Chapter 1: The Wedding of the Century

MAEVE

Of all the things I could have imagined going wrong today—red wine spilling, dead flowers, maybe even the cake collapsing—this wasn't one of them. I stand here, in the middle of the forest clearing, surrounded by towering pines and ancient oaks. The moon, blood-red and ominous, hangs overhead like the universe is in on this joke. The air feels thick, almost oppressive, like even the trees are whispering, Where the hell is Isabelle?

Four years. Four freaking years of planning. Every flower arrangement, every seating chart, every tiny, mind-numbing detail. And now... Isabelle's a no-show?

Not in the ballroom, no. That would've been normal, or at least manageable. No, this wedding had to happen in the middle of this enchanted forest—because why wouldn't it? It's a magical ceremony between the most important werewolf Alpha on the West Coast and the daughter of the Moon Lake City Coven. Nothing short of a supernatural spectacle would suffice.

No, seriously. Where. Is. She?

I glance around, hoping someone, anyone, will notice the sweat beading on my forehead. The crowd is getting restless, murmurs spreading like wildfire. The band's run out of smooth jazz to play, and I swear, if they play "Here Comes the Bride" one more time, I'm going to —

"Maeve?" My sister Siobhan's voice breaks through the fog of my impending nervous breakdown. She looks at me with the same intensity she always has when I'm about to make a bad life choice. The look that says, "maybe don't jump in front of the metaphorical train". Too late for that now.

"Isabelle's not here yet." The words feel heavier coming out of my mouth than they should. Probably because they're laced with the undercurrent of: What the actual fuck?

Siobhan takes a deep breath. "I know. That's the problem."

Yeah. No shit, Sherlock.

I glance up at the enormous chandelier hanging above, like it's going to give me some divine intervention. Nothing. Just glistening stars and a growing urge to scream into the void.

Oh, right. I guess it's not entirely fair to pin all the blame on Isabelle. She was nice enough—sweet, even, in that overly polite way where you wonder if someone's secretly cursing your name behind your back. But it wasn't her that made these past four years a never-ending nightmare of wedding insanity. No, that honor goes to her sisters from the Coven. The real masterminds behind the madness.

They were the ones who insisted that every little detail be perfect. Especially the fact that this whole ceremony had to take place under a Super Blood Moon. Of course, because what screams "happily ever after" more than tying the knot under an ominous, blood-red sky that looks like it's ushering in the apocalypse?

Between their cryptic instructions and ominous warnings—"You know, Maeve, if this doesn't happen exactly as we've foretold, the consequences could be dire"—I'm honestly surprised I'm still standing here with a full head of hair.

And now… now, Isabelle doesn't show up to her own wedding?

Well, that's one way to make a dramatic exit. Thanks, Isabelle.

The forest feels alive with tension. The guests—wolves, witches, and a full bunch of other supernatural creatures, all of them powerful in their own right—are starting to murmur, exchanging uneasy glances. I can feel their eyes on me, like somehow, this entire fiasco is my fault.

Ronan stands near the altar, his silhouette sharp against the flickering torches. He looks every bit the Alpha—stoic, composed, like he's carved from stone. But I know him well enough to see the signs: the way his fingers twitch ever so slightly at his sides, the muscle in his bearded jaw clenched tight enough to crack granite. He's pissed. I don't blame him.

Not that he'd ever show it. That wouldn't be the Alpha thing to do.

And as I stand here, surrounded by magic, wolves, and a wedding that's about to fall apart, I can't help but think: If those Coven sisters give me one more sanctimonious look, I might just lose it.

I stand there, still trying to comprehend the mess unraveling around me, when I feel a hand, light but firm, on my shoulder. I turn to see Jean Westwood, Ronan's mother, standing beside me. Her face, usually calm and composed, etches with a kind of steely determination that makes my stomach drop. Behind her, Liam—my boyfriend—stands awkwardly, eyes downcast, looking like he's trying to melt into the shadows of the forest.

Great. Just what I needed. Another level of weird.

"Maeve," Jean's voice is quiet, but it carries the weight of authority. "We need to talk."

I blink at her, trying to process what's happening. "Jean, I don't know where Isabelle is. I'm just the wedding planner." My voice comes out more defensive than I intended, but honestly, I'm two seconds away from screaming.

She steps in closer, lowering her voice. "Maeve, this isn't just a wedding. You know that."

"Of course, I do." I glance over at Ronan, still standing by the altar, a storm brewing beneath his stoic mask. "But what do you want me to do? I can't make Isabelle appear out of thin air."

Jean's grip on my shoulder tightens, and I feel the tension vibrating through her fingers. She leans in, her gaze piercing. "If this wedding doesn't happen tonight, under the Blood Moon, it won't just be a personal embarrassment for our family. It will mean war, Maeve. War for the entire West Coast."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. War? I blink, trying to process what she's saying. War? This wedding was supposed to solidify alliances, keep the delicate balance between the packs, the Coven, and all those other supernatural groups I couldn't even name. If it didn't happen… I shake my head, still trying to wrap my mind around it. "But Jean, I—"

"There's no time," she cuts me off, her voice firmer now. "The guests are getting restless. Questions are being asked. The Coven themselves have said that no one else can take Isabelle's place. If this doesn't happen, they'll see it as a betrayal. Declan's rogue faction will swoop in before dawn. And Maeve... you're the only one who isn't politically connected. You're not tied to any faction, which keeps the treaties intact. Siobhan can't step in—she's married, and that would complicate things even more. And either way, it's only temporary."

I swallow hard, my mind racing. Declan Moriarty, the rogue Alpha who's been waiting for a crack in Ronan's leadership, a chance to strike. If this wedding falls apart, it'll be open season.

Awesome. I love being the default choice in life-or-death situations.

I hear Siobhan behind me before I see her. "Jean, you can't seriously be asking her to—"

"I don't see any other option," Jean replies coolly, not even bothering to turn around. "Isabelle isn't here. The moon is full. The Coven is watching. The packs are watching. We need to act now."

"I'm sorry, what?" Siobhan steps forward, eyes blazing. "Maeve isn't some pawn you can just swap out at the last second. She's not—"

Jean cuts her off with a sharp glance. "Do you think I want this, Siobhan? You think this is easy for me, asking her to take on this burden? But if this wedding doesn't happen, it's not just about Isabelle and Ronan anymore. It's about everyone. Every single supernatural community on the West Coast."

Siobhan's mouth snaps shut, but she's still fuming. I can feel her anger simmering behind me, a protective barrier between me and the tidal wave that's about to sweep me off my feet.

I glance at Liam, my bloody boyfriend, hoping—praying—he'll say something, do something. But he just stands there, looking at his feet like a scolded child. I want to scream at him, shake him, do something other than just stand there and let his mother take control of my life. But he doesn't.

Wonderful. Guess I'll have to carry both this wedding and Liam's spine tonight.

Jean's voice softens again, her hand reaching out, brushing against my arm like she's trying to appeal to the human part of me. After all, I'm nothing more than human. And to top it off, I'm the one who's spent years trying to make everyone happy, even when I didn't know how. "Maeve," she says, her voice gentler now. "You can stop this. You can keep the peace."

I feel the weight of her words pressing down on me. My head's spinning, my heart pounding in my chest. I want to protest, to scream that this isn't fair, that I'm not some sacrificial lamb they can throw into the fire just because Isabelle decided to vanish.

But the look in Jean's eyes... it's not just desperation. It's something deeper. Something I recognize—fear. And not the petty kind. The real kind. The kind that means life or death.

"Maeve..." Jean's voice breaks slightly, the pressure of the moment cracking her usual calm exterior. "If this falls apart, Ronan loses everything. We all lose everything."

My brain is in overdrive, trying to make sense of the impossible. The weight of it all hits me like a ton of bricks. The packs, the Coven, and whoever else is out there—Declan included. If I say no, if this wedding doesn't happen, the entire region could erupt into chaos.

"I…" The words stick in my throat. I look at Siobhan, but she just shakes her head, biting her lip. Even she doesn't have a solution for this one.

And Liam... He hasn't said a single word. Not one. He just stands there, silent, as I'm being pulled into this whirlwind.

Before I know it, Jean is gently guiding me toward the back of the clearing, where the bridal tent is set up, my body moving on autopilot. I barely register the flurry of activity as the attendants rush to get Isabelle's wedding dress ready. The pristine white gown, all lace and silk, hangs on a mannequin like a ghost waiting to be brought to life.

And now, apparently, I'm that ghost.

The dress is a vision of beauty. Too bad Isabelle's significantly smaller than me. But it doesn't matter now, does it? It's going on whether or not I fit into it.

The world around me blurs as they slip the gown over my head, the bodice squeezing me like a vice, my mind still spinning from the sheer absurdity of it all.

The reflection in the mirror stares back at me—dazed, confused, lost. I look like a stranger.

But I'm not Maeve anymore, am I?

I'm the substitute bride.