Ariana's POV

The gallery was full tonight.

I smoothed down my black dress, weaving through clusters of art collectors and critics. This was my first solo exhibition. Three years of work displayed on these walls: jewelry pieces that told stories through metal and stone.

Asher was supposed to be here an hour ago.

I checked my phone again. Nothing.

"Ariana!" My mentor Caroline waved from across the room. "The buyer from Milan wants to discuss commissioning a piece."

I plastered on a smile and headed toward her, my stomach twisting. Where was he?

Then the gallery door opened.

Asher walked in, and my breath caught. Tall, commanding, with those dark eyes that had first captured me during a summer internship at his family's company. He wore the charcoal suit I had helped him pick out last month.

But he wasn't looking at me.

His gaze was locked on someone near the sculpture display. I turned, following his line of sight.

Isabella Crane stood there in a designer gown, her platinum hair catching the light. She was examining one of my pieces, but her attention shifted to Asher the moment he entered.

They stared at each other.

The room seemed to tilt. I knew that look.

Destined mates.

No, not tonight. Not here.

Asher moved toward her like gravity was pulling him. He didn't glance at the artwork, and he didn't acknowledge the people trying to get his attention. He just walked straight to Isabella.

"You," he breathed. "I've been searching for you."

Isabella's eyes widened. "The bond. I feel it too."

Around them, conversations died. Several board members from Westwood Corporation were here, watching with shocked expressions.

My hands clenched at my sides.

Three years. Three years of late-night calls and weekend trips, building toward a future together. Three years of him saying I was the one.

"This is incredible," Isabella said, her voice carrying across the gallery. "The future CEO of Westwood Corporation is my destined mate. Perfect."

Asher took her hand. "I knew when I walked in. The pull was overwhelming."

Those words. He had said almost the same thing to me once, in a coffee shop where we had talked for six hours straight.

I needed to move, to do something, but my feet were rooted to the floor.

Caroline touched my elbow. "Ariana, are you alright?"

I wasn't. Nothing was alright.

Asher finally looked around the gallery, his eyes landing on me for the first time tonight. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes, guilt, but then Isabella touched his arm, and his attention snapped back to her.

"Asher," a sharp voice cut through the moment. Vincent Shaw appeared beside us, his expression tight. "A word?"

Asher barely glanced at him. "Not now, Vincent."

"Yes, now." Vincent's jaw clenched. "The board members are watching. This isn't the time or place—"

"I've found my destined mate," Asher said, still looking at Isabella. "Nothing else matters."

"Your girlfriend is standing right there," Vincent hissed.

"Ex-girlfriend," Isabella corrected smoothly. "The bond supersedes everything. You understand pack law, don't you, Mr. Shaw?"

Vincent's eyes moved to me, something like sympathy crossing his face. "Asher, at least have the decency to speak with Ariana privately."

"There's nothing to say that can't be said here," Isabella interjected. "The bond is absolute. He's mine now."

"He can speak for himself," Vincent snapped.

But Asher said nothing, his hand already intertwined with Isabella's.

Vincent exhaled sharply. "You're making a mistake."

"The only mistake would be denying fate," Asher replied quietly. He said that as if I had never existed.

I forced my legs to work and walked toward them. "Asher." He didn't respond.

"Asher, we need to talk." Still nothing. His entire focus remained on Isabella.

Panic rose in my throat. "Asher, please…"

Isabella stepped between us. "He's occupied; can't you see that?"

"I just need a minute."

"You need to leave us alone." Her eyes flashed. "He's found his true mate. Whatever you two had, it's over."

The certainty in her voice cut deep. She already knew about us. She already dismissed it as meaningless.

"Asher," I tried one more time. He blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and looked at me. Really looked at me. "Ariana. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen here, but…" He glanced at Isabella. "You understand, don't you? Destined bonds can't be denied."

"Three years," I whispered.

"I know. And I cared about you, I did. But this…" He gestured between himself and Isabella. "This is different; this is fate."

Cared, past tense. Just wow!

Someone's phone camera flashed, then another. People were recording this, documenting my humiliation for social media.

I stepped back. "I see."

"I hope we can still be friends," Asher said, and the kindness in his voice somehow made it worse.

"Friends." The word tasted bitter.

Isabella smiled, victorious. "I'm sure you'll find someone eventually. Someone more... suitable to your status."

The dig landed perfectly. I wasn't wealthy like her. I wasn't connected. Just a designer who had worked her way up from nothing.

Not worthy of an Alpha, her expression said that clearly.

I turned and walked toward the exit, my heels clicking against the polished floor. Behind me, I heard whispers starting and phones buzzing as people texted about what they'd just witnessed.

Caroline caught up with me at the door. "Ariana, wait—"

"I need to go."

"But the exhibition just…"

"Handle it. Please." My voice cracked. "I can't be here right now."

I pushed through the door into the cool night air. My car was two blocks away in the parking garage. I walked fast, fighting tears, fighting the urge to scream.

My phone buzzed. Text from my best friend Maya: “I just saw the video. Are you okay?”

Video. Of course, someone had already posted it.

Another text, this one from a number I didn't recognize: “Sorry about tonight. You deserved better than that. - V

Vincent, Asher's business partner. Even he was pitying me now.

I reached my car and sat in the driver's seat, staring at nothing.

Three years. Built on what? Lies? Convenience? A placeholder until his real mate showed up?

My phone rang. It was Asher.

I rejected the call; he was sick!

It rang again immediately. I turned it off.

The fellowship offer from Paris sat in my email inbox, waiting for a response. The prestigious program I had been too afraid to accept because it would mean leaving Asher.

I pulled out my phone and turned it back on long enough to send one email.

“Dear Director Rousseau, I am pleased to accept your offer…