Chapter 1
Scarlet
"Scarlet, put that champagne down and go chat up the youngest Donna boy."
Father's voice landed like a sharp slap across the face, yanking me right out of my cozy little corner hideout. I rolled my eyes hard, pretending I hadn't heard a damn thing, and zeroed in on the Dom Pérignon clutched in my hand instead.
Eh, it's not all that. I grumbled under my breath, letting my gaze drift over the ballroom full of these impeccably dressed but totally repulsive guests.
The youngest Donna boy? That shortstack who's barely taller than me in heels, with a gut bigger than a woman eight months along?
"Oh, for Christ's sake." I mouthed silently to the air.
Tedious. Absolutely tedious.
"I'd rather marry a potato farmer from County Cork," I whispered in Irish. At least potato farmers have actual muscle, don't they?
"Oh, darling, Scarlett!" Mrs. O'Brien swooped in, her makeup so thick you could scrape it off for a facial. "You look absolutely divine tonight! That's the new Valentino, isn't it?"
"Yes, Mrs. O'Brien." I maintained my practiced social smile while recalling how her son was arrested for soliciting prostitutes last month.
"You know, my Patrick just returned from Harvard with his MBA..." Here we go again.
"How marvelous." I delivered my most vapid response while scanning for escape routes.
"Excuse me, Mrs. O'Brien, I need to powder my nose."
Turning, I spotted Ciara gliding through a flawless waltz at the center of the dance floor. She wore an impeccably tailored silver gown, every movement calculated with mathematical precision.
The perfect Donelli heiress. Always knew exactly what to say, what to do.
And me? I was the younger sister who lurked in corners, eating petit fours.
Even this ball was thrown in her honor, considering she was about to marry that Volkov leader—reportedly as cold as Siberian tundra and dangerous as a lone wolf.
All of this stemmed from our damned, crumbling family empire and Father's "ingenious" solution.
But Father didn't consider one alliance sufficient, so he'd turned his calculating gaze toward me.
I should have been curled up in my bedroom with Egyptian cotton sheets, browsing luxury boutiques online or rewatching Pride and Prejudice for the eight hundredth time.
Instead, here I stood, corseted into this suffocating custom gown, displayed like premium merchandise for various "promising young men" to appraise.
I retreated to the buffet table. If I was destined to be auctioned off, I might as well indulge in some foie gras. I popped a caviar pearl into my mouth—excessively salty. These people's palates were truly mystifying.
At least the champagne flows freely, Scarlett.
"Hiding again? Scarlett, besides eating, drinking, and admiring your manicure, can those lovely green eyes see anything beyond your own reflection?"
I pivoted. Naturally—my beloved sister, wearing that familiar expression from our childhood: superiority laced with exasperation. A living embodiment of our family's codes and expectations.
"Oh, dearest sister," I sweetened my voice to saccharine levels, though mentally I was already striking her with my stilettos. "Of course I can see. Like how your eyeliner is slightly uneven? Shall I fetch you a compact?"
Ciara's gaze instantly crystallized into arctic fury, like twin daggers forged in ice. "Enough with your performance, Scarlett! You're completely oblivious to our family's situation! You exist in your rose-tinted fantasy, dodging every duty you find inconvenient!"
Duty, duty, always bloody duty!
"Very well, omniscient Ciara," I set down my flute and crossed my arms, attempting to project authority despite knowing it was typically futile against her.
"Since you're so enlightened, perhaps you'd illuminate me about this crisis that requires you to marry the 'Ice Wolf' while I'm paraded like a porcelain doll? "
Ciara assessed me from head to toe, her disappointment practically tangible.
"Enlighten you? What would be the point?
Can you decipher balance sheets? Can you distinguish between genuine allies and opportunistic parasites?
Beyond purchasing designer gowns and jewelry, what exactly are your capabilities? "
Alcohol and wounded pride surged through me, elevating my voice.
"Precisely! I'm utterly useless! Only you possess wisdom!
You've mastered being the perfect instrument, selling yourself at premium rates to salvage the family legacy!
Congratulations, Ciara—you're Father's masterpiece, a thoroughly efficient and soulless family asset! "
The words escaped before I could restrain them. I watched Ciara's complexion drain completely, her lips quivering with rage. Pain flickered in her eyes before being consumed by blazing fury.
"You!" She advanced, nearly touching my nose. "You self-centered little brat! You're unworthy of the Donelli name! I wish... I wish you'd awaken to reality and see how merciless this world truly is!"
She whirled around and stormed away. The alcohol's warmth evaporated entirely, leaving only frigid shame and profound hollowness.
Brilliant work, Scarlett. Another spectacular failure. You never intended that cruelty. You simply... despised the constant comparisons, the perpetual disappointment in their eyes, being treated as decorative but empty-headed, and especially this sensation of destiny strangling you slowly.
The surrounding music and conversation seemed muffled behind thick glass, distant and surreal.
Fresh air. I needed air immediately.
I practically stumbled through the heavy glass doors onto the hotel's expansive terrace. Cool night air enveloped me instantly, alleviating the suffocating heat in my chest. I gripped the cold marble balustrade, drawing deep breaths to steady my thundering pulse and turbulent emotions.
Bloody hell. Just bloody hell with everything!
"Sod off," I raised my glass toward the starlit sky, cursing in my purest Dublin accent.
I retrieved my phone, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram. Friends at Miami beach soirées, Manhattan gallery openings, Paris Fashion Week... And here I am.
"Life is devastatingly ironic," I laughed bitterly, beginning to hum an ancient Irish ballad Mother once sang, "The wind that shakes the barley..."
My voice drifted into the night breeze, carrying inexplicable melancholy. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the intoxication and emotional turbulence.
"Need some water?"
I startled, spinning around.
A man emerged from the terrace shadows. He wore an impeccably cut black tuxedo with an exquisite black wolf mask covering his features. Ice-blue eyes beneath the mask studied me with predatory fascination.
That penetrating, almost invasive gaze weakened my knees inexplicably.
"I'm not drunk." I raised my chin defiantly.
"I'm aware. But fury and alcohol create volatile combinations."
"Were you eavesdropping?"
"Your singing carried across the entire terrace." He stepped forward, moonlight sculpting his imposing silhouette, then extended his glass toward me.
I examined the clear liquid, tongue darting across my champagne-moistened lips. "That's hardly what I'm craving."
"Oh?" He moved into the moonlight. "What do you crave?"
"Something potent." I held his gaze steadily. "Something that scorches your throat and ignites your bloodstream."
"Strong spirits lead to reckless behavior."
"Reckless?" I approached him, heels clicking against marble. I reached toward his mask, but he retreated smoothly.
"You dislike masks?"
"Quite the contrary." I circled him slowly, deliberately. "Masks are invitations to discovery, wouldn't you agree?"
"Discovery carries inherent risks."
"Risk and temptation are inseparable companions." I stepped closer. "Humans are instinctively drawn to enigmas."
"Even when the truth proves disappointing?"
"Disappointment surpasses ignorance. Do you know what fascinates me most?"
"What?"
I leaned closer still. "Behind masks, we become capable of forbidden actions, unspoken desires. Like this moment..."
He captured my wrist, his palm radiating heat.
"You know nothing about me."
"That's precisely the appeal." Rather than pulling away, I moved closer. "You could be anyone. An assassin, a thief, or..." I whispered against his ear, "a fellow rebel."
His breathing intensified noticeably. "You're engaging in dangerous territory."
"Territory?" I laughed softly. "Who mentioned games? Perhaps I'm entirely serious. Perhaps I genuinely want to discover whether a man behind a wolf's mask hunts with authentic predatory instincts."
"Be cautious with your desires." His free hand settled on my waist. "When wolves hunt, they show no mercy."
"Mercy?" My laugh held mockery. "If I desired gentleness, I'd return to the ballroom for proper waltzes with suitable gentlemen."
"You're discerning."
"I simply recognize my wants." My hand traced upward along his chest, fingertips mapping his jawline.
His throat worked visibly. "You're remarkably direct."
My other hand encircled his neck, lips brushing his ear. "Tell me, mysterious stranger—are you merely eloquent, or..."
"Or what?" His voice roughened considerably.
"Or the type of man who'll render me incapable of walking tomorrow?"
The atmosphere crystallized around us. His eyes blazed with deep sapphire fire behind the mask.
"Shall we find out?"
I rose on my toes, tongue grazing his earlobe. "I always ride bareback."
Something primal ignited. He growled low, pressing me against the stone column behind us.
His voice emerged from hell's depths. "Leave now, while you still can."
I slowly lifted his mask. "Let me see what lies beneath this carefully controlled facade."