Chapter 1

Rhea, Rhea!"

Her voice pierced the fog.

"Huh?" My eyes blinked rapidly snatching myself back from the lack of sleep. I'd been staring blankly at the mirror but seeing nothing. 

Lyra twirled in front of her reflection, the hem of her white silk dress floating like petals on water. "So? How do I look?"

The scent of roses and vanilla hung thick in her room. It coated the velvet cushions, the marble floors, the very air. Too sweet. Too perfect. It made my lungs ache.

I smiled anyway. And for once, it wasn't forced. "You look stunning. But then again, everything looks good on you."

She laughed, twirling again. "That's the problem with you."

But I wasn't flattering her.

Lyra was everything. The golden girl. Beta's daughter. Chosen. Her hair shimmered as sunlight spun into silk, and her amber eyes lit up every room—even the cruel ones. She didn't walk; she floated. People didn't just notice her. They adored her.

And today?

Today was her birthday.

Ours, technically.

We both turned twenty. But no one celebrated that part. No one ever said "Rhea and Lyra" unless they were comparing us. And I never won.

I was the orphaned omega. No family. No status. Just the girl with hollow cheeks, rough hands, and tired eyes. I scrubbed floors while Lyra was taught court etiquette. I memorized orders while she memorized suitor names.

Lyra was the sun.

I was the shadow she didn't know she cast.

And the worst part? I didn't hate her.

How could you resent the sun just for rising?

"Cassian sent it," she whispered, smoothing her hands over the waist of the gown. "Can you believe that?"

My heart twisted. "He has good taste."

She blushed as the mere thought of him swept her off her feet, he eyes flickered back to me, her expression softened quickly. 

"What about you? What are you wearing to the party?"

I stiffened.

"Why would a servant need a dress?" It came out too sharp, too bitter.

Her face fell. "Seriously?" she said quietly. "It's your birthday too. Just for one night, can't you stop pretending you don't matter?"

I didn't answer. I didn't know how to explain that it wasn't an act.

"I should go," I mumbled. "Madam Suzy's probably waiting."

Lyra sighed, frustration dancing in her eyes. But she reached for my arm gently. "Fine. But I'm sending a gown to your room. And don't you dare send it back?"

I hesitated. But I couldn't argue. I never could, not with her.

"Not tonight, you're not a servant. " at least tonight you're my guest. Okay?"

I smiled, thin and hollow. "Thanks, Lyra."

And then I left, roses still clinging to my skin like a perfume I didn't deserve.

The Southern Quarters weren't cold because of the stone. They were cold because of what they whispered.

I belonged here.

Where no one looked twice. Where girls like me stayed in the background, silent and forgettable.

Standing at the end of the hall waiting, was Madam Suzy, her arms crossed, jaw clenched.

"Well, well," she sneered. "Look who finally decided to come crawling back."

"I was with Lady Lyra—she asked me to—"

The slap came fast and hard. My head jerked to the side.

Pain bloomed. My cheek stung. My lips bled.

"You think just because she lets you in her room you're something now?" Suzy spat. "You're not even in the same universe."

Behind her, a few maids snickered. Suzy's daughter, Mira, smirked, her gaze crawling over me with disgust.

"I don't get what Lyra sees in her," Mira said loudly. "Looks like a stray mutt dragged in from the woods."

Their laughter was sharp and ugly.

But I didn't flinch. I didn't cry.

I'd learned better.

"Pick up the broom," Suzy barked. "Unless you want another one."

So I did.

The handle fits perfectly in my hand. Scrubbing. Sweeping. Rinse. Repeat.

This was normal.

Lyra was the dream. The illusion.

But this?

This was real.

When I finished and went to take the trash out, Suzy waved me off like a fly. "Out the back. And don't dawdle."

I gripped the bag tightly, kept my head down, and moved fast.

But fate never cared how careful you were.

I turned the corner—and slammed into someone solid.

The bag tore open. Filth spilled everywhere. I crashed to the ground, pain exploding in my hip and knees.

I looked up—and my heart dropped.

He stood over me.

Tall. Cold. Perfect in a way that hurt to look at.

For a second, I thought it was Cassian.

But it wasn't.

It was him.

Lucian.

The Alpha's heir.

His coat was splattered with trash water. His eyes—ice blue and utterly unreadable—locked on me.

My throat closed. "I—'m sorry—"

It spilled out, broken and breathless.

He didn't speak.

Didn't blink.

Just stared.

Behind him, someone hissed, "You stained young master Lucian's coat!"

Panic flared in my chest.

He didn't move.

Didn't react.

Just stood there, still as stone. As if I didn't even exist.

He was everything Cassian wasn't.

Cassian had warmth. Charm. A smile that softened rooms.

Lucian had nothing but silence.

Dark hair slicked back, jaw like it was hewn from stone, shoulders sculpted in ruthless symmetry. He didn't frown, didn't speak—his face a mask of perfect stillness, like a god carved from ice who'd forgotten how to feel.

A god who had long since grown bored of mortals.

And I was the girl on the ground. Surrounded by trash. Knees bleeding. Voice trembling.

I didn't move.

Couldn't.

Lucian didn't need to raise his voice.

He didn't need to lift a hand.

He didn't need to say a word.

His silence said everything.

He was power.

He was judgmental.

He was the son of the Alpha.

The one most likely to take the throne.