Lorali

"Today the nation’s first lady, Vanya Waterfront, will be making her first appearance after her pack won the elections." The news reporter beams, her smile wide and polished as she grips the microphone. Behind her, the crowd surges with restless energy, bodies pressed close, voices rising in anticipation. Flags wave, cameras flash, and the air hums with excitement.

From what I’ve gathered watching this news channel for the past thirty minutes is that Pack Fang, Vanya’s pack, secured victory in the elections, and this charity event marks her first public appearance as first lady.

"Oh, look, it seems the first lady has arrived!" the reporter exclaims, turning toward the crowd. The cameraman zooms in on the sleek black car pulling up.

Vanya steps out, graceful as ever, her movements fluid and deliberate. She wears a modest navy‑blue dress, her hair loose beneath a simple white headband. She looks radiant, smiling and waving as cameras flash around her, the light bouncing off her features like she was born for this stage.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her since Alma. Her eyes shine brighter now, her smile brighter and her presence commanding yet warm. She looks happy. I’m glad she’s doing well.

"How is your pack treating you, Mrs. Fang?" a reporter shouts above the noise, his voice cutting through the chaos and catching her attention.

"Well, it is not Mrs. Fang yet, we are yet to wed," she replies calmly, her smile unwavering. "But they treat me well, and I’m sure the country is in good hands."

I sit cross‑legged on the carpet, watching the large TV screen in front of me. For once, the house is quiet and I’m calm since the pack isn’t here.

Keion and Walter left early for Augustus’s game. Oril went off for a job interview. Yurena disappeared to spend the day with her pack. And my bonded mate, Oracle, who I know isn’t Oril but his twin, went to court.

The silence feels strange, almost heavy. My shoulder burns with immense pain, my right-hand trembling uncontrollably.

Over the past month, I’ve noticed something strange. Oracle doesn’t feel pain when he’s away. I think it’s because he’s an Alpha, and this bond only punishes the weaker designation. It’s like a one‑sided magnet that’s at a constant pull. If I try to leave the house with the intention of abandoning Oracle and the pack, I’ll die.

I’ve tested this theory. On Mondays, when I go to the grocery store, nothing catastrophic happens. My hand hurts, yes, but I don’t feel like I’m dying. That first Monday gave me hope, I thought I was healed. But then the next week when I tried to run during the grocery trip. I didn’t even make it halfway through the street before the bond nearly killed me.

So, I concluded this curse works with intention. If I leave with the thought of escape, the bond drags me back, tearing me apart. I am officially trapped here until I die.

I press my hand against my shoulder, the pain easing slightly telling me one thing. He’s close. They’re close.

My pulse spikes. I grab the remote, shutting off the TV in a rush, and rise so quickly my joints ache.

The silence of the house feels heavier now, pressing in from every wall. My breath quickens, my chest tightens, and I know, Oracle is nearby.

The last thing I need right now is to get in trouble for lounging around watching TV. I head upstairs toward the bedrooms, my steps heavy, my shoulder still aching faintly.

Walter demands that the vases in his room be wiped every single hour. Of course, I don’t do that, but I make a point to wipe them at least once a day, just enough to keep him satisfied and avoid his wrath. That omega can get really scary when angry.

I walk through his enormous room, the bed perfectly made and that you have no idea how many times I’ve had to change the sheets because of the strange substances on it, the air smelling faintly of polished wood and cinnamon buns.

Then I step into his walk‑in closet, and as always, I’m struck by the sheer size of it. It’s not a closet; it’s a palace for clothes. Racks upon racks of suits, shelves lined with shoes, drawers filled with ties and cufflinks. It’s overwhelming, a shrine to vanity and wealth.

My eyes fall on the glass chest at the centre; the vases displayed like sacred relics. He moves them sometimes, rearranging them as if they were treasures of a museum.

I stare at them, my jaw tightening. Sometimes I want to destroy every single one of them, it would fill me with great joy to hear the glass shatter, to watch the fragments scatter across the floor. Especially the one with the purple flowers. It’s the last gift his grandfather gave him before he died. He loves it so much that he doesn’t even let me touch it.

I want to smash it just to see him cry. But even then, his tears would never amount to the oceans I’ve cried because of him and his stupid pack.

You don’t know what evil is until you’ve stood in the presence of the Spade Pack. They ruined my life completely. They took everything, my freedom, my dignity, my hope and left me trapped in this gilded cage, surrounded by vases and clothes that mean nothing, while my own soul rots away.

~....~

Later That Night

~....~

"From now on you’ll deliver home‑cooked meals to Augi at his training center. I don’t want him eating takeout anymore, I think it’s affecting the way he plays," Walter says, striding into the kitchen, his eyes glued to his phone.

"Yes, sir," I murmur, my voice low, my hands busy scrubbing the mountain of dishes stacked in the sink.

"Good. I’ll write down the location and give you money for the weekly commute. That way you don’t have to walk, it would take too long, and the food would get cold." He turns on his heel, disappearing back into whatever hole in hell he crawled out of.

I grit my teeth, bitterness rising in my chest. What was the moon goddess thinking, fating me to these people? I would have been happier if she hadn’t given me a fated mate at all. My life would have been better if I had chosen any other pack that sent a proposal like Pack Boleyn or Pack Storm literally anyone. But no. I had to pick Spade because of fate. I even closed my eyes to the fact that there was already another omega. Goddess, why was I so stupid?

Time went by slowly and that night, like every night, I went to sleep in pain, hating Pack Spade and hating myself even more.

I wake earlier than usual, at five in the morning, determined to finish most of my chores ahead of time so I can make room for this new task of delivering Augi’s lunch to him by one o’clock sharp. By noon, I’m ahead of schedule, my work completed, and I prepare to leave.

I’m dressed in my freshly cleaned Alma uniform, trying to look as neat and pretty as possible. In my right pocket I tucked the money Walter gave me, and in the left pocket I carried Oracle’s sock I stole, filled with his scent. It’s my drug, my lifeline to dulling a bit of the pain when I’m outside. I slinged Augi’s lunch bag across my body, the strap resting diagonally like a sash.

The elevator dings as I reach the ground floor. I step into the lounge, and through the glass I see the large green and white bus pulling up to the bus stop. "Shoot, it’s early," I mutter under my breath, breaking into a sprint. Eyes follow me as I dash across the room, colliding with someone coming in.

"Sorry!" I shout, already halfway across the street.

By sheer grace, I make it to the bus in time. Breathless, I fumble for the fare, pay quickly, and collapse into a seat at the back by the window.

Outside, I catch sight of that strange girl I met on my first day here, dressed in the shorter clothes this time, waving at me as she rises from the floor. I think she’s the one I bumped into. I turn my head sharply to the other side. For some reason, she makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like her.