Husbands Swapped, But I Am Still the Superior Luna

CHAPTER FIVE

DAPHNE

"Oh my god, she looks stunning."

"I've never seen this level of detail on a gown before—not in person."

"The Nightfall Pack doesn't do anything halfway. Look at her."

It continues like this for several minutes. People cluster around me in the bridal suite, voices rising over one another as they take in the custom-made designer gown the Nightfall family sent over—ivory silk that pools at my feet, hand-embroidered with silver thread along the bodice and train, every seam fitted like it was sewn directly onto my body. The jewelry alone could fund a small pack's quarterly budget, and that had been a gift too, delivered alongside the gown.

And that was only the beginning of it. The entourage that arrived this morning was enough to make my heart stop. Boxes upon boxes, each one more extravagant than the last. I'd almost sent it all back—a gesture like that could be misread, too eager, too grateful—but something stopped me. This was a statement. And turning it down would have been one too.

I feel someone boring holes into the back of my skull and turn.

Sophia.

She looks beautiful—I'll give her that. Her gown is a deep burgundy with lace detailing at the sleeves, and it suits her coloring well. But standing beside mine, in this light, with this crowd? Even she knows it. I can see it in the way her eyes move over my dress before cutting back to my face. It isn't ugly. It just can't compete.

The more people gush, the harder her expression sets.

"What's so great about a custom gown?" she says finally, loud enough for the cluster around us to hear. "Rich werewolves love throwing money around to feel important. It's tacky." She rolls her eyes. "I'd rather have a man who loves me than one who's cold as stone — or worse, one who can't keep his hands to himself."

A few heads nod. She's good at that, landing just enough truth in a lie that people lean in.

I part my lips, but I don't get the chance.

From somewhere behind Sophia comes the unmistakable sound of a kiss. Loud, deliberate, theatrical.

The whole room turns.

Arden is grinning, his lips still puckered, while Krue slowly drags the back of his hand across his cheek with the expression of a man deeply reconsidering his life choices.

He's impeccably dressed—deep charcoal suit, the cut sharp and tailored, no flourishes, no excess. Everything about him says power without performance.

Arden beside him is his perfect foil, steel-blue jacket left open at the collar, the whole look deliberate in its ease, like he decided halfway through getting dressed that formality was someone else's problem.

"Funny," Arden says, his grin wide and unrepentant as he scans the room. "Someone around here seems to think we're unaffectionate."

"Don't ever do that again," Krue says flatly, still wiping his cheek.

"You loved it."

"I didn't."

"Your face says otherwise."

"My face says I'm deciding whether to demote you."

Arden laughs, completely unbothered. "You can't demote me, we're the same rank." He turns back to Sophia, tilting his head pleasantly. "Also—cold as stone? That's his charm. And as for me—" he places a hand over his heart "—I'm a devoted man. Ask anyone."

"Anyone who matters," Krue adds, and the room catches the edge beneath it.

A sharp inhale moves through the room. Someone covers their mouth. Sophia's face goes red.

"Genuine character," I say, and I'm not looking at her. I'm looking at Crux who just walked in. "Always beats a performance."

He's in a tailored ivory suit, silver cufflinks, the picture of understated elegance. He's good at that. I used to think it meant something. Now I know it's just another layer of packaging.

His brow furrows. His gaze moves between the twins and me, calculating.

Arden claps him on the shoulder before he can speak—easy, familiar, the way you'd greet an old friend at a barbecue.

"Crux! Glad you made it, man." The grin doesn't waver. "We were literally just talking about genuine character. You strike me as someone with strong opinions on that."

The question settles over the room like a held breath.

Crux's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I'd say I do," he replies, smooth and careful.

"Hmm." Arden drops his hand, turns back toward me, and the dismissal is so clean it's almost elegant. Crux simply ceases to exist in his attention.

Krue looks at him a moment longer. "I wouldn't."

"Excuse me?" An edge creeps into Crux's voice now, the polish thinning.

Krue doesn't raise it to meet him. "I wouldn't say you do."

"And what exactly gives you the authority—"

"Let's not do this today," Arden cuts in, tilting his head with a smile that's all surface. "It's our wedding. We already kept our lady waiting long enough—" a meaningful glance at Crux " unlike some people. Let's move."

A muscle jumps in Crux's jaw. "Being a few minutes late doesn't mean anything."

"It does," Krue says, and he's already turning away when he says it, like the conversation has simply ceased to be worth his attention.

Crux's nostrils flare. For a moment, I see it—the real thing beneath the charm, all that cold ambition pressing hard against the smile he's about to make himself wear. And then the mask slides back into place. That million-dollar smile. The one I used to believe in.

"Then let's not waste any more time," he says smoothly. He extends his arm to Sophia.

Arden steps to my side. Krue falls into place on my other. And as if the moment has been waiting for exactly this, the announcement rings out across the hall—the ceremony is beginning.

I let out a slow breath and let them lead me forward.