Chapter Nine: The problematic plan

Nico’s Point of View

Thanks to the tinted windows of the car, I was able to change out of the dress I had worn before the driver pulled to a stop.

“My lady, what are you doing?” Clara whispered, her voice panicked. Outside, the sounds of the crowd filtered in—howls of celebration, cheers, murmurs, and laughter.

But I didn’t want their noise. I didn’t want their expectations pressing down on me like chains.

I wanted silence.

Because expectations break you. The more you keep them, the more disappointment eats you alive.

“My lady, what are you doing?” Clara asked again, struggling to keep her voice steady as she watched me fold the white gown from my father’s pack.

When I finished dressing, I caught her wide-eyed stare. I had traded the gown for a black stone-studded bum short, a black crop top, and a fluffy jacket. A cap sat low on my head, sunglasses hiding my eyes. I even pulled out the black umbrella I’d tucked beneath the seat.

Clara was stunned, but wisely swallowed whatever words pressed on her tongue.

The car door opened, and sunlight kissed my skin. The shades softened its sting, and the heels I wore clicked against the soil of the Dawn Hill Pack as I stepped onto the carpet laid out for me. The laughter of the people faltered, replaced by murmurs.

“Why is the Luna dressed like that?” someone whispered.

An old man looked me up and down with pure disgust, nearly spitting at the ground.

Good. Let them choke on their disappointment.

Clara trailed behind, dressed in black as I’d insisted. My gaze lifted and found Nelson. He stood with his parents and the rest of the royal family. His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he stepped forward, taking my hand.

“You look good, my Luna,” he said smoothly, lifting my hand to his lips for a soft kiss.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, yanking my hand away.

We moved to the long dining table, introductions flowing like a rehearsed script.

“I’m Fiona, female beta of the Dawn Hill Pack,” a young woman with a bright smile announced, munching on fried potatoes like this was just another evening meal.

Beside her sat the male beta, whose long, strange name I’d already forgotten. My mind wasn’t in the mood to keep such details.

Then a girl with round glasses spoke. “I’m Manda, youngest sister to Alpha Nelson.” She pushed up her frames nervously, her eyes wide as though she couldn’t stop staring at me.

The weight of their kindness pressed on me more heavily than scorn ever could. I had worn bum shorts to my coronation as Luna, expecting outrage, rejection, maybe even a scandal. But instead, they smiled. They accepted. And that made me feel like the failure in the room.

I wanted Nelson to push me away, to send me back to my father with divorce papers. Instead, silence.

Finally, an elegant older woman with flowing white hair cleared her throat. She looked like a goddess, her brows perfectly shaped, her entire presence radiating calm authority.

“You are Luna now, darling,” she said softly. “I will assign a personal stylist for you. You’ll have proper dresses soon.”

Her voice was gentle—too gentle. Fake.

Fake.

Where was the outrage? Where was the harshness I deserved?

Nelson’s voice broke my thoughts. “She’s my wife,” he said simply, dropping his fork onto his plate with a soft clink. Then, smiling, he added, “She can dress however she wants.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. Embarrassment. Confusion. I stood abruptly, excusing myself to the restroom.

Inside, I leaned against the pristine wall, my chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Why wasn’t he angry? Why wasn’t he cruel, like I’d expected?

The door creaked. When I looked up, Rowen stood there.

“I know you didn’t come in here for anything,” he smirked, his eyes glinting.

I tried to pass him, but his hand caught mine—not harsh, but firm enough to keep me from escaping.

He leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. “Whether you like it or not, you are my Luna now.”

And then he left, his broad back disappearing into the hallway.

I stared after him, my mind a storm.

“What a jerk,” I hissed under my breath.

But beneath the irritation, one question burned:

What was Alpha Rowen planning?