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Shit. I ordered a red one.
Theo
Fuck I ordered an orange one but I was trying to match my bowtie to her dress.
Declan
You’re all idiots, her dress is black.
Archer
How do you know?
Theo
Did you, oh I don’t know, TALK TO HER?
Declan
no
Ronan
And we’re* the idiots?
Remember all those times I worried I wouldn’t be enough for the Most Valuable Pack?
Yeah, turns out that was an intelligent instinct.
The swanky space stretched out before us holds five-hundred of the most glamorous people I’ve ever seen.
Black tie?
Pfft.
Not for them.
These people wear white tuxedo jackets, the women elbow-length gloves. Together they form a sea of swishing silk and shimmering jewels that’s almost as dazzling as the room itself.
The venue is a modern, artsy take on a classic hotel ballroom. Checkerboard-style floors that gleam, flat white walls displaying an assortment of art, opulent floral arrangements dripping with fat, snowy orchids, tables covered in gold place settings, and spotless linens.
Our group huddles just out of sight on the second-floor landing. We purposely had Ronan’s driver bring us around the back of the hotel instead of walking the red carpet situated at the front.
Archer adjusts his perfect black bow tie and frowns at me softly, concern clear in his dark eyes. “You feel good about the plan, sweetheart?”
I know I should, but my stomach suddenly feels like one of those fifties Jello molds—all wiggly and green.
Theo slips his arm around my middle, his white jacket brushing the elegant cut-outs banding my waist. He rolls his eyes and snorts. “It’s her plan, Arch.”
He has a point.
When Ronan and I went over the night, I was the one who decided to forgo the red carpet full of press in favor of making our entrance directly inside the ballroom. Our first appearance as a committed, courting pack feels monumental—I suggested doing so in front of our hired event photographers instead of random paparazzi on the sidewalk. If anything, this gives us more control over which pictures go to print.
God forbid the tabloids run one of Declan sneering at me the way he currently is.
Looking like a bad boy prince with an attitude problem, he lounges in the shadows of the hallway behind us, leaning on one white-coat-clad shoulder. Half-leering, half-glaring at me, he downs whatever is left in the tumbler of liquor he pilfered from our limousine and simply leaves the glass on the floor beside his polished dress shoes.
“Buck up, princess,” he grunts, brushing past me. “Isn’t this what you wanted? All of our balls on a silver platter? What a happy occasion.”
