Ivy~

“What took you so long?”

Alpha Lucian’s voice greeted me as soon as I entered. He had his posture facing the window, his eyes not meeting mine.

I opened my mouth to speak whatever I could, but a word had not made its way out, and he’d already shut me up.

“We are already late, speed.” He spoke to Dante who was already in the driver's seat.

The moment the car started, I held the door like my life depended on it. It was like a car racing event where the winner won at least 7 plots of land in New York. Alpha Lucien, on the other hand, looks ever so calm and collected.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a building lit up like it was holding the sun hostage inside. Laughter, music, and the low hum of too many conversations spilled out into the night air.

Lucien didn’t wait for me to get out on my own. The moment my feet touched the pavement, his hand was already at my lower back, firm, guiding—or rather, steering—me toward the grand entrance.

The warmth of his palm bled through the fabric of my dress, anchoring me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. My breath caught and stiffened.

He moved close to me, to the shell of my ear. “Don't for a second think I have forgotten what I said earlier. I will make you suffer.”

I swallowed then nodded curtly..

By the time we stepped into the dazzling chaos of chandeliers and champagne flutes, his hand had slid lower, circling my waist as though it had always belonged there.

I felt eyes on us instantly. Curious. Appraising. Some whispering behind the rims of crystal glasses.

The first man who approached looked to be in his late fifties, with silver hair combed to perfection, a tailored navy suit wrapping his tall frame. His arm was draped casually around the waist of a woman who wore her diamonds like they were her skin.

“Lucien,” the man greeted, his smile tight but practiced.

Lucien’s own smile was the kind that could cut glass—cold, controlled, and sharp enough to draw blood if you leaned too close.

“This,” he said, his voice low but carrying enough to silence the man’s next breath, “is my mistress.”

I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was sure the woman beside the man could hear it. Mistress. The word felt like a brand seared into my skin, and yet Lucien’s grip on my waist only tightened, making it clear I was exactly where he wanted me.

The older man’s gaze flickered over me but he didn’t comment. Instead, his smile widened, like he’d just been told a delicious piece of gossip.

“Charming,” he said.

Lucien didn’t reply. His thumb brushed slowly, deliberately, against my side, and I realized that whatever this night was about, I was part of the show.

“What about Bianca? I was sure you were closed off with her.” The lady next to him commented.

Lucien’s jaw flexed, but his smile never faltered. “Bianca is irrelevant.” His tone was so final it shut the air out of the conversation. Then, as if dismissing both her question and her entirely, he asked, “Is Alpha Vincent Marek here tonight?”

The older man’s eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them. “Yes. He’s been waiting for you, toward the back—private lounge.” He tilted his head to a cluster of velvet ropes cordoning off a dimly lit corridor. “You can’t miss him.”

Lucien gave a single, curt nod and steered me away. His hand stayed locked around my waist, fingers pressing just enough to remind me there was no slipping free.

We passed the main crowd, their perfumes and colognes cloying in the air, until the hum of voices thinned. The lounge ahead was quieter, the lighting warmer, yet the tension was colder than ice.

And then I saw him.

Vincent Marek didn’t just stand—he owned the space around him. Dark suit. Darker eyes. His presence had a weight to it, as if you stood too close, you’d get crushed beneath it. The aura that rolled off him wasn’t loud, but it was deadly in the way of a silent predator. My pulse stumbled in my chest.

Lucien’s hand flexed at my waist, a silent command to keep moving forward.

“Lucien,” Vincent said, his voice deep and measured, though his eyes didn’t warm.

“Vincent.” Lucien’s return was equally clipped. The way they looked at each other wasn’t polite—it was a battlefield with no weapons drawn, just a quiet agreement that both would strike the second the other blinked.

They had some kind of tension between them. It was obvious by the look on their faces that they had something against each other, and it didn’t help matters that I was in the middle.

“Didn’t think I’d leave you to handle this did you?”

The man chuckled. When it finally died down, each one of their gaze held the others in place until Lucien cleared his throat.

“This,” Lucien said after a pause, drawing me slightly forward, “is my mistress.”

For the first time, Vincent’s gaze shifted to me. It wasn’t the quick, dismissive glance the older man had given—it lingered, assessing, as if stripping away layers I didn’t even know I had.

“An oddly new face? That is unlike you. So tell me, do you plan on trading this one or waiting? You plan to sell this one away, too?” A smug smirk played on his lips.

The question was so casual, so effortless, that for a moment I thought I’d misheard. But Lucien’s thumb still pressed against my waist, and the faintest crackle of tension split the air between them. I searched his profile for even a flicker of refutation but all I found was that unreadable mask he wore like a second skin.

Sell? The word lodged in my chest, sharp and cold. My lips parted, but nothing came out.

What in the world did he mean by sell?