Public Disgrace
The microphone feedback shrieked, slicing through the silence of the Grand Ballroom like an executioner’s blade.
I didn’t flinch. I stood center stage, the spotlight blindingly white against my eyelids, and waited for the axe to fall.
“—and therefore,” the family attorney’s voice boomed, amplified and echoing off the vaulted ceilings, “the Moretti Estate formally revokes the adoption decree of Lucia Moretti, effective immediately. Following the confirmed DNA match of the true heiress, Celeste Moretti, the individual known as Lucia is hereby stripped of all titles, assets, and familial associations.”
A collective gasp swept through the five hundred guests.
I opened my eyes, sweeping my gaze across the room.
Across the stage, my father—no, Mr. Moretti—refused to look at me. Beside him stood Celeste. She was wearing a dress identical to mine, a shimmer of silver silk that cost more than most people earned in a decade. She looked fragile, her lower lip trembling in a performance so perfect it deserved an Academy Award.
“Oh, Lucia,” Celeste whispered into the silence, her voice catching just enough for the front row to hear. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to take your place. I just… I just wanted to come home.”
Liar.
The word didn’t leave my lips. It stayed locked behind my teeth.
I knew exactly what this was. This wasn’t a family reunion; it was a public execution. They didn’t just want to replace me; they wanted to destroy me so thoroughly that I could never be used against them by a rival pack. They were burning the bridge while I was still standing on it.
“Lucia,” Mr. Moretti finally spoke, his voice cold, devoid of the warmth that had greeted me for twenty years. “Hand over the Crest.”
The room went dead silent.
The Moretti Crest. The platinum pin fastened to the left strap of my gown, directly over my heart. It was the symbol of the Pack’s protection, the key to the city’s elite inner circle.
“Sir,” I said, my voice steady despite the way my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. “The bylaws state a grace period of forty-eight hours for—”
“Now.” The Alpha command in his voice hit me like a physical blow. My knees buckled, my omega instincts screaming at me to submit, to roll over, to bare my throat.
I locked my knees. I dug my nails into my palms until the skin broke. I will not bow. Not to them. Not today.
Celeste stepped forward. “Let me help, Father. She’s… she’s in shock.”
She closed the distance between us, the scent of expensive lilies wafting from her skin. She reached out, her manicured fingers brushing my collarbone. Her eyes, blue and icy, met mine. The sorrow vanished, replaced by a gleam of pure, malicious triumph.
“You were just a placeholder, Lulu,” she hissed, too low for the microphones. “A seat warmer. And now the show is over.”
She grabbed the platinum pin. She didn't unclasp it, she ripped it from me.
The sound of tearing silk was loud in the quiet room. A sharp, stinging pain flared across my chest as the pin tore free, taking a strip of my dress and a layer of skin with it. A single drop of blood welled up, stark red against the silver fabric.
Celeste stumbled back, gasping theatrically, holding the pin up like a holy relic she had just rescued from the mud. “I have it, Father!”
Flashbulbs erupted. The paparazzi at the back of the room went into a frenzy, capturing the moment of my defilement.
“Security,” Mr. Moretti barked. “Escort the guest out. She is trespassing.”
Guest.
Twenty years of perfect grades. Twenty years of etiquette lessons, of brokering deals in smoke-filled rooms while he played golf, of managing the Pack’s finances while he drank. Twenty years of being the perfect daughter. Erased in three minutes.
Two hulking security guards—men I had given Christmas bonuses to last year—stepped onto the stage. They grabbed my arms, their grip bruising.
“Don’t touch me,” I snapped, wrenching my arm free with a dignity I didn’t feel. “I know the way out.”
I turned my back on them. I didn’t look at the crowd, at the friends who were suddenly busy examining their champagne flutes, or the fiancé who was currently busy with his phone.
I walked. Head high. Spine straight. Even as the blood trickled down my chest, staining the silk.
Survive, my mind chanted. Assess. Adapt. Survive.
I reached the heavy oak doors. The cool night air hit me before I even stepped outside, carrying the scent of impending rain.
Behind me, the music started again. A waltz. They were dancing on my grave before the body was even cold.
The heavy doors slammed shut behind me, muting the music, but not the humiliation.
I stood on the grand steps of the Moretti Estate, shivering. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, hollow terror. I had nothing. My phone had been remotely wiped ten minutes ago. My bank accounts were frozen. I didn’t even have a coat.
Thunder rumbled overhead, shaking the ground.
“Miss Moretti—excuse me, Miss,” the valet sneered, dropping the honorific. “I’ve been instructed to inform you that no vehicles are available for your use. You’ll have to leave the premises on foot.”
“It’s pouring,” I said, staring at the sheets of rain already slicking the asphalt. “And the gate is three miles away.”
“Not my problem.” He turned his back.
I gritted my teeth. Fine. If I had to crawl, I would.
I took the first step down, the rain instantly soaking my hair, plastering the ruined dress to my skin. The cold bit into my bones.
Think, Lucia. Think.
I needed shelter. I needed a phone. I needed leverage.
A blinding light cut through the darkness.
Twin beams of xenon headlights swept across the driveway, blinding me. A low, powerful engine growled like a predator stalking through the night. A car was coming up the drive.
I knew this couldn’t be a guest. Guests had arrived hours ago. This was someone else.
The car slowed as it approached the entrance. It was a matte black Maybach, sleek and armored, looking more like a tank than a luxury vehicle. It moved with a silent, lethal grace.
As the window in the back rolled down two inches, I froze to the spot.
I knew that car. Everyone in the city knew that car. It belonged to the Romano Pack. Our sworn enemies.
What were they doing here?
