You're right, my apologies! Let me expand it properly to hit 1,400 words.
The sound of crystal glasses clinking and whispers of flattery filled the air around me. I was in the middle of a forced toast with a group of men who were plainly not there for the jewels — they were there for the power plays and status games that men like them could never resist. Their smiles were a little too wide, and their gazes lingered on each other a beat too long, measuring, calculating. I smiled politely and clinked my glass out of courtesy, but my wolf was restless and alert beneath my skin, pacing like she already knew something I didn't.
I turned to leave the group when I ran right into her.
Hayley Seymour.
Of course.
Her scent hit me first — a little too sweet, clinging to the air like a carefully laid trap. She looked beautiful and deadly at the same time, the kind of woman who had mastered the art of making destruction look graceful.
"Let's make a toast, Anastasia," she murmured, her voice soaked in false remorse as she raised her glass with theatrical seriousness. "I want to say I'm sorry for what happened at work. I really do feel bad about it."
I looked at her and let her words settle on my skin like something cold and unwelcome. Her smile didn't reach her eyes — it never did, not with me, not with anyone who actually paid attention. I laughed softly, the sound carrying no warmth whatsoever. The apology was nothing but a performance staged for anyone within earshot.
I stepped to the side, planning to leave her exactly where she belonged — behind me, forgotten.
But her hand shot out like a snake striking and seized mine, the one holding the wineglass. Before I could react, she tilted my wrist forward with precise, deliberate force. The full glass of blood-red wine spilled across her ivory dress in one clean, devastating arc, the liquid blooming across the fabric like a wound.
She gasped dramatically, stumbling backward. "Ah!"
Every head in the vicinity turned immediately.
And just like that, Elliot appeared from the side as though magnetically drawn to the disaster. Hayley stumbled back with perfect dramatic flair — not too fast, not too slow — and landed right in his arms as though she had rehearsed it a hundred times.
"How could you do this to me, Anastasia?" she wailed, slipping into her victim role so effortlessly it was almost impressive.
Almost.
I stood frozen, genuinely stunned by the sheer audacity of her performance. My blood simmered beneath my skin, and my wolf growled from somewhere deep inside me, rattling the bars of the composure I was desperately trying to hold onto.
This woman truly deserves an Oscar.
"I know I was wrong to try to report you," Hayley continued, her eyes filling with flawless, perfectly timed tears. Her voice trembled like a tragic heroine wronged by the universe itself. She curled her fingers around Elliot's arm. "But this... this was too much. I only wanted to make peace."
The whispers around us sharpened immediately, cutting through the ambient noise of the event like broken glass underfoot. I could feel the weight of at least a dozen critical stares from socialites who consumed drama the same way they consumed wine — greedily, without question. Every glance felt like a small blade finding a gap in my armor.
But it was Elliot's face that wounded me the most.
"Say you're sorry, Miss Tillman." His voice came out sharp and cold, stripped of any warmth. His eyes — usually so carefully unreadable — burned with restrained fury that he wasn't quite bothering to hide.
I turned to him slowly, feeling the specific, hollow ache of betrayal settling into my chest. "You didn't even ask what happened," I said quietly.
Hayley sniffled softly against his arm. "It's all right, Elliot. I'll just go change." A practiced pause stretched between her words, filled with the precise weight of martyrdom. She lifted one delicate hand and wiped a single, perfect fake tear from her cheek. "I forgive her."
I smiled — faint, bitter, all teeth and no softness. "I don't need your forgiveness."
Elliot stepped forward, and his Alpha energy rolled off him and crashed into me like a breaking wave. My wolf stiffened under the pressure of it, going still and rigid. The muscles in his jaw were working hard, a vein faintly visible at his temple.
"Anastasia." His voice dropped into that register that carried command in every syllable. "Apologize to her. Now."
But I didn't move. Not even slightly.
"Why should I?" I held his gaze without flinching, my chin lifted, my heart hammering like a war drum behind my ribs. "She grabbed my wrist. She tilted the glass herself. I didn't do anything."
I hadn't spilled the wine. I hadn't caused any of this. But in his eyes, the verdict was already in, and I was standing firmly on the wrong side of it.
That stung more than I wanted to admit.
No matter how many times I reminded myself that his opinion meant nothing, that I didn't need his approval or anyone else's — I did care. Not only because of what he was, because of the power he carried and the authority he commanded. It was something older than that, something quieter. My wolf had always been drawn to him, stubbornly and without permission, even in the moments when it made absolutely no sense.
Hayley's gaze flickered briefly — just a flash of something triumphant hidden behind all that performed suffering. She had always known exactly where to press to make it hurt. We had grown up running in the same pack, sharpened our teeth at the same moon school. She knew the map of my weaknesses better than most.
"Please, Elliot," she murmured gently, tugging at his sleeve with wounded grace. "Don't be angry with her on my behalf. I wasn't careful enough. It was an accident. Don't punish her for something that was partly my fault."
My claws prickled beneath my skin. Every muscle in my hand screamed for release.
A female attendant appeared smoothly at Hayley's side. "Miss Seymour, we've prepared a fresh dress for you."
Hayley smiled — sweet, soft, victorious — and glided away, her hips carrying the quiet, unhurried rhythm of someone who had already won.
I stood completely still in her wake. Every pack member present had seen it. Every whisper was aimed at me. I forced myself to swallow the tight lump rising in my throat and kept my shoulders level and my expression flat.
I wasn't leaving. Not yet. There was still the moonstone pendant I had noticed earlier — the entire reason I had come tonight in the first place.
But before I could take a single step toward it, a hand wrapped firmly around my wrist.
"Come with me," Elliot said, his voice low and iron-edged.
I resisted instinctively, but his grip tightened without hesitation as he pulled me out of the dinner hall and through a side door into a small private room. The door shut firmly behind us.
"Stop it!" I snapped, wrenching my wrist free the moment he loosened his hold.
He positioned himself between me and the door, his presence filling the room like heat from an open flame. "What the hell was that?"
I crossed my arms, still burning with adrenaline. "What are you going to do if I refuse to apologize, Elliot? Side with her again?" I tilted my head. "Isn't that just what you do?"
"Anastasia—"
"Don't." My voice came out quieter than I intended, but no less firm. "Don't look at me like I'm something that needs to be fixed. You think I'm too harsh? Too cold?" I met his eyes without wavering. "Maybe I am. But you don't know what it cost me to become this way."
He studied me the way he always did — like I was a storm he hadn't prepared for, a problem without a clean solution.
"I know you lost your mother young," he said, his voice losing some of its edge. "But you can't keep striking back at everything and everyone, Anastasia. You need to learn to be gentler. Kinder. Not every room is a battlefield."
My chest locked up. Every muscle in my body pulled taut.
He didn't understand.
I wasn't fighting everyone.
I was simply surviving.