The price of a lie

The cafeteria of the Imperial Tower was less a dining hall and more a theater of power. Even at noon, the air was heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and predatory pheromones. Pamela and I sat at a central table, our movements stiff from the three hours of sleep and the brutal midnight session with Linus.

I was focused on my tablet, approving a shipment of silver-ore for the northern refineries, when the shadow of a parasite fell over my screen.

Amelie.

She stood there, her eyes red-rimmed and her lip trembling in a way that screamed "rehearsed." Maxwell stood a few paces behind her, looking conflicted but already curling his fists.

"How could you, Aella?" Amelie’s voice was loud enough to turn every head in the room—including Sol and Marcus, who were watching from the high table. "I tried to come to you in the halls to offer a truce, and you... you slapped me!"

She turned her face, showing a faint, red smudge on her cheek. I leaned in close, my eyes scanning the "injury" with clinical coldness.

"Nice try, Amelie," I whispered, loud enough for the surrounding tables to lean in. "But if you’re going to use makeup to pretend you were hit, at least do it right. The blending is amateur, and you used a warm-toned blush for a bruise that should be purpling."

Her face went pale, the "smudge" suddenly looking like the cheap lie it was. Maxwell stepped forward, his face hardening, desperate to save her crumbling act. "Aella, enough. You’ve changed, but this? Apologize to her. Now."

I didn't look up from my tablet for a long beat. Then, I set it down slowly and stood up. I was taller than her, stronger, and radiated a coldness that made the water in her glass ripple.

"You’re right, Amelie," I said, my voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. I stepped into her personal space, forcing her to look up. "Striking a lower-ranked wolf without cause is beneath me. But I'm glad to hear you finally admit it. Finally, you admit you are lower ranked than me."

Amelie’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open to retort, but she never got the chance. In a blur of motion that no one—not even the Dragon Princes—saw coming, I swung.

CRACK.

The sound of my palm meeting her cheek echoed like a gunshot. This wasn't a smudge of makeup; it was a strike that sent her spinning into a neighboring table, sending trays and silverware flying.

Amelie hit the floor, clutching a face that was already beginning to swell with a real bruise.

"Now," I said, looking down at her as she gasped in shock. "Now it’s true. If you’re going to lie about me, at least give me the satisfaction of earning the accusation."

"Aella!" Maxwell roared, his protective instincts for his 'precious' mate finally snapping his restraint. He lunged at me, his hand reaching for my throat to pin me.

He was a Great Plains Alpha. He was supposed to be fast.

I didn't even shift. I simply stepped into his guard, grabbed his wrist, and used his own charging momentum to pivot. With a sharp twist of my hips, I sent him over my shoulder. Before he could even process the ceiling hitting his vision, I had my knee pressed into his throat and his arm locked in a joint-break position.

One move. Three seconds.

Maxwell lay pinned to the cafeteria floor, gasping for air, his eyes wide with a mixture of agony and pure, unadulterated shock. He had been handled like a disobedient pup.

The silence in the room was absolute. Pamela stood up, her arms crossed, looking down at Maxwell with a look of profound disappointment.

"Pathetic," Pamela said, her voice dripping with acid. "Look at him. No Alpha worthy of his line—no Alpha with real blood in his veins—would have been taken down that fast. It seems the Sandwell Pack isn't just rotting at the edges; it’s hollow at the core."

I released Maxwell, standing up and smoothing out my uniform. I didn't look at him as he scrambled to his feet, his face burning with a humiliation far deeper than any physical wound.

"Clean up your mess, Maxwell," I said, picking up my tablet. "And tell your mate that if she wants to play the victim, she should pick someone who actually cares if she lives or dies."

From the high table, I caught Sol’s eye. He wasn't just amused anymore. He was wearing a look of dark, intense pride, his hand resting on the hilt of his ceremonial dagger as if he were ready to jump in just to finish the job.