Broken Heel
My face is wet. My knees are scraped. The mud tastes like earthworms and crushed dreams, which makes sense because there's literally an earthworm in my mouth. I spit frantically, but more mud just flows in to replace what I've expelled.
And my cake...
I look up, spitting mud and what I hope are just leaves.
The cake is gone.
No, wait. Not gone.
Upside down. On Mrs. Blackthorn's lap. She's covered in frosting and rage, silver buttercream dripping down her church dress like some kind of dessert-based hate crime.
The "Happy 17th Birthday Future Luna Julia" is now "ailuJ anuL erutuF ht71 yppaH" and she's wearing most of it.
Mrs. Blackthorn looks at me with the expression of someone who's about to file a restraining order against a birthday cake.
Amy is frozen mid-gasp, one hand over her mouth, a single balloon floating behind her like it, too, cannot believe what just happened. Her other hand is still holding my lip gloss, which now seems dramatically irrelevant.
I turn, mud sliding down my face in grotesque rivulets—
And see Caleb.
Kissing someone.
An omega.
A tiny, blonde omega who is definitely not me.
She is tiny.
Like, baby's first mate tiny. She looks twelve but somehow also slutty, which should be impossible but she's managed it. Her hair is bleached white—not blonde, not platinum, but straight-up white like she lost a fight with a bottle of peroxide and said "do it again, but make it look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket."
She's wearing a crop top that says "Bite Me" in glitter font that probably cost more than my entire outfit. Her leggings are so tight I can see her internal organs. She's chewing gum. During the kiss.
During the kiss.
Like she's multitasking romance and dental hygiene.
I blink at them, stunned, mud still dripping from my eyelashes, earthworms dangling from my hair like the world's most disgusting hair accessories. I can feel more worms squirming against my scalp, probably making themselves comfortable for an extended stay.
She pulls back from Caleb—my Caleb—makes this little popping sound with her gum, licks her lips like she just finished a particularly satisfying snack, then looks directly at me and winks.
Winks.
Like we're in a sitcom. Like she's the main character and I'm the comic relief. Like I didn't just attempt to intercept the love of my life and bellyflop into sludge while wearing my best dress.
"Who's that?" she says to Caleb, her voice high and sweet like cotton candy laced with arsenic. "Your little sister?"
Amy screams.
Like, actually screams.
Out loud.
With her whole chest.
It's the kind of scream that makes birds abandon their nests and dogs start howling three counties over.
\---
Someone coughs.
Then someone else snickers.
Then someone else full-on laughs.
It spreads like wildfire through my tiny audience. The people I invited to witness my triumph are now witnessing what will undoubtedly become pack legend. The time Julia Claw threw herself at the Alpha's son and ended up wearing half the forest floor while he made out with someone else.
I can see phones coming out. Mrs. Rodriguez is definitely recording this. My humiliation is about to go viral on WereTok.
I stand up, mud dripping down my legs like I'm some kind of swamp creature, leaves stuck to my dress like nature's confetti, and yell, "I'm his mate, not you, you little—"
"Actually," Caleb says, finally looking at me.
Finally.
After seventeen years of being the Beta's daughter, of training beside him, of harboring this massive, embarrassing crush, he finally looks at me.
And his expression is... apologetic. Like he's about to tell me my dog died.
"She is my mate."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Like someone just punched me in the chest and stole my lunch money and kicked my metaphorical puppy.
Then he wraps an arm around her—this tiny, gum-chewing, crop-top-wearing omega who probably can't even reach the high shelves at the grocery store—and they walk off, hand in hand, leaving me to squelch in the ruins of my birthday party and my entire life plan.
Her name is probably something ridiculous like Tiffany or Britney or Destiny. She probably dots her i's with little hearts and thinks the moon is just a big flashlight.
And she's Caleb's mate.
His mate.
Not me.
I do what any self-respecting future Luna would do.
I scream.
Not a cute scream. Not a dignified scream. A full-throated, rage-filled, pterodactyl-in-labor scream that probably registers on seismic equipment.
And then I grab a handful of what's left of my birthday cake—the part that didn't end up on Mrs. Blackthorn—and hurl it at Amy's house with the fury of a woman scorned.
It hits the siding with a satisfying splat, leaving a frosting stain that spells out what looks suspiciously like a profanity.
"INJUSTICE!" I bellow at the sky, shaking my muddy fists like I'm about to challenge the Moon Goddess to single combat. "COSMIC INJUSTICE! I DEMAND A RECOUNT!"
Then I storm off toward the forest, yelling something about plotting someone's demise and maybe joining a convent, limping because one of my heels snapped clean off and is probably still embedded somewhere in the mud puddle like a sparkly gravestone marking the death of my dignity.
Behind me, someone claps.
Slow, sarcastic clapping.
Possibly my mother, who has now witnessed two spectacular public humiliations in less than twenty-four hours and is probably updating her will to donate my inheritance to charity.
Or maybe it's the omega's entourage, who have now arrived like a posse of pink-wearing gremlins straight out of a teen movie. They're all blonde and shiny and coordinated, like they shop exclusively at Omegas-R-Us.
One of them—a girl with pigtails who looks like she belongs in a toothpaste commercial—offers me a tissue.
A single tissue.
For the mud covering approximately 60% of my body.
I slap it out of her hand with all the dignity I can muster while looking like I just wrestled a bog monster.
"Keep your pity tissues!" I declare, then trip over my own broken heel situation and nearly face-plant again.
The giggles that follow me into the woods will haunt my nightmares forever.