Belonging to my Fiancé’s Dad

Maria~

There’s a certain kind of panic that hits you when everyone around you is celebrating a future you’re not sure you picked on purpose.

The kind where your brain—or perhaps your wolf—goes, “Are we really doing this?!” thirty times per hour, but your mouth smiles and accepts shots of goddess-knows-what from friends.

Shots that I subtly passed off to someone else the second they weren't looking…

If someone had told me a year ago that I, Maria Rory Harrison, would be getting married at twenty-three—I would’ve laughed, choked on my drink, and ‘politely’ asked them what flavor of delusion they were sipping on. Because it couldn't be me.

Marriage? Please!

More like a few extra months of unemployment after just getting my degree.

Yet, here I was—at an upscale bar that smelled like top-shelf liquor—feeling… not quite drunk, not quite confused, but more than a little out of place.

And it was all Chloe’s fault.

“You’re getting a proper send-off!” my little sister had declared last week, slamming her glass down in front of me. It's a surprise it hadn't shattered—and maybe, pierced common sense into her brain– "Are you listening? A proper one! Not some lame movie night with pizza and pajamas.”

And thus, this happened:

An actual bachelorette party.

Loud music. Shots no one should be able to pronounce. Strangers high-fiving me for wearing a sash that read “Bride-to-Be (Pray for Him)” in shiny magenta print.

Party favors shaped like male anatomy…

Very explicit stuff—but to be fair, Chloe meant well.

She always did.

My little sister was two years younger, ten times bolder, and—“You happy?” She yelled over the bass, throwing her arm around me. “You’re glowing!”

Yes! With sweat!

It was hot. Cramped. And– “Y-yeah!” I smiled, low-key feeling like a jerk.

She’d poured so much effort into this, and I was happy. Kind of.

Being surrounded by my friends—who were now halfway to drunk-crying about how much they’d miss me—should've made me feel like the luckiest woman alive. Yet there was a tightness in my chest that refused to abate.

Like my instincts were quietly tapping a spoon against a glass to get my attention.

I drowned it with a sip of whatever Chloe gave me, and felt my wolf roll her eyes at my suppression attempt—her first real reaction all night.

For hours, she'd been quiet. Resigned, more like. Probably thought I wasn't ready for this. But what was there to be ready for?

Jason, my fiancé, was gorgeous! Ambitious. And somehow thought I was worthy of being his forever. He’d proposed off the bat with a diamond ring that would've put the stars to shame! Plus! He was the son of some rich Alpha, who… okay, I'd never met the man. And perhaps that was a red flag—but I’d been too swept up to care.

I didn't know much about anything, but I knew I loved Jason. And wanted to build a life with him.

Marriage was only the first step to that, right?

Speaking of, he was probably with his friends right now, doing his own version of a "one last guys’ night"—aka, drinking and gaming only. I hoped.

Which left me with this one night of freedom—to convince myself that yes, marrying someone after less than a year made sense when your gut kept raising its hand like a kid in the back of class!

“I swear to God!” Chloe shrieked, snapping me out of my haze. “There’s a silver fox at the bar and he is smoking! Like ‘I’ll ruin your life and you’ll thank me for it’ kind of hot.”

I snorted. “You need water.”

“No, you need to live a little.” She said, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Did you even look?”

Nope.

“Sure,” I lied, sipping Chloe’s drink to avoid the topic.

“He’s probably a criminal,” She added, sliding up to me with—unsurprisingly—another drink in hand. And I admit, my interest was piqued.

"Who?”

She didn't hesitate. “Bar guy. Black shirt. Alone. Looks like he eats his steaks rare and women’s souls for dessert.” She grinned so wide, you could tell the alcohol was talking.

I followed her gaze and—oh. Yeah, that was a man. Not a guy. A man.

He was older. Maybe mid-thirties, but he wore it well. His dark hair had a touch of silver at the temples and his jaw was sharp.

He sipped something clear—vodka, probably—and watched the room like he owned it and found the party a mild inconvenience.

Damn.

He was hot. And not in the Jason way—which was clean-cut and I*******m-friendly.

The man was… something else.

Dangerous.

Smoldering enough to trigger unwanted reactions in me even from a distance.

I looked away.

“Go talk to him,” Chloe hissed—all traces of dignity gone.

“I’m getting married tomorrow!”

“EXACTLY! Tonight’s the season finale of your single life. Make it count!”

The others caught on and started chanting.

“No way!” I protested—as they practically dragged me—but somehow still ended up abandoned at the bar.

Right next to him.

Shit.

Funny enough, he didn’t look over right away. Just sipped his drink, like I was part of the ambiance. And– okay, that was provoking.

I cleared my throat and that got his attention. He turned to look at me, then. With eyes a strange, unreadable shade of gray-blue—like winter skies before a storm…

Cool. Accessing. A little curious.

I swallowed hard, licking my lips nervously without really thinking. His gaze followed the movement—intense—and suddenly, I wasn't sure I wanted all that attention on me.

I felt like prey—but in a good way.

Something in my chest gave a traitorous flutter.

When I didn't speak—

"Should I know you?” he asked. His voice was velvety-deep, and–

Goddess, help me. What was I doing?!

"H-hi. No." I stammered. "S-sorry, my friends are just... terrible.”

“I see,” he said, smooth as silk, and I felt my insides melting. “You seem fine, though.”

Was I? Was it hot in here or was it just me?

“Yeah, it's nothing serious,” I added quickly—before he got the wrong idea. “They must've thought it’d be funny to… send me over.”

He blinked. “What, to me?”

I- what did one say to that?

I was nervous. Flustered.

“Yeah, um.” I coughed. “You know, bachelorette night and all…”

Realisation dawned then—his eyes flicked briefly to my sash, then back to my face. He studied me for a beat longer, then returned to his drink.

“Congratulations.”

It sounded like a condolence rather than a compliment and something in me deflated.

Ouch.

But why did I even care what a stranger thought?

I should've left. I meant to–

But I didn't.

Instead, I sat. Ordered water. And we fell into the kind of quiet that should've been awkward, but wasn’t.

“Thanks,” I mumbled. “Tomorrow's the wedding.” I added foolishly—as if he needed that spelt out.

“Right,” was all he said. And I mentally slapped myself.

“Yeah… So. You know. Definitely not here to flirt. Or... do anything weird.”

Unexpectedly, a corner of his lips quirked at that. He leaned back and sipped on his drink like all this was terribly amusing. “Then what are you still doing here?”

In all honesty, I didn't know. But– whenever he spoke, I felt it from head to toe… like tiny jolts of electricity perambulating on my skin. It made it hard to think.

“Trying not to look foolish,” I admitted.

“You’re failing,” he deadpanned.

I choked on a laugh.

He wasn’t being cruel—just honest. Like he saw through my layers of makeup, nerves and alcohol and went, ‘Ah. This one’s pretending not to panic.’

Damn right, I was.

“At the risk of seeming presumptuous,” he added, “You look like someone trying to convince herself she made the right choice.”

Those words hit like a punch.

I laughed. Weak. “Is it that obvious?”

I snuck a peek at him—and he caught me in the process. Heat warmed my face.

He didn’t smirk though, or flirt. He just watched me in return. Which, somehow, was worse.

His eyes moved back to his drink as he swirled it in his glass. “Only to those who’ve been there.” He sighed.

I didn't even remember I'd asked a question.

“You were engaged?”

He lifted his glass. “Mistakes come in many forms.”

It should've ended there.

I should've nodded, maybe offered a polite smile before returning to the chaos of my friends and my internal denial.

Instead, I asked, “And did you make the right choice? Walking away?”

He paused, at that. Perhaps, pondering my question. Then-

“Sometimes, the wrong choice teaches you what to look for next time.”

We sat in that thought for a moment.

After that, I became… strangely relaxed.

We talked for a bit. Or tried to.

I said something about the decor. He responded with some dry remark that made me giggle more than it should've. When he huffed something that sounded like laughter, I swear, I heard my ovaries cheer.

It was all harmless, really. But something about him—his voice, his calm—it centered me.

Made me feel… giddy. And alive.

More alive than I’d felt all night.

More than I’d felt with—

Nope. No. Not going there.

“I should go,” I said and stood abruptly like my barstool was suddenly on fire. “It was… weirdly nice to meet you.”

He nodded, like he’d expected that.

He was still watching me when I turned to leave—before I could say something stupid.

Or worse—stay.

His sharp gaze burned between my shoulder blades.

But I didn't look back.

Because if I did… I wasn’t sure I could walk away again.