The Party She Wasn’t Invited To

Aria’s POV

I wasn’t supposed to be there.

Not at the Wolfe mansion.

Not in Ivy’s vintage Dior.

And definitely not in the west wing hallway where the lights were dimmed just enough to scream *wrong turn*. But tell that to the vodka in my bloodstream and the God complex I’d developed since being sentenced to Bellmere like it was some kind of elite prison cell wrapped in ivy.

I blame the heels. Ivy’s were a half-size too small, and after two hours of mingling with rich kids and wannabe political heirs who all reeked of generational wealth, I needed air—or a scene. Maybe both.

That’s how I ended up slipping past a red velvet rope like it wasn’t even there. One wrong turn. One open door. One choice that changed everything.

The room was low-lit, warm-toned, and thick with a tension I didn’t understand until it was too late. The scent of sandalwood and leather hit me first, followed by a sharp click of something metallic. Chains? No. That had to be my imagination.

But then I heard it—a moan. Raw. Real. Human. I froze.

Voices whispered. Someone laughed. A soft whimper followed. I should’ve turned around.

Instead, I stepped closer.

A gloved hand grabbed mine. Large. Firm. Commanding.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t even flinch.

"You’re late," a deep voice said behind me. British accent, low and gravel-rich. It wasn’t familiar—but it wasn’t threatening either.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My breath caught as a silk blindfold slipped over my eyes.

“Wait—”

“Shh.”

Another hand cupped my chin, tilting it upward. Then the unmistakable sensation of warm breath against my neck.

“Speak again without permission, and I’ll gag you.”

My entire body tensed.

I should’ve told him. I should’ve said, *I think you have the wrong girl*. But I didn’t. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the cold thrill racing down my spine. Or maybe—deep down—I wanted to know what it felt like to be owned, if only for a minute.

“On your knees,” he commanded.

I dropped.

The rug was soft beneath me, but I barely noticed. Every sense was screaming. My hands trembled at my sides.

“Hands behind your back.”

I obeyed.

A silk ribbon tied my wrists, not tight—but tight enough to promise consequences.

“I don’t recognize you,” he murmured, circling me. I could feel the heat of him—towering, restrained, predatory.

“But I don’t need to recognize you, do I?”

I swallowed hard.

Then came the first touch. A finger under my chin. A soft brush of leather against my cheek.

“You’re shaking,” he observed. “Excited or scared?”

I didn’t answer.

A second later, I cried out. The sharp slap of a riding crop against my thigh made my skin erupt in heat.

“Answer.”

“Both.”

A chuckle. Dark. Pleased.

“I like honest girls.”

Another strike. This one softer. Teasing.

And just when I thought I couldn’t take another second of it—

The blindfold came off.

And I saw him.

Sebastian Wolfe.

The Dean of Bellmere.

My father’s oldest friend.

And the man whose eyes—silver, furious—locked onto mine like they could cut through bone.

His expression went from curiosity to horror to something feral, all in the space of a heartbeat.

Aria?"

My name in his mouth was a curse.

I nodded.

He stepped back like I’d burned him. His hands curled into fists. The riding crop hit the floor with a dull thud.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled.

I was still kneeling. Still bound. Still wearing the stupid blindfold pushed up to my forehead like a drunken crown.

“I—I didn’t know,” I said.

He stared. No words. Just a loaded silence that cracked like thunder between us.

And then he turned, storming out without another word.

I sank into the rug, still breathless, still burning.

That was the first time I had spoken to Dean Wolfe in person.

And it was the last time I felt like I was in control.

——

The hangover came the next morning, hard and unforgiving.

Bellmere’s sunlight had a way of being aggressively perfect—falling through ivy-laced windows like it belonged on a university brochure. My head throbbed as I stared up at the ceiling of my overpriced dorm room, silently cursing the vodka, the Dior dress crumpled on the floor, and the six-inch heels that destroyed the arch of my feet.

Ivy had already texted me.

**Where the hell did you take my dress???**

Followed by:

**Dad said Dean Wolfe wants to see you in his office.**

That sobered me up faster than caffeine ever could.

I barely made it out the door before Jules popped her head around the corner, a banana in one hand and a cup of iced coffee in the other.

"You look like you got hit by a billionaire,” she said with a knowing grin.

I paused mid-step. "What?"

“Don’t ‘what’ me. You’ve got post-scandal hair and a hickey on your thigh.”

I pulled down my skirt. “You’re hallucinating.”

“Sure,” she said, dragging out the word. “Where were you last night?”