The air in the grand hall was thick with unspoken tension, a suffocating blanket woven from generations of rivalry. I stood by the sprawling table, a lonely sentinel amidst an abundance of food and drink, my gaze fixed on the opposite door. My white gown, a shimmering beacon, felt less like attire and more like a target.

Every eye in the room, belonging to the sworn enemies of my family, seemed to pierce through me, making my skin crawl. This wasn't a party; it was a cage, and I, the First Daughter of the Wilson house, was its bewildered, unwilling centerpiece.

My father, usually my protector, had vanished behind that ominous door with the Anderson leaders, leaving me to face the silent scrutiny of a room full of strangers who could just as easily poison me as offer a polite nod. I clutched the blunt butter knife, a pathetic attempt at a weapon, my mind racing through absurd escape plans.

The only thing keeping me upright was the sheer force of will, a practiced mask of indifference over a churning sea of fear. Where was my brother? Why was I here, alone, a sacrificial lamb dressed for the slaughter?