The Lycan King’s Hidden Heirs

Three days until the wedding.

I stood in the boutique, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The gown hung before me, a vision in silk and illusion.

It was breathtaking. Snow-white fabric, embroidered with silver threads that caught the light. Delicate lace sleeves, a fitted bodice, a skirt that flowed like a whispered promise.

The seamstress knelt, pinning the hem. Her fingers were quick and precise.

I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror.

I could already picture Ethan’s face. His smile. The way his blue eyes would crinkle at the corners. The soft gasp he would try to hide.

We told each other everything. Or so I thought.

Victoria, my stepmother, watched from a plush velvet chair.

A thin, polite smile touched her lips. “It’s lovely on you, Scarlett.”

“Thank you!” The words burst out of me, too loud, too eager. “Can I take it to show Ethan? Just for a second?”

Her smile vanished. “Absolutely not. It’s terrible luck.”

“But the rule is for the day before the wedding,” I argued, my voice dropping to a plea. “This is three days. I won’t even put it on. I’ll just show him the dress in the bag.”

“The answer is no, Scarlett.” Her tone was final. Steel wrapped in silk. “You’ll see him at the rehearsal dinner tomorrow. That’s soon enough.”

I bit my lip. Arguing with Victoria was like arguing with a statue.

“Fine,” I mumbled, the excitement in my chest deflating.

But as the seamstress helped me out of the gown and zipped it into a heavy garment bag, a new plan formed.

A reckless, thrilling plan.

I would just be quick. In and out. Ethan had given me a key for surprises, hadn’t he? He’d never know Victoria objected. And I’d get to see his face light up.

I met Ethan in college. He was a senior, I was a sophomore.

It was pouring rain. My arms were full of art history textbooks. He appeared beside me, holding his umbrella over my head without a word.

He carried my books to my car. Asked for my number to “make sure I got home safe.”

The texts started that night. Then the coffee dates. He remembered everything. The name of my professor. My favorite flavor of muffin. The painting I was struggling to finish.

He was the first person I wanted to tell any news to, good or bad.

After graduation, it just… solidified. We were Scarlett and Ethan.

My father, Benjamin Williams, owned a fashion empire. Runway shows. Glittering parties. Ethan navigated it all with easy charm, his hand always warm in mine.

His parents owned luxury hotels. Our worlds were different, but they clicked.

His proposal was on the rooftop terrace of The Grand Celeste, his family’s flagship hotel. Fairy lights twinkled like captured stars. He got down on one knee. The ring was a square-cut diamond, simple and stunning.

I said yes before he even finished asking.

The wedding planning was a whirlwind. Our families dove in. Venue, flowers, cake, band. I had notebooks filled with lists, even though my father offered his entire planning team.

I wanted it to be ours. Every detail.

The moment Victoria’s car pulled away from the boutique curb, I moved.

Garment bag secured in my passenger seat. A direct drive to Ethan’s penthouse apartment.

My key slid into the lock with a soft click.

The private elevator ride up was silent. My stomach fluttered.

The foyer was quiet. Too quiet.

“Ethan?” I called softly, placing the bulky garment bag on his modern gray sofa.

No answer.

But his favorite sneakers were by the door. His leather jacket was tossed over the back of an armchair.

He was home.

I walked down the hall toward the bedroom. A frown creased my brow.

Clothes littered the polished floor. A scarlet camisole. A black satin skirt. A lacy bra. Strappy silver heels, one lying on its side.

My heart gave a funny little jump.

I almost laughed. His cousin Sebastian. It had to be. Sebastian was infamous for his impulsive “visits” with his latest date.

Shaking my head, I turned to leave. This was a bad time. I’d come back later.

I grabbed the garment bag.

A sound stopped me cold.

A low, breathy moan. Unmistakable. Coming from behind Ethan’s bedroom door.

Heat flooded my cheeks. Embarrassment. I took a quick step toward the front door.

Then a man’s voice, rough with passion, tore through the silence.

“Chloeee!”

The world stopped.

My blood turned to ice.

That was Ethan’s voice.

And that name… Chloe?

My stepsister, Chloe, hadn’t set foot in this city for four years. Not since the huge fight. The one we never really talked about. She’d left and simply… never came back.

It couldn’t be.

My feet moved on their own, carrying me back toward the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar.

The room was dim, curtains drawn.

But I could see enough.

Ethan was in his bed. A woman was beneath him, her long, caramel-brown hair fanned across his pillow. His body moved against hers in a rhythm that was intimate and familiar.

“God, Chloe,” he groaned, burying his face in her neck.

The air left my lungs in a silent rush.

Numbness spread from my core, freezing me in place.