Chapter 1 The Trap
Briar's POV
My father had sold me to a monster to cover his debts, and tonight, that monster expected me to play the perfect accessory at his engagement party—to another woman.
The irony wasn't lost on me as I stood in the marble lobby of the Obsidian Hotel, smoothing down the emerald silk dress Julian's assistant had delivered this morning with a single typed note: [Wear this. Look presentable. Don't embarrass me.]
My wolf stirred uneasily beneath my skin, sensing what I'd been trying to ignore all day—the trap closing around us with every step toward the ballroom's golden doors.
A year. That's how long I'd been Julian Sterling's property. Twelve months of being summoned at his whim, of having my life reduced to waiting for his next command. Twelve months of bruises hidden beneath clothes, of swallowing screams when he reminded me exactly what I was—a possession to be controlled.
The scars on my neck had layered over each other until they formed faint silver lines I could no longer count, each one a mark of his ownership.
Like two nights ago, when his voice had sliced through my mind without warning.
"Come to my office. Now."
I'd been in the middle of a board meeting, presenting Q3 projections to investors who were finally starting to believe in Vance Industries again. Three consecutive quarters of growth—for the first time in twelve months, I'd felt like maybe I could escape my father's shadow.
But Julian's command shattered that hope, the compulsion yanking me to my feet mid-sentence.
"I apologize, gentlemen. There's an urgent matter—my CFO will continue."
Twenty minutes later, I stood in his penthouse office while he sat behind his desk, not even looking up.
"Twenty-one minutes," he said, his tone deadly soft. "I don't like waiting, Briar."
"I was in a meeting with investors—"
He was on me before I could finish, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist and yank me forward hard enough that I stumbled. His other hand closed around my throat, not choking but controlling, fingers pressing against the layers of scars he'd already left there.
"When I call, you come." His face was inches from mine, gray eyes cold as winter. "Do you understand?"
I nodded, barely able to breathe.
"Say it."
"I understand." The words came out strangled.
He held me there for three endless seconds before releasing me with enough force that I staggered back.
"Pour me a drink," he said, walking to his desk and sitting down like nothing had happened. "Two fingers, no ice."
My hands shook as I crossed to the bar cart, fumbling with the bottle of scotch. I could feel his eyes on me, watching every trembling movement as I poured exactly two fingers and brought it to him.
He took the glass without looking at me, took a sip, then gestured at his shoes—expensive Italian leather, already spotless.
"Those need polishing. There's a kit in the bottom drawer of my desk."
Heat flooded my face. "Julian, please—"
"That's Alpha to you." His voice remained conversational, almost bored. "And I'm waiting."
I had no choice. I sank to my knees on his office floor, pulled out the polish kit with trembling hands, and began working the cloth over his shoes while he watched like I was nothing more than hired help.
"You've been busy," he said conversationally. "Forbes article. Business Insider interview. You actually started believing your own press, didn't you? Started thinking quarterly reports and media interviews made you important." He took another sip. "But this? This is what you really are. This is your place."
My vision blurred. I couldn't speak, couldn't defend myself, could only keep polishing while my professional clothes—the tailored suit I'd worn to impress investors—wrinkled against the floor.
"You're not a CEO," he said softly when I'd finished, his voice deadly calm. "You're not a success story. You're just a girl playing dress-up because I allow it. And the next time you start feeling proud—" He gestured at the polish kit still on the floor. "Remember where you belong."
He dismissed me with a wave.
I made it to my car before the tears came, before the reality crashed over me. He hadn't needed me for anything. He'd just wanted to punish me for daring to succeed, for daring to forget even for a moment that I belonged to him.
That was forty-eight hours ago. The bruises on my wrist had barely started to fade.
And now he wanted me here, at his engagement party, playing dress-up while he paraded his real future in front of Shadowmoor Pack's elite—Chloe Davenport, the Alpha's daughter from Silverwind Pack whose family alliance would strengthen both packs' power.
I pushed through the ballroom doors, and the noise hit me like a physical wall—laughter and champagne glasses clinking and the low hum of a hundred conversations layered over string quartet music.
I'd barely taken three steps into the room when I heard the whispers start, sharp and cutting beneath the elegant veneer.
"Is that Briar Vance? I can't believe she actually showed up."
"The audacity. Everyone knows she's just Julian's—well, you know."
"Poor thing probably thinks she has a chance. Wait until Chloe sees her."
I kept my eyes forward, my fingers tightening around the champagne flute I'd grabbed from a passing server, the stem digging into my palm hard enough to hurt. The crystal felt like the only solid thing in a room that was tilting sideways, conversations bleeding together into a cacophony of judgment.
"—pathetic, really. Does she think he'd ever choose someone like her over an Alpha's daughter—"
"—Chloe's going to eat her alive—"
My wolf whimpered, wanting to bare teeth and snarl at every smirking face, but I forced myself to keep walking, to keep my chin up even as my face burned and my hands trembled. I was here because Julian had ordered me to be, because the blood debt gave me no choice, but no one else knew that. To them, I was just the desperate fool who couldn't take a hint.
I spotted him near the center of the room, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, standing beside—
My breath caught.
Chloe Davenport stood beside him in an emerald silk dress identical to mine, down to the last detail. Same neckline, same flowing skirt, same delicate gold belt at the waist.
My stomach dropped.
No. No, no, no—
The champagne flute nearly slipped from my suddenly numb fingers. This wasn't a coincidence. Julian had sent me this dress knowing exactly what Chloe would be wearing. He'd orchestrated this deliberately—wanted me mocked and humiliated in front of his entire pack, wanted Chloe to see me as a threat she needed to crush, wanted everyone to watch me be put in my place.
Around me, the whispers crescendoed into barely concealed delight.
"Oh my God, look at what she's wearing—"
"She wore the same dress as the bride-to-be—"
"This is going to be a massacre."
I wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around and flee before this got worse, but my legs felt like lead, my wolf paralyzed by the weight of a hundred hostile stares. I was trapped, standing in the middle of a ballroom full of werewolves who would see this as either a pathetic attempt to upstage the bride-to-be or proof that I was exactly what the rumors suggested: Julian Sterling's desperate plaything who couldn't accept her place.
I took a shaky step backward, praying I could slip out before anyone made a scene, but it was too late.
Chloe had seen me.