Chapter 95

Iris

“You’re sure you can handle this?” Arthur asks, his hand resting on the small of my back. We’re standing just outside the ballroom entrance, about to make our reappearance.

I take a deep breath, smoothing the front of my new black dress. It’s simpler than the emerald gown—a sleek, form-fitting sheath with a high neck and tasteful slit up one side—but the fabric is luxurious, and it makes me feel powerful somehow. Like armor.

“Yes,” I confirm, lifting my chin.

Arthur offers me his arm, and I place my hand on it, holding my head high as we step back into the glittering ballroom. The effect is immediate—conversations falter, heads turn, eyes lock onto us. I can already hear the whispers rippling through the crowd.

“She’s back…”

“I heard they tore her dress to shreds…”

“Look at her, acting like nothing happened…”

I keep my expression neutral, refusing to show any sign that the stares and whispers affect me. Inside, my stomach is twisting with nerves, but I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.

As we move through the room, I notice different reactions. Some women raise their glasses slightly in what seems like a gesture of respect. Others whisper behind their hands. A few men look at me with newfound interest, as if my ability to withstand an attack has somehow made me more worthy of their attention.

But there’s one comment that particularly catches my attention.

“Seems like a publicity stunt, don’t you think?”

My step falters slightly at that, my head swiveling to see who said it, but I can’t make out who it was. The suggestion that we would fake an attack for positive press is absurd, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by the skepticism. Politics is a dirty game, after all.

Diplomatically ignoring the comments, Arthur leads me toward a large table near the front of the room, where his parents are already seated. I smile politely as Arthur pulls out my chair. “Thank you for inviting us to sit with you, Mr. and Mrs.—” I stumble, realizing I don’t actually know how to address them.

“Wendy is just fine,” Wendy says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “And my husband, Leonard. We’re all family here, after all.”

Family. The word catches me off guard. Ten minutes ago she was looking at me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe, and now we’re family? But then again, I guess the first impression they had of me wasn’t ideal, not by a long shot.

“Of course,” I reply, taking my seat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, finally.”

Leonard gives me a curt nod. “Quite the entrance you’ve made into our lives, young lady.”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to tonight’s events or my sudden appearance as Arthur’s mate, but either way, I feel like I’m being tested. “Not exactly how I planned to introduce myself,” I admit with a soft laugh, hoping that if they’re anything like Arthur, a bit of humor will diffuse the tension. Arthur has never talked much about his parents, so I’m not sure what their personalities are like.

“Few things in life go according to plan,” Leonard says, lifting his wine glass. “Adaptation is key.”

I let out a small breath of relief. Seems like I was right to attempt humor.

A server appears, placing plates of exquisitely arranged food in front of us. The first course is some kind of salmon tartare with delicate herbs and edible flowers. I stare at it for a moment, trying to remember which fork to use. Arthur subtly nudges the correct one toward me.

“So, Iris,” Wendy begins once the servers have retreated, “Arthur tells us you’re an artist. How fascinating.”

Her tone suggests it’s anything but fascinating, but her smile seems genuine enough. I decide to take her interest at face value, at least for now.

“Yes, I’m a painter,” I reply. “I recently received a residency at the Abbott Gallery, actually.”

“Abbott?” Leonard’s eyebrows rise slightly. “That’s quite prestigious. You must be talented.”

“She is,” Arthur interjects, his hand finding mine under the table and squeezing gently. “You should see her work. It’s extraordinary.”

I feel a flush of pleasure at his praise. “Thank you.”

“And you have a son together,” Wendy states, leaving behind the subject of my career. “Miles, is it?”

I nod, dragging my lower lip through my teeth. I feel like I’m being grilled, one question after another in quick succession.

“He’s five,” I say, then hesitate, glancing at Arthur. This is still new territory for us—discussing Miles openly as our son. “He’s… wonderful.”

“Do you have pictures?” Wendy asks. “I’d love to see my grandson.”

Grandson. Another label that catches me off guard. She’s accepting Miles as family, sight unseen. Somewhat touched, I pull out my phone, scrolling through to find a good photo.

“Here he is,” I say, showing her a recent picture of Miles at the park, grinning broadly with his stuffed shark tucked under one arm.

Wendy takes the phone from me, studying the image. “Hm. He has Arthur’s eyes,” she murmurs, passing the phone to Leonard.

“And his stubborn chin,” Leonard adds, zooming in on the photo. “Definitely an Alpha in the making.”

I notice Arthur shift uncomfortably beside me. “He’s just a regular kid,” he says, shooting me a meaningful glance. I make a mental note not to mention Miles’ disability. Leonard and Wendy don’t seem like the most accepting people. But they’re older, so I sort of expect that from their generation.

“Here he is as a baby,” I say, showing them a photo of Miles at about six months old, chubby-cheeked and drooling. “And this is from his first birthday.”

Arthur tenses beside me, and when I glance at him, I see a mixture of pride and something else that I can’t quite read shining in his eyes. My face heats as I realize that this is the first time he’s seen baby pictures of Miles. But there’s something else in his gaze, too—a lingering tension, as if he’s hesitant to let his parents see our son.

Throughout dinner, Leonard and Wendy continue to ask nonstop questions about Miles—his hobbies, his personality, his development. I answer each one enthusiastically, surprised and pleased by their interest, even if they never seem very keen on getting to know me personally.

“He loves dinosaurs,” I say, showing them a picture of Miles at a museum exhibit. “And sharks. Hence the stuffed shark he loves.”

“A proper little scientist,” Wendy says approvingly. “Intelligence runs in our bloodline.”

“He has his father’s quick mind,” I agree, smiling at Arthur. But he doesn’t return my smile. Instead, he seems increasingly tense, his fingers tapping restlessly against the tablecloth.

“And his abilities?” Leonard asks casually, too casually. “Have any… manifested yet?”

I hesitate, looking to Arthur for guidance, but he’s taking a long sip of his wine, avoiding my gaze.

“He’s still young,” I say cautiously. “But he’s very perceptive.”

Leonard and Wendy exchange a look loaded with meaning.

It looks like they’re about to ask more when the dessert arrives—a mouth-watering cake covered in chocolate and berries that momentarily distracts everyone at the table. Arthur looks oddly relieved by that.

By the time the gala winds down, I’ve shown Arthur’s parents dozens of pictures and videos of Miles. Despite our rocky start, I’m beginning to think they might actually approve of me—or at least, they’re willing to overlook my humanity for the sake of their grandson.

As we gather our things to leave, Wendy places a hand on my arm. “When can we meet him? In person, I mean.”

I glance at Arthur, who seems about to speak, but something in me makes me answer first. “How about dinner this weekend? At my apartment.” Arthur’s eyes widen fractionally, but I continue, “Miles would love to meet his grandparents, I’m sure. And it would be more relaxing than trying to introduce him in a formal setting.”

Wendy’s mouth presses into a faint uptick. “That sounds perfect. Doesn’t it, Leonard?”

Leonard nods, although he’s looking at Arthur when he says, “Indeed. We look forward to it. It’s about time we meet our Alpha grandson.”

I turn to Arthur, expecting him to be pleased with my suggestion, but instead, he looks even more flustered than before.