Chapter 203

The morning sun filtered through the heavy drapes of Lillian's bedroom, casting golden streaks across the rumpled sheets. She stretched languidly, her muscles protesting slightly from yesterday's intense training session with Professor Montclair. The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted upstairs, undoubtedly Lucien's doing - the flirtatious head chef always made sure breakfast was perfect.

Downstairs, the mansion buzzed with unusual activity. Giselle, the head maid, directed staff with quiet efficiency while Sebastian Blackwood's deep voice rumbled through the grand foyer. Lillian paused at the top of the marble staircase, watching as the Lycan chairman issued orders to Marcus Grayson, his beta. Even in casual attire, Sebastian commanded attention, his broad shoulders tense with some unspoken urgency.

"Ah, Miss Lillian," Theodore Whitmore greeted as she descended, his butler's uniform impeccably pressed. "You're just in time. Mr. Blackwood was about to send for you."

Sebastian turned at the sound of her name, his stormy eyes softening momentarily. "We have a situation," he said without preamble. "Isabella Fontaine's fashion show has been moved up, and we need to leave for Paris within the hour."

Lillian's breath caught. Paris? With Sebastian? Her pulse quickened at the thought, though she schooled her features into calm indifference. "I wasn't aware we had plans to travel."

A ghost of a smile played on Sebastian's lips. "Neither was I, until Donovan decided to make his move. He's taking Evelyn to the same event."

The mention of her ex-fated mate sent a familiar pang through Lillian's chest, though it was duller now, tempered by time and Sebastian's persistent presence in her life. Beatrice would call this a classic case of running into your ex while looking fabulous - if only the stakes weren't so high.

Upstairs, Sophia Delacroix was already packing Lillian's bags with military precision. "The black Valentino, the red Gucci, and that stunning emerald green dress Madame Genevieve designed specifically for you," the maid murmured, folding garments with care. "Mr. Blackwood insisted you have options."

Lillian's fingers traced the delicate embroidery on the green gown, remembering how Sebastian's eyes had darkened when she'd tried it on during the fitting. That had been before the incident with Cassandra at school, before Oliver's suspension, before everything became so complicated.

A knock at the door revealed Victoria, Sebastian's daughter, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. "Father asked me to give you this," she said, holding out a velvet box. Inside nestled a pair of emerald earrings that perfectly matched the gown. "He said... they reminded him of your eyes."

Lillian's throat tightened. This was dangerous territory. Gifts from a Lycan chairman to a werewolf college student weren't just inappropriate - they were practically a declaration. Yet when she met Victoria's gaze, she saw no malice, only quiet resignation. The engagement to Donovan had been broken months ago, but the wounds clearly still festered.

The private jet waited on the tarmac, its sleek lines gleaming in the morning light. Julian Mercer, Sebastian's head gamma, conducted a final security check while Oliver bounced excitedly near the stairs. "Aunt Lillian! We're going to see the Eiffel Tower!" the boy exclaimed, his earlier troubles forgotten in the thrill of adventure.

Sebastian placed a steadying hand on his son's shoulder. "Business first, then sightseeing," he reminded gently, though his eyes never left Lillian's face. "Assuming we can avoid any... complications."

The unspoken threat hung between them - Donovan wouldn't make this easy. Neither would Evelyn, nor Cassandra, who Lillian suspected had somehow engineered this entire scenario. But as she boarded the plane, taking the seat beside Sebastian, Lillian realized with startling clarity that she wasn't afraid.

Let them come. She was done running.

The sight was so ridiculous that Beatrice and I burst into laughter, immediately mimicking their ridiculous dance moves. There was something liberating about letting go with my best friend, especially when she could match my level of absurdity without hesitation.

We sipped our beers, and with each gulp, the bitter taste grew more tolerable—maybe this wouldn’t be so unbearable after all. Beatrice finished hers first and grabbed another, already swaying slightly. She had always been a lightweight, and the flush on her cheeks told me she was already tipsy. One beer down, and she was giggling uncontrollably. I could only imagine the chaos a second one would bring.

"Beer pong tournament—back patio, now!" one of the frat boys shouted, sparking cheers as the crowd surged toward the yard. Beatrice latched onto my arm, dragging me along with her. We squeezed into the circle around the table just as a broad-shouldered guy called for a partner. To my shock, Beatrice shot her hand up.

"Beatrice, you’ve never played this before," I reminded her, but she just tossed her hair and grinned.

"So what?" she said, her voice light with drunken amusement. "First time for everything!" She bounded over to the guy, slapping his palm in a high-five. His eyes raked over her, lingering a second too long—clearly, he liked what he saw. He gestured for her to go first.

She missed the cup entirely on her first try, sending the ball bouncing off the table. The crowd erupted in laughter, Beatrice included. The opposing team scored effortlessly, forcing her to down her drink. To my astonishment, she chugged the entire cup without flinching.

The game continued, and Beatrice lost spectacularly—only landing a couple of shots while her partner carried most of the weight. Not that he minded. He was too busy enjoying the way she bounced around, her laughter infectious, her movements carefree.

By the end, Beatrice was a mess. Slurred words, wobbly legs—I knew I’d be the one hauling her out of here. I wasn’t sober either, two beers deep, but compared to her, I was practically functional. She could barely walk straight, her sentences dissolving into giggles.

Her partner slid a hand to the small of her back, murmuring something in her ear. My stomach twisted. I grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward me.

"Hey!" he protested.

"Back off," I snapped, steering her away.

Beatrice mumbled something incoherent as I dragged her through the crowd. "Relax, it’s just a party!" the guy called after us. I flipped him off without looking back, earning a chorus of laughter from the onlookers.

Inside, the house was quieter—most of the party had migrated outside for round two of beer pong. I guided Beatrice to a couch, where she collapsed against me, her head lolling onto my shoulder.

"What’s wrong with me?" she mumbled, her lips pursed in a drunken pout.

I chuckled. "Nothing. You’re just wasted."

She exhaled shakily, and then I felt it—warm dampness seeping through my sleeve. I looked down.

"Beatrice… are you crying?" My stomach dropped. She wasn’t the type to cry easily. Something was wrong.

"I hate myself," she whispered, her voice raw.

My chest tightened. "What’s going on? Talk to me."

"He didn’t want me," she murmured, her words thick with alcohol and heartbreak.

"Who? That frat guy? Trust me, he definitely wanted you—"

"No, not him." She lifted her head, her eyes glassy. "That guy at the boutique. He walked away with her… even after seeing me. I don’t even know his name."

Her voice cracked, and I pulled her closer, my heart aching for her.

This wasn’t just about tonight.

This ran deeper.