her eyes locked onto my dress.

Celeste stumbled on the last step. Her perfect, practiced smile fractured. She had sent me the silver dress as a psychological weapon, fully expecting me to either cower in my suite or show up in something else, proving she had rattled me. Seeing me wear her insult completely short-circuited her brain.

“Target acquired,” Elena’s voice crackled cheerfully in the tiny earpiece hidden beneath my hair. “Heart rate elevated. She’s sweating, boss lady. Dante, tell your snipers to stand down. Let Lucia play.”

From the corner of the room, I caught Dante pressing two fingers to his earpiece, his amber eyes locked on Celeste’s guards. He didn't look happy, but he didn't draw his weapon.

Celeste recovered her composure, plastering the tragic-sister smile back onto her face, and walked directly toward the center of the room. The cameras swiveled like a pack of hungry wolves.

"Lucia," Celeste said, her voice trembling just enough to project her soft facade. "Alpha Romano. I... I came to offer an olive branch."

"You brought armed guards to a peace offering, Celeste?" I asked, my voice carrying crisp and clear over the ambient noise. "How remarkably traditional of you."

A few of the braver reporters snickered. Celeste’s smile tightened into a brittle line.

She gestured to a passing waiter carrying a silver tray of crystal champagne flutes.

"My father is furious about the embezzlement, of course," Celeste said, taking two glasses from the tray. She held one out to me. "But we are sisters. At least, we were. I don’t want this war. I want to toast to your... new arrangement."

I looked at the glass in her hand. The bubbles spiraled upward in the golden liquid.

My dormant wolf, sensitized by Matteo’s constant Alpha proximity, flared to life. A distinct, metallic scent cut through the alcohol. It was faint. Microscopic. But I had spent twenty years managing Mr. Moretti's dirty work, and I knew the chemical profile of every poison on the black market.

Liquid Wolfsbane. It wouldn't kill me in front of the cameras. It would simply cause me to seize, foam at the mouth, and completely lose control of my bodily functions in front of the entire city. Her plan was to humiliate me.

Matteo smelled it a second later.

His entire body went rigid. The feral silver flashed violently in his eyes, and his free hand balled into a fist. If given the chance, he was going to rip her throat out on live television.

I instantly squeezed his fingers, digging my nails into his palm to stop his forward momentum.

"A toast," I smiled, my expression perfectly serene. I reached out and took the glass from her hand. "How incredibly gracious of you, Celeste."

"To your health," Celeste beamed, raising her own glass. She brought the rim to her lips, victory dancing in her blue eyes.

"Wait," I said, my voice cutting through the air like a whip.

Celeste paused, and the entire ballroom held its breath.

"We are in Romano territory now," I said smoothly. "And as the future Luna, I cannot possibly allow a guest to drink standard vintage while I hold the glass you personally selected."

Before her brain could process the words, I stepped forward. With a swift, fluid motion, I plucked her glass from her hand, simultaneously pressing the poisoned flute into her empty fingers.

The swap took less than a second.

Celeste froze. She stared at the poisoned glass I had just forced into her hand. Panic, stark and raw, wiped the angelic mask entirely off her face.

"Drink, sister," I commanded, holding my new glass up.

"I... I suddenly feel a bit faint," Celeste stammered, taking a panicked step backward. Her hand shook so badly the champagne splashed over the rim, burning her skin slightly. "Perhaps I shouldn't—"

"Drink," Matteo’s voice boomed.

It wasn't a request. It was an Alpha Command, laced with so much raw, dominant power that the crystal chandeliers above us visibly trembled.

Celeste’s knees buckled. Her wolf, weak and entirely subservient, physically could not disobey a direct command from an Alpha of Matteo’s caliber. Her hand moved against her own will. She brought the poisoned glass toward her lips. Her eyes met mine, wide with absolute, drowning terror.

I didn't blink. I let her feel the exact terror I had felt in the rain.

She had two choices: drink it and seize, or drop it and confess.

Celeste screamed.

She violently threw the glass to the floor. It shattered into a hundred pieces, the wolfsbane eating into the expensive marble tile with a sickening, audible hiss.

The ballroom erupted.

Paparazzi shoved forward, flashbulbs exploding like strobe lights. Celeste collapsed to her knees, hyperventilating, entirely unhinged. She clawed at her own hair, sobbing hysterically as the cameras captured her complete and total breakdown.

"Get her out of here!" one of her guards yelled, surging forward to grab her by the arms, dragging the weeping, humiliated heiress toward the exit.

I stood perfectly still, my crimson-dyed hem brushing the shattered glass. I didn't gloat. I didn't smile. I simply took a slow, deliberate sip of my clean champagne.

The message to the city was loud and clear: The Morettis are weak.

Matteo’s strong hands gripped my shoulders, turning me away from the chaotic exit. He looked down at me, his chest heaving, his silver eyes scanning my face with dark awe.

"You didn't even flinch," Matteo breathed, his thumb tracing my jawline.

"I told you," I murmured, leaning into his touch, my strategic mind already calculating our next move. "I don't play their games. I break the board."

“Uh, guys?” Elena’s voice broke through the comms, entirely stripped of her usual chaotic humor. “Not to ruin the victory lap, but I was just tracking the Moretti guards’ comms as they retreated. Celeste isn't the only one making a move tonight.”

Dante materialized at Matteo's side, his hand on his earpiece. "Alpha. The stock market."

Matteo frowned. "The market closed three hours ago."

"The Asian markets just opened," Dante corrected, his amber eyes wide. "Luna Media stock is plummeting. Someone just leaked a falsified dossier claiming your Haphephobia has progressed to early-onset dementia. They are claiming you are mentally unfit to run the conglomerate."

My stomach dropped.

Celeste’s poison was just a distraction. A high-drama sideshow to keep our eyes off the real attack. Mr. Moretti had struck where it hurt most: the empire.

"If the board of directors believes you are feral," I said, looking up at Matteo, "they will trigger the emergency medical clause. They can strip you of your CEO title by tomorrow morning."

Matteo’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. He looked at the murmuring, whispering crowd of elites in his ballroom, who were already pulling out their phones, watching his stock bleed out in real-time.

"Let them try," Matteo snarled. He grabbed my hand, interlocking our fingers. "Dante. Call an emergency board meeting for 8:00 AM tomorrow. If they want to see how sane I am, I will show them."