The shrill beeping of the alarm dragged Sofia out of sleep. Groaning, she rolled over a few times, burying her face in the pillow, before finally forcing her eyes open. The first sound that reached her was the hushed voices drifting up from downstairs, followed by the rapid shuffle of footsteps. The servants were already busy preparing for the big day.
It was Lola's seventeenth birthday, and the entire pack had been waiting for this day as though it were a holiday.
Sofia was still tangled in her blanket when the door creaked open. Lola leaned against the frame, her hair messy, her silk nightwear slipping off one shoulder. Even without trying, she had that effortless glow, the kind their mother adored.
Sofia gave her a warm smile. "Happy birthday, Lola."
Lola rolled her eyes. "You're still in bed?" She sighed dramatically. "Get up, Sofia. The servants need help carrying things to the hall, and I'm not about to do it myself."
She turned to leave but paused, glancing back with a smirk.
"Oh—and try not to humiliate yourself when Damien gets here. The way you stare at him, like some pathetic lovesick mutt… it's embarrassing."
The door clicked shut. Lola's words hurt, but Sofia just lay there, staring at the ceiling. She pushed the pain down and stayed quiet.
With a heavy sigh, Sofia pushed herself out of bed. She bathed quickly, then slipped into a plain blue dress. It had once been her favorite. Now she wore it only because it covered all parts of her arms. She tied her blond hair back and studied her reflection in the mirror. Round cheeks. Soft arms. Eyes that tried to be brave. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and went downstairs.
The kitchen was alive with the smell of sugar and butter. Trays of pastries crowded the counters, and the head cook waved a spoon at her the moment she appeared.
"You're late, girl." Her tone wasn't harsh, just flat, as though Sofia were another servant.
For a moment, Sofia wanted to remind her—wanted to shout that she was Beta Stephen's eldest daughter. But she reminded herself bitterly: she wasn't Lola, the precious daughter. She was the other one. The one everyone called the spare.
"Take the food to the long table," the cook instructed.
Sofia obeyed without a word, carrying the heavy bowl into the hall. Golden ribbons draped from the beams, light spilling across polished floors. Young wolves darted between chairs, shrieking with laughter until an elder snapped his fingers and sent them scurrying back to their parents.
She set the bowl down and went back for more. Each trip she made, someone brushed past her without seeing her—or worse, they saw her and looked away. She was used to it. That didn't mean it hurt any less.
By the third trip, a group of girls stood blocking her path, snapping pictures of themselves in their glittering dresses. They had the kind of bodies the pack called perfect: slender, lean. Anything else was labeled unattractive. That was the box Sofia had been shoved into.
One of the girls looked her up and down and smirked.
"Careful with the cake, Sofia. Leave some for the guests."
The others laughed mockingly. Sofia pressed her lips together and kept walking. Some battles weren't worth fighting.
Her father, Beta Stephen, stood at the entrance, issuing orders. He was tall, well-built, with gray streaking at his temples. He didn't notice Sofia at first—too busy arranging guards, adjusting details, making sure nothing went wrong. When his eyes finally landed on her, he gave her a single nod. Not a father's warmth, not love—just acknowledgment.
"Good," he said. "After this, help the kitchen with the plates. And make sure your sister's gifts are moved to the stage."
The words she wanted to say burned in her throat, but never came out. She swallowed them down like always.
"Yes, Father."
She knew he wasn't unkind to her. He was simply busy with what mattered. And today, what mattered was Lola.
By midmorning, the doors of their home opened and people poured in. Lola adored attention, and she was getting it. She arrived near noon in a silver dress that caught every scrap of light and reflected it back. Flowers filled her arms. Someone crowned her with a wreath of gold, and she laughed as if she had been born for it.
"Princess," they called her. "Our Lola."
Sofia lingered at the back, watching. She and Lola shared a face shape and a mouth, but that was where the likeness ended. Lola glowed. Sofia did not. It had always been this way.
From where she stood, Sofia wished she could just slip back to her room and sleep the day away. But that was impossible—not with her mother's and Lola's eyes constantly seeking her, not out of affection but because they liked to see her bruised. They wanted her to watch Lola receive everything she never would.
The moment Sofia began to gain weight, she ceased to exist in her parents' eyes. She was nothing but the spare daughter. The plain one.
Her own birthdays had never been celebrated. No cakes, no songs, not even a "happy birthday" from her parents. Everyone forgot—except one person. But he was no longer in her life.
Suddenly, whispers swept through the crowd. Heads turned. Sofia followed their gaze, and her breath hitched.
Damien, the Alpha heir, had just arrived.
Her heart skipped, the way it always did around him. A feeling she had tried, and failed, to kill over the past years.
The moment Lola spotted him, she abandoned her admirers and rushed into his arms. Damien chuckled softly, catching her easily and spinning her around. Claps echoed through the hall, girls blushed, some looked on with envy. To many, Lola had the perfect life.
Sofia stood quietly. But unlike the others, she didn't want Lola's life—she only wanted her friend back.
The boy who used to spar with her. Who shared water after training. Who stood up for her when others mocked her weight. Who once nearly beat another boy bloody for calling her "spare." That boy had been Damien.
Two years ago, everything had changed. Damien hadn't stopped talking to her out of boredom or cruelty—at least, she didn't think so. Something had happened, something she had never been told. One afternoon, he had looked her in the eyes, his jaw tight, and said, "Stay away from me, Sofia." No reason. No explanation. Just a command. And from that moment on, he had treated her like a stranger.
That night, Sofia had thought of dying. She had prayed to the Moon Goddess to take her life in her sleep. But the Goddess never answers her prayers.
Her chest ached as she watched Damien now, handing Lola a gift wrapped in a red ribbon. He said something that made the crowd laugh. Lola leaned up to kiss his cheek. Cameras flashed. The pack cheered. They were called the perfect couple.
Sofia looked away. She told herself she was only tired. That she didn't care. But when she dared to glance back, Damien's eyes locked with hers across the crowd.
It was by accident. It had to be. He held her gaze for one breath, two, and then his mouth tightened and he looked away. He made a small gesture with his hand and a guard moved a group aside so he could pass. Lola hooked her arm into his, and together they disappeared into the waiting crowd.
Unable to stand the celebration, Sofia retreated into the kitchen. She busied herself with work, hiding where no one would notice her.
By afternoon, the house roared with music and laughter. Elders sat at the front, children dozed on their mothers' shoulders. Every time Sofia tried to slip into a corner, someone ordered her to fetch something—a stack of cups, a bucket of ice, a tablecloth smoothed again. She did every task quietly, without complaint.
Finally, after endless errands, she stole a short break on the back steps. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes, shutting out the noise of the party.
Her mind drifted unwillingly to a memory. She had been fifteen, sparring with Damien. He had thrown her hard to the ground. Dust clung to her dress, pain flared in her back. She had been ready to get up and strike again when he suddenly pinned her down.
He chuckled, his eyes softening. For that fleeting second, he hadn't looked at her like the others did. He hadn't called her spare. He hadn't called her fat. He had looked at her like she mattered.
For a moment, time had stopped. His face had leaned closer, his breath brushing her cheek. Her heart had pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it. He was going to kiss her—she was certain of it.
But then someone shouted his name across the yard. The spell shattered. Damien rose quickly, dusting his hands against his pants. Sofia stayed where she was, staring up at him, wondering if she had imagined the entire thing.
She still didn't know, even now.
Sofia opened her eyes, blinking back to the present. Laughter from the party drifted faintly through the door, reminding her of the world she stood outside of. Hugging her arms around herself, she whispered into the quiet evening air:
"I miss him."
But missing Damien didn't change the fact that he had turned his back on her. He had joined the others in hurting her.
Suddenly, she sensed a presence behind her and turned to find a maid standing there.
"There you are," the maid said breathlessly. "You're in trouble—Ma'am is looking for you, and she's furious."