(Amara's POV)
The neon lights of the club pulsed against my skin as I pushed through the front door.
The music was deafening. The crowd was thick. I hated every second of it.
But I had one job tonight - find Dorian, get his signature on the medical supply documents, and leave.
That was it. Simple.
Dorian was the future Alpha of our pack. He was also the person I had quietly loved for over a decade.
My parents were the finest warriors in the pack. They died when I was still small, giving their lives in service to the territory. After that, the Gamma and his mate took me in. They weren't cruel, exactly. Just cold. Distant. Like I was an obligation they fulfilled without feeling.
Growing up, I heard the whispers. People said it was laughable - a foster daughter with no bloodline, dreaming of standing beside the future Alpha as his Luna.
But Dorian never said those things to me. When I told him once that people were talking, he just told me not to worry about it. That was enough to keep me hoping. That was enough to keep me staying.
I had spent years at his side. Preparing his lunch every morning at the academy. Finishing assignments when he was too busy with training. Telling myself that this was love - quiet, patient, unconditional.
I told myself he would see me eventually.
I found the VIP lounge without much trouble. The door was slightly open, and his voice carried over the music.
I stopped just outside.
"She's the Gamma's foster kid," Dorian was saying. His tone was casual. Almost bored. "Whatever she imagines, it doesn't matter. My Luna needs real bloodlines. Someone who can bring honor to the pack. Not some girl with no origin and no standing."
Laughter erupted from the group inside.
"She's been following you around for years," someone said. "Like a little puppy."
More laughter.
Dorian's voice came again, smooth and cold. "She's useful at the medical center. That's all she's ever been."
I didn't move.
I couldn't.
Each word landed like a blade, and I just stood there and let it happen.
I had told myself for years that he simply hadn't noticed. That he was busy. That the timing wasn't right. I had built an entire architecture of excuses to protect the feeling I carried for him.
But he had noticed. He had always noticed.
He just didn't care.
I turned around and walked to the bar.
I sat down on a stool and stared at the rows of bottles behind the counter.
"Whiskey," I said. "The whole bottle."
The bartender hesitated, then set it in front of me.
I poured the first glass and drank it in one swallow. Then I poured another.
The alcohol burned going down, but I welcomed it. I wanted to burn.