The Masks We Wear

The engagement celebration is more of a performance than a party.

Every detail has been arranged to project strength, unity, and tradition. Long tables stretch across the grand dining hall, draped in deep crimson linens, decorated with silver-leafed candelabras and winter roses. The finest warriors and social leaders are seated by rank, their formal attire crisp, their smiles practiced.

And at the center of it all—me.

My dress is a soft silver silk, one-shouldered, cinched at the waist with crystal beading that shimmers whenever I move. My mother chose it, of course. Said it brought out the silver in my blue eyes and made me look “elegant, grown.” I feel like I’m being displayed in a shop window. Beautiful, but still an object.

Everyone seems to think I look perfect.

Everyone except me.

My gaze drops to the engagement ring on my finger—an oval-cut diamond cradled in a crescent-shaped platinum setting. The band is delicate, but not fragile, and cool against my skin. Inside, words are etched in fine script: Bound by moon and vow. It's beautiful. Timeless. One of the most expensive things I’ve ever touched, let alone worn.

And yet… it feels foreign. Like it belongs to someone else’s life.

I tug at the neckline when no one’s watching, the fabric smooth and foreign against my skin. It’s not me—not the girl who trains until dusk, who spars with the males and wins. It’s a costume. One I didn’t choose.

"Stop fidgeting," my mother murmurs beside me, ever graceful, ever composed. "You’ll wrinkle the bodice."

I press my hands into my lap and lift my chin. Across the table, Ethan sits with his Beta and a few of his councilmen. He’s dressed in black again—tailored, commanding, the Alpha even in stillness. He hasn’t looked at me once.

That’s fine. I haven’t looked at him either.

Not directly.

But I feel him.

The tension between us coils tighter with every breath I take. It’s like something beneath the surface won’t stop pulling me toward him. The same force that made my heart trip in my chest when he first stepped out of that car.

That can’t be the mate bond. I would know, wouldn’t I?

I push the thought away and pick at my food.

---

Halfway through the dinner, Ethan stands.

He raises his glass and says, “To unity. May it strengthen the bond between our houses.”

A perfect Alpha toast. Brief, commanding, impersonal.

Everyone raises their glass in return. I do too, though my throat is too tight to swallow.

He doesn’t even look at me.

---

I slip away when the music starts, heels clicking softly on the stone as I escape into the courtyard. The lanterns strung through the garden cast dappled gold light over the hedges and benches, the moon hanging full and bright above the treetops like a single watching eye.

I need air.

I need space to breathe again.

But I’m not alone for long.

"Running again?" Ethan’s voice reaches me just as I reach the edge of the fountain.

I turn to find him stepping out from the shadows of the columns. His jacket is gone, his sleeves rolled up to the forearms, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He looks less like the Alpha now and more like the boy I remember—arrogant, infuriating, painfully magnetic.

“I’m not running,” I say. “Just trying to stay sane.”

“You looked miserable back there.”

“So did you.”

He smiles faintly. “Touché.”

We stand in silence, the fountain trickling behind us, the scent of crushed lavender and cold stone hanging between us.

“You really hate this, don’t you?” I ask finally. “Being tied to me.”

“I don’t hate you,” he says. “But I didn’t choose this.”

“You’re looking for a way out.”

“I might have a lead,” he admits.

My heart gives a tiny lurch. “Of course you do.”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “I was advised to go through with it. Political strategy. Not personal choice.”

“Then what is your choice, Ethan?”

“I don’t know.” He stares at the moon. “Maybe I’m not allowed to have one.”

“Welcome to the club,” I mutter.

He looks at me again. There’s something deeper in his gaze now—uncertainty? Frustration? It’s hard to tell. “You said yes to this. Why?”

I open my mouth. Then close it.

Flash—

I’m fourteen again, standing in the rain with a split lip and a bruised shoulder, hearing my father say, “If you want to lead, you have to sacrifice. If you want to be respected, you don’t get to want things.”

Back then, I thought doing what he wanted would finally make me enough.

“I did it because I had to,” I say, voice low. “Because it’s my duty. Because if I didn’t… my father’s pack would crumble. And everyone would blame me.”

Ethan’s expression softens just slightly. “Is that really enough for you?”

I want to say yes.

I want to believe that it is.

But something inside me hesitates.

And he sees it.

He doesn’t press, but I can feel his thoughts flickering behind his silence, just like mine.

We’re both trapped in something neither of us fully chose. And yet... I keep feeling this thing between us. This pull. This spark.

Why does it have to be him?

Why can’t I stop thinking about the way his eyes find mine when no one else is watching?

---

Later that night, I lie on my side, staring at the dark window. The moon is higher now, brighter.

Ethan’s question still echoes in my mind.

“Is that really enough for you?”

And then another thought follows:

If he’s my mate… shouldn’t I know?

Everyone says you just know. That your soul recognizes theirs. That the bond is instant and undeniable.

But all I feel is confusion. Tension. A deep, aching pull I don’t understand.

Am I broken?

Or have I buried the truth under so many expectations, I can’t even feel it?

I curl beneath the covers, eyes still open.

The celebration is over. The mask is off.

But the questions remain.