You Don't Belong
ARIANA'S POV
The red dress fit like a second skin—elegant, seductive, and unapologetically bold. A limited-edition piece from an elusive Parisian designer, it shimmered under the soft lights of my vanity mirror, catching every slant of shadow like it was born to be admired.
Hardin was going to love it.
I smoothed my palms down the silk fabric, the slit hugging my thigh, the neckline just daring enough without crossing the line. I hadn’t even planned to buy it, but the moment I saw it, I knew. It was the dress.
His color.
His night.
His undoing.
The chandelier earrings twinkled as I moved, and I applied a final touch of nude gloss before stepping out of my room. My heels clicked softly against the polished floor, echoing in the quiet corridor until I reached the foyer.
My grandfather was there, standing beside my mother, both waiting, both dressed in their usual understated, dignified way—proof that power didn’t always need to shout to be heard.
He looked me over with sharp eyes, nodding once. “Wish that boy a happy birthday for me.”
“I will,” I said, brushing an invisible crease from my dress.
“And from me as well,” my mother added. “Tell him... tell him I hope he enjoys his evening.”
Her voice was steady, but I caught the slight tension in her jaw. We weren’t going to pretend. Not tonight. Not about this.
The rivalry between the Millers and the Richards ran deep. Decades of bitterness buried beneath diamonds and contracts, courtrooms and conventions. There were entire boardrooms that froze when our names were mentioned in the same breath. I was well aware that my presence at this party would send a ripple through the guest list—and not the kind made by champagne or laughter.
The driver was already waiting. As I walked down the steps of the mansion, the summer night air kissed my skin. The long train of my dress fluttered like silk flames behind me.
The door opened with a mechanical hiss, and I climbed in, careful not to wrinkle the fabric. The engine hummed to life, and the world outside blurred into streaks of city light and shadows.
I stared out the window, replaying the last conversation Hardin and I had. The laughter. The promise. The weight of his words still sat warm in my chest, but tonight… tonight felt colder.
My phone buzzed.
Hardin: Still want to unwrap you. Don’t be too late.
I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. Not tonight. I typed back something flirty and put the phone away. The closer we got to the Richards Estate, the tighter the knot in my stomach grew.
I hated that.
I hated feeling it.
I was Ariana Stone Miller—the youngest CEO of a luxury design empire, the granddaughter of Ashton Miller, the woman with wolves for enemies and fire for blood. But tonight, I was also the girl dating the heir to the enemy's throne. I was the woman stepping into the lion’s den with a gift-wrapped smile and a heart held together by hope and pride.
We arrived. The driver opened the door, and I stepped out into a sea of opulence.
The Richards Estate sprawled before me in golden grandeur. Ivy crept along the edges of the stone pillars. String lights danced above the courtyard like stars suspended mid-breath. Valets rushed to park polished cars, and a string quartet played near the grand entryway, soft music mingling with the laughter and chatter of the elite.
I released a slow breath, squared my shoulders, and reminded myself: You belong here.
My heels clicked purposefully as I ascended the steps, each stride a declaration. Heads turned. Eyes followed. I saw mouths part slightly, whispers dart between couples.
“Is that…?”
“Ashton Miller’s granddaughter…”
“In that dress…”
Exactly.
I crossed the threshold, greeted by the warmth of the chandelier’s light and the scent of gardenias. My fingers tightened around the clutch in my hand as I searched for Hardin—but he wasn’t in the room.
Of course he wasn’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I caught something else—someone else.
Her.
Veronica Richards.
Hardin’s mother.
She stood near the bar in a floor-length navy gown, surrounded by sycophants and socialites. Her posture was perfect, her pearls precise, her glass of champagne held like a weapon. When her eyes landed on me, her entire face changed.
The corners of her lips lifted, barely. But the judgment in her eyes was razor-sharp. She scanned me from head to toe, taking in the dress, the neckline, the slit.
And she smirked.
Not the friendly kind.
The I-see-what-you're-trying-to-do-but-you’ll-never-be-one-of-us kind.
I lifted my chin and smiled back, just as hollow.
She didn’t walk toward me. Didn’t offer a polite nod or even the illusion of civility. Instead, she turned her back to me and began speaking to the man beside her. Deliberate. Calculated.
Dismissive.
It shouldn’t have stung.
But it did.
I knew this was coming. Knew her type. Women who had sharpened their claws on legacy and built their power not by warmth but by wielding cold disdain like a sword.
And yet, part of me—the girl still in love with the idea of family dinners and quiet holidays—had hoped for something else.
A small welcome.
An opening.
Something.
But no. Veronica Richards had just made it very clear—her son might be mine, but she didn’t approve. Not of me. Not of my name. Not of my blood.
“Miss Miller,” a voice said behind me. I turned to see a waiter, offering champagne.
I accepted, murmured a thank-you, and sipped. The bubbles felt sharp against my tongue. My pulse was still racing, my skin prickling with invisible thorns.
I should have walked over. Said something. Challenged the dismissal with grace. But I didn’t. Not yet.
Instead, I moved through the room, offering polite nods, engaging in brief conversation when necessary. Every word felt like a chess piece. Every smile a negotiation.
“Ariana,” someone said, stopping me. I turned to see Mrs. Helstrom—an old board member of the Richards conglomerate. Her eyes flitted to my dress, then back to my face.
“You look…daring tonight.”
“I aim to make an impression,” I replied smoothly.
“Well, you certainly have,” she said, tone unreadable. Then she walked away.
I took another sip.
Tension clung to the air like humidity before a storm.
I kept moving, circling the room like a hawk, searching—still—for Hardin. Where was he? He was supposed to be my anchor tonight. My reason. My safe space.
Instead, I was surrounded by polite enemies.
The music changed, swelling into something grander as the birthday toast hour approached. I caught sight of the birthday cake being wheeled out—five tiers of pristine white and navy-blue frosting, gold accents glittering in the light.
And still, no Hardin.
I stood alone near the edge of the dance floor, trying not to seem out of place, trying not to scream.
Behind me, Veronica laughed softly at something another guest said.
God, she hadn’t looked my way once since that smirk. She was ignoring me on purpose. Excluding me, letting everyone in the room see that I wasn’t really part of their world, not according to her.
My chest tightened, but I stood taller.
She could try to freeze me out, but I wasn’t going to melt. I had been through worse. I had survived worse.
I was not going to break.
I had earned my place—not through lineage, but through sweat and strategy and every sleepless night I spent building my name. My company. My life.
She didn’t have to like me.
But I would not be made to feel small.
Still... a part of me ached. Because this was Hardin’s world. These were his people. His blood. And if they hated me—if she hated me—what future did we really have?
Would she try to turn him against me?
I didn’t want to think about that.
So I smiled at the next guest. Smiled through the burn in my throat.
And I waited.
For Hardin.
For this night to be over.
For something—anything—to remind me that love could still win in rooms like this.
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