The Gala

The next morning, I woke up before my alarm.

Golden eyes. I had dreamed of golden eyes. And hands—strong hands, warm hands—touching my face. A voice whispering my name.

I shook off the memory and got dressed in the same stained skirt and secondhand blazer. Today, I told myself, I would buy new clothes.

The morning passed quickly. Alistair was in meetings all day, which meant I answered emails, organized his calendar, and avoided Victoria's suspicious glances. At noon, I took my lunch break and walked to the department store three blocks away.

Five hundred dollars.

I had never spent that much on clothes in my entire life.

I wandered through the racks, touching fabrics I couldn't name. Silk. Cashmere. Wool that felt like butter. Everything was beautiful. Everything was expensive.

A saleswoman approached me—elegant, silver-haired, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. "Can I help you, dear?"

"I need... everything," I admitted. "Work clothes. Something that fits."

She looked at my stained skirt, at my faded blazer, at the way I held myself like I expected to be thrown out. Something softened in her expression.

"Follow me."

Two hours later, I walked out with four bags. Two pencil skirts. Three silk blouses. A navy sheath dress that made me look like I belonged in a boardroom. A black coat that fell to my knees. And a pair of heels that didn't pinch.

I felt like a different person.

When I returned to the office, Victoria raised an eyebrow at the bags. "Shopping spree?"

"Clothing allowance."

"Mr. Blackwood approved that?"

"He told me to use it."

Victoria's other eyebrow joined the first. "Did he."

I didn't answer. I just put the bags under my desk and got back to work.

At 4:30 PM, Alistair's door opened. He stood there, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, looking like he'd been fighting with his board of directors all day.

"Clara. My office. Now."

I followed him inside and closed the door.

He handed me a black velvet box. "Open it."

I did.

Inside was a necklace. A thin gold chain with a small diamond pendant. Simple. Elegant. Expensive.

"I don't understand."

"There's a charity gala tonight. You're coming with me."

The clause from the contract flashed through my mind. Business and social events as required.

"I don't have a dress," I said.

"I had one sent to your apartment. It should be there by now."

"You had a dress sent to my apartment? You don't know my address."

His jaw tightened. "I'm a billionaire, Clara. I know everything."

I should have been angry. I should have refused. But instead, I just felt tired.

"What time?"

"The car will pick you up at seven. Wear the necklace."

He turned back to his desk, dismissing me.

I stood there for a moment, holding the velvet box, my heart racing.

Then I left.

---

My apartment looked even smaller when I walked in that evening. The bags from the department store sat on my kitchen table. And on my bed, laid out like a gift, was a dress.

It was black. Long-sleeved, with a deep V-neck and a slit up the side. The fabric was heavy and soft—silk, I realized. Real silk.

I held it up to my body. It was exactly my size.

I'm a billionaire. I know everything.

I put on the dress. Then the necklace. Then the new heels.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn't recognize the woman staring back.

She was beautiful. Confident. Dangerous.

You're not the same girl who crawled through the mud, I told myself. Remember that.

The car arrived at exactly seven o'clock—a black Mercedes with tinted windows. A driver opened the door for me, and I slid inside.

Alistair was already there.

He wore a tuxedo. Black on black, with a white shirt and no tie. His hair was combed back, and his jaw was freshly shaved. He looked like a god carved from marble.

He looked at me.

For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes traveled from my face to the necklace, down the length of the dress, to my heels, and back up again.

"You clean up well," he said finally.

"So do you."

The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, but it was close.

The drive to the gala was silent. The city lights blurred past the window, and I watched Alistair's reflection in the glass. He was staring at nothing, his jaw tight, his hands resting on his knees.

"You hate these things," I said.

"I hate people."

"Then why go?"

He turned his head. His eyes met mine. "Because the deal I'm closing requires me to be seen. And because..." He paused. "Because I wanted to see how you'd look in that dress."

My breath caught.

"Don't read into it," he added quickly. "You're my assistant. You're required to attend. That's all."

"Of course."

But neither of us believed it.

---

The gala was held at a hotel downtown—the kind of place where the chandeliers cost more than most people's houses. Hundreds of guests mingled in ball gowns and tuxedos, drinking champagne and pretending to care about the charity.

When Alistair walked in, the room went quiet.

He had that effect. Wolves and humans alike turned to stare, their conversations faltering. And when they saw me on his arm, the whispers began.

"Who is she?"

"His new assistant. I heard the last one quit."

"Look at that dress. She must be more than an assistant."

I kept my chin up and my expression neutral.

Alistair led me through the crowd, introducing me to CEOs, politicians, and socialites whose names I forgot the moment I heard them. He was polite but distant, his hand resting on the small of my back.

Every touch sent electricity through my skin.

It's the mate bond, I told myself. Nothing more.

But my wolf didn't believe it.

An hour into the evening, Alistair was pulled away by a group of investors. I stood by the bar, holding a glass of champagne I had no intention of drinking, watching him navigate the room like a predator in sheep's clothing.

"Clara?"

The voice made my blood run cold.

I turned.

Lydia stood behind me, flawless in a red gown, her blond hair swept up in an elegant twist. She looked exactly the same as three years ago—beautiful, cruel, and utterly unaware that she had done anything wrong.

"Lydia," I said flatly.

"I thought that was you. What are you doing here?" Her eyes dropped to the necklace, the dress, the heels. "And where did you get that?"

"I work for Alistair Blackwood. I'm his assistant."

Lydia's smile faltered. "Alistair Blackwood? The Alpha of the Nightclaw Pack?"

I didn't know Alistair was an Alpha of anything. But I didn't let my surprise show.

"Yes."

"He brought you here? As his date?"

"His assistant," I corrected. "Required to attend."

Lydia laughed—a sharp, brittle sound. "Oh, Clara. Still lying to yourself, I see. That dress, that necklace... you're not here as an assistant. You're here as bait."

"Bait for what?"

"For him." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Everyone knows Alistair Blackwood doesn't keep assistants. He destroys them. The last one ended up in the hospital, remember? And the one before that? She disappeared."

"Maybe they were incompetent."

"Maybe they were human." Lydia's eyes gleamed. "But you're not human, are you, Clara? You're a wolf. A rejected Omega. And he's an Alpha who's been alone for five years. Tell me... has he mentioned the mate bond yet?"

My heart stopped.

Lydia saw the answer on my face. Her smile widened. "Oh, this is delicious. You're his second-chance mate. And he hasn't rejected you. Which means he's considering keeping you."

"He's not—"

"Be careful, cousin." She patted my cheek. "The last woman Alistair Blackwood loved ended up dead. And he was the one who killed her."

She walked away before I could respond.

I stood there, frozen, the champagne glass shaking in my hand.

The last woman he loved ended up dead. He was the one who killed her.

I looked across the room. Alistair was laughing at something an investor said, his smile easy and false. But when his eyes found mine, the smile vanished.

He knew I had talked to Lydia.

He excused himself and walked toward me, cutting through the crowd like a knife through silk.

"What did she say to you?" he demanded.

"Nothing."

"Clara."

I met his eyes. "She said you killed your last mate. Is it true?"

The gold flared in his irises. His hand closed around my arm—not painfully, but firmly. "Not here. We're leaving."

"I didn't say I wanted to leave."

"I'm not asking."

He pulled me toward the exit. People stared, but no one stopped us. The valet brought the car around, and Alistair shoved me inside before sliding in beside me.

The drive back to my apartment was silent. When the car stopped, Alistair didn't move.

"The truth," I said. "Now."

He stared out the window. The streetlights painted shadows across his face.

"Her name was Elena," he said quietly. "She was my mate. I loved her more than anything in this world."

"What happened?"

"She betrayed me." His voice was flat. Empty. "She sold information to my enemies. People died. Nearly a hundred wolves, dead because of her."

"And you killed her?"

He turned to look at me. His eyes were pure gold now—no whiskey brown left.

"I executed her. In front of the entire pack. As the law requires."

My stomach turned. "You watched her die."

"I killed her with my own hands." He leaned closer. "So yes, Clara. I killed my last mate. And if you ever betray me, I will do the same to you."

I should have been terrified.

Instead, I felt my wolf stir—not with fear, but with something else.

Understanding.

"You loved her," I said. "And she broke you."

His jaw tightened. "I am not broken."

"Then why haven't you rejected me?"

He didn't answer.

He just sat there, his golden eyes burning into mine, his body so close I could feel the heat of him.

"Go inside, Clara," he said finally.

"Not until you answer."

"Go. Inside."

"No."

For a long moment, neither of us moved.

Then Alistair cursed under his breath, grabbed the back of my neck, and kissed me.

It was not gentle. It was desperate. Angry. Hungry. His lips crashed against mine, and my wolf howled with joy, and I kissed him back like I was drowning and he was air.

When he pulled away, we were both breathing hard.

"That's why," he said, his voice rough. "Because I can't."

He let me go.

I stumbled out of the car, my legs weak, my lips burning.

The Mercedes drove away, and I stood on the sidewalk, alone in the dark, touching my mouth where he had kissed me.

What have I gotten myself into?