Top Beauty Ads

Blackhawk Fashion & Beauty / Quad Cities

Your style deserves the best 😎 Your budget deserves savings 💰 With Nike Tech deals, you get both 🔥 Sporty ✨ Stylish ✨ Affordable ⏳ Limited time only, Don’t miss it 👌 1 Set For $69.⁹⁹ - 2 For $124.⁹⁹ - 3 For $164.⁹⁹ - 4 For $199.⁹⁹ Vist Us At: 📍1806 33rd St, Rock Island, IL 61201 #Blackhawk_Fashion_Beauty_Supply 🌐 www.blackhawkbeauty.net

SPS Worldwide LLC

Q1 Mastermind Mixer. 🔥 South Florida’s sharpest minds in one room. Influence meets intention. Ideas turn into action. Bold conversations. Real connections. A collective mission to create positive impact in our community. ✨ #Q1Mastermind #MastermindMixer #SouthFloridaLeaders #MiamiEntrepreneurs #powerroom @dior @diorbeauty @chanelofficial @kiehls @lorealparis @lorealgroupe @tiffanyandco @fendi @gucci @crateandbarrel @nike @lacoste @nike @spsworldwide @ameen_nassiri @miamidesigndistrict @miami.fashion.calendar @the_fort_lauderdale_community @christinecurran

anyalabanya

A snippet of one of my favorite moments, featured in Harper’s Bazaar from The Confessional Showroom ✨🪩 Founder: @theconfessionalshowroomnyc Showroom: @the_confessional_showroom_nyc Publication: @harpersbazaarserbia Designer: @anniepacious7 Styling: @deniseg.stylist Head Director/Producer: @marielenagq20 Special host: @emg_models @angieharron Photo: @im.klopov MUAH: @interbeautyco Nails: @cosmocaneisha #model #nyfw

True Silhouette Boutique

There's a moment every woman knows. You're standing in front of your mirror, outfit completely together, feeling almost ready — and then you look down. The heels aren't right. They never seem to be quite right. Too stiff for a long day. Too unstable for a busy evening. Too uncomfortable to actually live in. You settle for something that works. But somewhere between the car and the door you already know — these aren't the ones. You deserve the ones. That feeling — that specific, frustrating, completely unnecessary feeling — is exactly why we built the True Silhouette Heels Collection. And why every single pair in it was chosen with the same intention we bring to everything we do. How It Started Three women. Three different styles, body types and ideas about what fashion should feel like. What they shared was simpler than that — they were tired. Tired of heels that looked incredible on a shelf and felt like punishment by 8pm. Tired of choosing between the heel that made the outfit and the heel that didn't ruin their night. Tired of being told that beauty required pain — as if that was simply the price of looking good. It was never the price. It was never acceptable. So they built something different. Not a luxury showroom filled with heels designed for runways nobody actually walks on. Something far more intentional than that. A collection built around the real woman — the one with a board meeting at noon, a birthday dinner at seven and absolutely no interest in spending her evening shifting her weight from foot to foot wishing she'd made a different choice. True Silhouette Boutique opened in Miami with one unshakeable belief: A heel that hurts isn't a heel. It's a compromise. And you deserve better than compromises. What Miami Taught Us About Heels Miami showed up for True Silhouette in ways we never expected. You came in for one pair and stayed for an hour. You brought your daughters, your mothers, your best friends visiting from out of town. You came back season after season — and tagged us from weddings, galas, dinner parties and ordinary Tuesdays when you just happened to put yourself together beautifully and wanted the world to see it. You trusted us. With your money, your time, the way you wanted to present yourself to the world. We never took that lightly. We never will. Every heel we ever chose was chosen with you in mind. Not a runway model. Not a trend forecast. You — the real, multidimensional woman who wants to look extraordinary and still be able to walk to her car at the end of the night without taking her shoes off. Miami made us better at what we do. And now what we do is ready for the world. The Collection — Heels Built for Women Who Actually Wear Them We didn't build this collection for photoshoots. We built it for real women on real days that don't slow down for anyone. The Classic Pumps Timeless. Powerful. The heel that has closed deals, opened doors and made quiet entrances that were anything but quiet. Our classic pumps were chosen for the woman who knows that sometimes the most powerful thing she can wear is something perfectly, deliberately understated. The Block Heels Height without the wobble. Confidence without the compromise. For the woman who wants to stand tall through a ten hour day and still have somewhere to be after — our block heels were made for exactly her. The Strappy Heels For the woman who wants her shoes to be the statement. Elegant enough for a black tie event. Striking enough to carry an entire outfit. Beautiful enough that you'll remember exactly what you were wearing the night you wore them. The Kitten Heels Sophistication with a side of practicality. For the woman who has decided — completely correctly — that elegance doesn't require suffering. Our kitten heels give you the lift, the line and the look without asking anything unreasonable in return. Every single heel in this collection was held to one standard above all others — wearability. Because a heel you can't walk in isn't a heel. It's a very expensive display piece. And you didn't come here for display pieces. You came here for heels that actually take you somewhere. Going Worldwide — And Bringing Our Heels With Us We didn't grow on a timeline. We grew when it felt right. It feels right. The women who've been with us from the beginning have been asking — quietly, consistently — for more access, more options, more of what True Silhouette is, wherever they live. We heard that. And we built something that holds all of it without losing any of what made the boutique special. Because here's the thing about growing: if you're not careful, you scale the building and lose the soul. The racks get fuller and the experience gets emptier. We've all shopped in those places. We had no intention of becoming one. The worldwide collection carries a wider selection of heels than we have ever offered — more styles, more heel heights, more options for every occasion and every woman. Every pair chosen the same way it always has been — by women, for women, with an eye for what actually flatters and actually feels good — not just what photographs well. For the Women Who've Been With Us From the Beginning If you've been with True Silhouette since we were just that little boutique in Miami — this is for you first. You believed in us before we had any reason to expect it. You spread the word because you genuinely wanted the women in your life to feel what you felt when you found us. You trusted us with the moments that mattered — the weddings, the promotions, the first dates, the ordinary evenings that turned extraordinary because the outfit — and the heels — were exactly right. That kind of loyalty is rare. We have never once taken it for granted. This collection is yours as much as it is ours. Thank you — truly — for seeing something in us worth returning to. 🤍 For the Women Just Finding Us Welcome. We are so glad you're here. You may have found us at exactly the right moment. True Silhouette has always been a space for women who want to feel good in what they wear — and that includes what they wear on their feet. Quality that lasts. Style that's personal not prescribed. Heels chosen with real intention for real women who have real places to be. Browse slowly. Try heights you wouldn't normally reach for. Trust that instinct when a pair just feels right — because with the right heel you'll know immediately. Most women find more than one pair. We think you will too. One Collection. Every Occasion. Every Version of You. From the boardroom to the wedding reception. From the first date to the anniversary dinner. From the ordinary Tuesday when you simply want to feel powerful — to the extraordinary night when everything needs to be absolutely perfect. We built this collection to show up for all of it. Because you show up for all of it. And your heels should too. Good things have a way of growing when they're built on something true. And what we built True Silhouette on has always been true: Every woman deserves to feel at home in what she's wearing. Every woman deserves heels that were made with her in mind. Every woman deserves to walk into a room and feel exactly like herself — just on a really, really good day. We built that collection. Now we're sharing it with the world. Come find your pair. 🤍 — The True Silhouette Boutique Family

2026 Fashion Trends

Moon Nude's Large Makeup Bags are charming & stylish, designed to carry your essentials with a timeless flair 💗

Fashion and Fascinating Party Decoration

🌸A sea of white roses. 💗A statement heart. Candlelight dancing across silk and petals. A proposal wrapped in beauty from every angle. Romance isn’t accidental. It’s designed. #proposal #proposalideas #losangelesproposal#fashionandfascinating

Raja Salahuddin

Radiating timeless elegance, @manal_slm Manal stuns in our soft tea pink Gajra from Jaana ‘24, adorned with intricate gold thread work, adorned in crystals and pearls, the finesse and timeless elegance of this look is undeniable. A true masterpiece in itself ✨ _________________________ 𝒜 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝒽𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒾𝑔𝓃. Visit us in the heart of Gulberg, Lahore, to explore our exquisite collection of bridals and formals. Or www.rajasalahuddin.com _________________________ #RajaSalahuddin #Jaana #BridalElegance #Gajra #TimelessBeauty #Lahore #Fashion #Luxury #Formals

RichRadiqs

Feathers, sequins, and all the "Main Character Energy" with @richradiqs ✨✨✨ Whether it's a candlelit dinner or a Galentine's gala, this set is designed to dazzle. ✨✨✨ 20% off with the code OLYA1 https://richradiqs.com/?ref=OLYA1 ✨✨✨ #fashionblogger #fashion #sequin #sequinskirt #blackoutfit #ootd #moda #feathers #feathertop #moreismore #datenight #glamglam #blacksequin #richradiqs #fashionable #nycfashion #nycfashionblogger #nycblogger #grwm #grwmoutfit #yslbeauty #berrycrush #giftedbyyslbeauty

2026 Fashion Trends

Discover Moon Nude's handmade Hair Tool Bag that balances both functionality and style 😍

MieSuit

Fashion has no age limit—beauty is defined by you. Weddings, graduations, meetings—every milestone deserves a suit that feels truly “you.” 💌 New Customers Score 7% Off 🚛 Free Shipping For All Orders Over $99 🔁 14-Day Hassle-Free Returns 👉https://reurl.cc/aMjgKY

Love Read

I sit at the water’s edge, watching as the sun sinks beneath the horizon, the sky blazing with a last, fevered burst of color before surrendering to night. This is my one day off, a brief reprieve. After hours spent helping my parents around our modest cottage, they finally let me slip away—just for a few hours—to my secret sanctuary. The steady, gentle slap of waves against the shore always soothes me, and tonight I crave that calm more than ever. I bury myself in a place invisible to anyone who doesn’t know exactly where to look. I’ve haunted this spot for years, sometimes glimpsing other kids from school wandering the woods nearby, but I never let them see me. I get enough of them during the week; the last thing I want is their presence poisoning my only peace. My name is Lillian Miles. I belong to the Scarlet Fang Pack, in Fairview, California. Our territory hugs the Shasta National Forest and Trinity Lake—raw, breathtaking country. Fairview sits along the lake’s southern rim, and I’ve always loved living so close to water. I linger by the shore until the sun is swallowed and the world above slips into velvet darkness, stars scattered like glass, the moon painting the shallows silver. Only when the night is complete do I sigh and rise, dragging myself back along the winding path toward our cottage. Dread for the coming week weighs on me, heavy and familiar. My parents and I are Omegas here, at the bottom of the Scarlet Fang hierarchy, serving beneath Alpha Augustus “Augus” Crowe and his Luna, Marilyn “Mari” Crowe. They rule with a certain fairness, but fairness does not mean kindness. Once, I was close to their son, Jaxon—a friendship that lived and died in childhood. We were inseparable until he turned eleven. Just before my own tenth birthday, his parents decreed that their future Alpha could no longer be seen with an Omega girl. I mourned that loss for days, sobbing myself raw each night, unable to believe my best friend was gone. By middle school, the truth became impossible to ignore: Jaxon and I were never friends in the way I’d dreamed. Now he moves through the halls as if I’m invisible, refusing to acknowledge me. The memory that scars me most happened freshman year. I passed him in the hallway, offered a simple “Hi.” He was a sophomore then, his entourage orbiting him, Bonnie Armstrong glued to his arm. With no warning, he seized me by the throat and slammed me so hard into the lockers that my skull rattled. His voice, low and menacing, ordered me to never speak to him again. When his grip loosened, I crumpled to the floor, lungs burning, his fingerprints bruised deep into my neck for a week after. From that day forward, I avoided him like a curse. They’d all laughed as they walked away—Bonnie’s satisfied smirk burning into me. Jaxon had never touched me before, never crossed that line. Bonnie’s hatred for me was no secret, but that attack felt orchestrated by her hand. Until then, Jaxon’s cruelty had been emotional—a wound I could nurse in private. That day, something vital shattered. Jaxon—the golden boy, untouchable and adored. His parents could see no flaw in him. He captains both football and lacrosse, all sun-bleached hair and smoldering brown eyes that make girls desperate for a glance. At six-foot-two, he looks like he was sculpted for the cover of a magazine, and everyone wants a piece of him. Bonnie caught his eye their first year of high school; she’s in my grade now, though she turned eighteen half a year ago—held back after failing sophomore year, most likely because she spent every waking moment hanging off Jaxon and ignoring her work. Jaxon, of course, was promoted regardless. Future Alphas always are. All he really cares about is sports and the endless parade of girls who throw themselves at him. He should be learning to lead, to carry the weight of his family’s legacy, but he spends his time chasing pleasure. They sent him away for a year—advanced training, tactics, leadership, all the skills he’s supposed to return with and teach to the Beta, Gamma, and warriors. I doubt he’s changed. I can picture him swaggering through Alpha prep, still arrogant, still the same entitled womanizer. If he fails, there’s no second chance. Alphas don’t get do-overs. If he screws up, it’ll stain not just his family, but all of Scarlet Fang in shame. After that day in the hallway, it was open season on me. I’ve been slashed with a silver knife, stabbed, had my arm snapped, knocked out cold, even burned with cigarettes. I should be a walking horror show, a patchwork of scars and old wounds. The strangest thing? Since I turned sixteen, every morning I wake up whole—no bruises, no scars, not even a lingering ache. On my sixteenth birthday, the marks from freshman and sophomore year vanished overnight. But my wolf never came. I felt hollow, empty, cut off from something I’ve waited my whole life to feel. When the moon rose and I should have shifted for the first time, nothing happened. Just silence. My parents stayed beside me for hours that night, holding me, whispering comfort. They are the best thing in my life—my only sanctuary. I love them fiercely. My mother, Celeste Miles, is small—just five-foot-five—brown hair, warm brown eyes, slender and strong, with a gift for turning simple ingredients into feasts. She cooks daily for the packhouse, somehow feeding nearly four hundred wolves. My dad, Philip—Phil—Miles, is the gardener. He carved out a lush vegetable and herb garden beside the packhouse, lowering our food costs. Alpha Augus backed him from the start. My dad’s got thick, dark brown hair like mine, hazel eyes, a solid six-foot frame. He handles all the landscaping, fixes anything that breaks—he even built our cozy two-bedroom cottage, so I wouldn’t have to live in the packhouse anymore. Bonnie and her gang made that place unbearable. The abuse didn’t stop, but at least I have a safe place to retreat. They still find me at school, or when I’m helping in the laundry or kitchen, but at home I can breathe. Our cottage is small, but it’s home. The living room holds a battered couch facing the TV, a simple dining table tucked behind, and a kitchen pressed against the back wall. Dad installed a trapdoor with steps down to a cool cellar, where Mom stores her jars of preserves. Outside, she keeps pots of herbs lined up on the porch. No matter how hard the day, Mom always manages to cook us something wonderful for dinner. Each evening, they ask me about school. They know the truth, but I try to keep my answers light, not wanting to add to their worry. They cling to hope that when I turn eighteen—just two weeks away—I’ll find my mate. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll be the one to finally protect me from Bonnie and her pack of jackals. Bonnie is still Jaxon’s girlfriend, and she’s desperate for the Luna title. She never misses a chance to make my life a nightmare, and no one stops her. Why would they? She’s with the future Alpha, and the only reason Jaxon isn’t around is his Alpha training. Bonnie is stunning—long, silken blonde hair, eyes cold as ice, a body that draws every gaze. At five-foot-ten, she’s statuesque, impossibly graceful, but her beauty is a mask. Underneath, she’s mean as a viper—at least to me. When we were little, she’d watch Jaxon playing with me on the playground, jealousy simmering in her eyes. She tried to force her way into our games, but Jaxon always ignored her. That changed about six months before his mother decided our friendship was beneath him. Suddenly, Jaxon was always with Bonnie, and I was left behind. Her father is Alpha Augus’s Beta, her mother Luna Mari’s confidante. All that influence only sharpened Bonnie’s claws. She should have resented Jaxon for rejecting her for years, but instead, she poured all her bitterness into me. Her campaign started slow: pinches in the hallway when no one was watching, slamming my hand in doors and brushing it off as an accident. It didn’t take long for her attacks to become regular, her intentions obvious. She made it her mission to break me. After I lost Jaxon—my only friend—she pressed harder, never giving me a moment’s peace. Bonnie is always flanked by her two so-called friends, but there’s no real loyalty between them. The minute one leaves the room—to use the bathroom, to fetch a drink—the other two tear into her behind her back. They only stick around for Bonnie’s status… and her flashy red Mustang, a high school trophy she got when she finally made senior year. They’re clinging to her because they believe she’ll be Luna, desperate to stay on her good side. Eva Stone is the gentlest of the three, though that’s not saying much. She has soft brown hair, light brown eyes, and less venom in her than the others, but she isn’t a good person. She’s often the one they gossip about most viciously when she’s not there. Still, she’s smart—top of the honors program, always on top of her assignments. I hold onto a flimsy hope that she’ll wake up, walk away from them, and become someone worthwhile. With her brains, she could be a doctor or anything she wanted. Then there’s Evelyn Mercer. She’s got rich brown hair, hazel eyes with a green tint, and more style than anyone else at our school. Evelyn is obsessed with fashion, indifferent to academics—she’d quit school tomorrow if she could. Her only passion is in beauty and style; she comes alive when it’s time for parties, doing everyone’s makeup, orchestrating their looks like a runway show. She’s always flawless, and she revels in it. As for me—there’s no one left. No friends. Only silence. Chapter 2 Bonnie makes sure I have no one left. She hunts down anyone who dares show me kindness, punishes girls brave—or foolish—enough to try. Those who once reached out for friendship end up with bruised faces, split lips, shredded reputations. After a while, they all decide I’m not worth the price. One by one, they leave me behind, and Bonnie and her little monster squad tear into me without restraint. Lily’s POV Monday morning comes far too quickly. I walk fast, shoulders squared, nerves already braced for impact. If Bonnie spots me on my way to school, she’ll go out of her way to cut me down—speeding through the nearest puddle to drench me, or worse, hurling garbage from the car window as she and her friends barrel past. I’ve been pelted with soda cans, water bottles, even a raw egg once—the stench clinging to me all day, humiliation burning in every glance. Being an Omega means no new clothes. Everything I own is scavenged—cast-offs, rejects, whatever I can rescue from the trash. One day, I found one of Bonnie’s old tops sticking out of a garbage bag while taking out the packhouse trash. It was barely worn, so I scrubbed out the stains and washed it until it looked nearly new. The first time Bonnie saw it on me, she lost her mind. She grabbed me in the hallway and yanked until the front tore open, my skin exposed while I scrambled to cover myself. She shrieked, “You stole my shirt, Lily! I’ve been looking for this for a week! You should be lashed for stealing from me!” And that’s exactly what happened. She swore to Jaxon she’d put it in the laundry and I’d stolen it while I worked. Since I do the pack’s laundry, her lie sounded plausible. Jaxon didn’t hesitate; he ran to his father, and Alpha Augus sentenced me to five lashes. Jaxon himself delivered the first three. Bonnie, eyes shining, begged to do the last two—and the Alpha let her. Her swings with the silver-tipped whip cut deeper than Jaxon’s. By the end, my back was a ruin of blood and fire. That night, I couldn’t find any way to lie down that didn’t make me sob. I drifted in and out of shallow, feverish sleep, until finally exhaustion dragged me under. By morning, I woke—like always—completely healed. But Bonnie noticed. Later that day, she stalked up behind me and slapped my back, hard, expecting a scream. When I didn’t flinch, suspicion flickered in her eyes. That’s when the whispers started—that I must be a witch, unnatural, cursed. I had no wolf, no one could sense her in me. People believed her. Months passed before I figured out why everyone avoided me, long after the damage was done. Lunchtime is a minefield. I can’t count how many times my food has ended up dumped on me, soaking my clothes, leaving me to sit through the rest of the day sticky and stinking. There’s never a teacher in sight when it happens; I’m convinced they see Bonnie coming and vanish on purpose. I’ve begged for cameras, but nothing ever changes. Bonnie always claims I attacked her first, and her minions back every lie. Being Omega means no combat training. Alpha Augus calls us useless, good only for the dirty, endless jobs no one else wants. Manual labor, laundry, cleaning—those are the only roles we’re allowed. It’s a lie. Everyone has worth. Even Bonnie’s little clique would be valuable, if someone looked close enough. I think the Alpha keeps us down out of fear—if Omegas were empowered, we might realize we deserve better. Maybe we’d fight back. I believe we should have the right to choose our place in the pack, to work where our strengths lie. Those of us who scrub the filthiest toilets, scald our hands on caustic cleaners, drag laundry baskets bigger than ourselves—we should be paid. It’s brutal, thankless work, and we do it because no one else will. My assigned job is the laundry room. It’s stifling in there, but at least it gives me time to finish my homework between cycles. The girls don’t come down; it’s too hot, too humid, ruins their hair. In the laundry room I’m mostly safe—until I have to deliver the clean clothes. That’s when they strike. I work quickly, cart stacked high, sorting and delivering as efficiently as possible. If I see the girls are out shopping or partying, I take the chance to restock towels in their rooms. But if I’m unlucky and they catch me, it’s always three against one. Eva and Evelyn pin me down while Bonnie gets her hits in. They’re not great fighters, but numbers win every time. I can’t eat in peace. Can’t study in peace. Some days, hopelessness swallows me whole—until Ryan Caleb walks into my life. We started dating just after the school year began. Ryan is my anchor. He stands six feet tall, with dark hair, warm brown eyes, and lashes so long they almost look fake. He’s strong, gentle, trained as a warrior. On the field, he’s a force—girls crowd the sidelines just to watch him spar. But he chose me. Since Ryan, the bullying has slowed. It hasn’t stopped, but they don’t dare get too bold. With Jaxon gone, Bonnie doesn’t have anyone strong enough to do the dirty work for her. I don’t consider myself beautiful. I guess I’m… pretty. My hair is deep brown, my eyes bright blue—my best feature. I never wear makeup; I can’t afford it, wouldn’t know how to apply it anyway. I’m five-nine, all legs and sharp angles, curvy enough but so thin my ribs show when I change. I miss breakfast most mornings—there’s no time to stop at the packhouse before school, and my parents need the car. School is over four miles away, in the opposite direction. Usually, I grab an apple from the tree near our cottage and eat it as I walk. I never try to eat at school unless Ryan is with me; otherwise, my lunch ends up smeared across my shirt. Dinner with my parents is the only real meal I get—and the only time I feel safe enough to eat. Saturdays, I work with my parents at the packhouse, running load after load of bed linens, remaking hundreds of beds. Strangely, Bonnie leaves me alone during this job. Three months ago, she and her friends jumped me while I was working, pinning me to the ground so she could beat me bloody. I bled all over the floor, staining the clean sheets. Luna Mari walked in mid-attack. She didn’t punish them. She used her Luna Tone to scold them—for wasting pack resources. “Don’t mess with Lily when she’s working. Now she has to rewash these linens. That’s time and money wasted.” That was it. Since then, they don’t touch me during linen duty. But in the halls, they still trip me, knock me down when I’m carrying heavy loads, just for fun. I’ve face-planted into things I’d rather not name, then had to clean up the mess myself. I’ve made a choice: if I don’t find my mate within a month after my eighteenth birthday, I’m leaving. I’m done. My parents agree. If I go, they’ll come with me—go rogue, start over, whatever it takes for us to be free. Every night, I pray to the Moon Goddess. I beg her not to tie my fate to one of the monsters in this pack. I couldn’t survive it. We’re already planning to leave the moment I turn eighteen—just a week away now. Please, Goddess, don’t let me win the mate lottery and end up bound to someone cruel. I asked Ryan once if he thought we might be mates. He always gives the same answer: “I won’t know until you turn eighteen.” My mom said my dad knew right away, but waited for her birthday to tell her. Maybe Ryan’s doing the same. I hope so. He’s the only one who stands by me in public. The rest of the pack won’t even look at me. Lately, Ryan’s been growing frustrated—he wants to sleep with me, but I refuse. I can’t. That’s the only thing I have left for my true mate. I don’t have much—just three shirts, two pairs of jeans that hang off me, a length of rope I tie around my waist as a makeshift belt. It keeps my pants up, and makes it harder for anyone to rip them off. Thank the Goddess we don’t have P.E. classes. At a werewolf school, training happens behind the packhouse after hours. The academic day is shorter for us Omegas, and we’re kept far from any self-defense lessons. Instead, we go back to scrubbing, cleaning, serving—while the rest of the pack gets stronger, and we’re left behind. Chapter 3 Lily’s POV The week slips by in a blur, and now the packhouse thrums with anticipation. Saturday’s here—my last stretch before the one day I get to call my own. I’m counting the hours until I can disappear. But today, there’s a special energy buzzing through every hallway. Luna’s been glowing for days, giddy with pride, because her son is coming home next weekend—with his mate in tow. Soon-to-be Alpha Jaxon is scheduled to arrive Friday night, and he’s bringing Willow Ford—daughter of Alpha Jack and Luna Irene Ford of the Silver Creek Pack. Their territory brushes right up against ours in the Shasta Trinity National Forest. In wolf form, you could make the run in about an hour, but by car it’s a miserable four, thanks to winding roads and the endless backtracking just to leave our land. Willow trained alongside Jaxon, prepping for Luna the way all Alpha children must. Only the heirs are allowed at Alpha Training—an exclusive, pressure-cooker world where alliances and treaties are hammered out behind closed doors. Now it’s mid-March, and everyone’s returning home for the last school break before graduation in May. I finish up in the laundry room, sweat beading at my temples, the hum of industrial machines filling the air. The beds are made, fresh sheets tucked tight, my hands raw from work. I’m wiping down a folding table, mind wandering, when a hand snakes around my waist. Before I can react, I’m spun around—my back pressed against the table, and lips crush mine in a hungry, familiar kiss. I jerk away, startled, and find Ryan grinning down at me, that devilish smirk tilting his mouth. He doesn’t wait for permission; he dives in again, mouth warm, insistent, claiming. This time, now that I’m sure it’s him, I let myself dissolve into the kiss. My arms loop around his neck. I surrender, pressing close, our bodies fitting together like they’re meant to. He growls—a deep, satisfied rumble that vibrates against my chest—and leans in harder, hips pressing flush. I feel him, hard and eager, straining against my stomach. He draws back, just a fraction, struggling for control, but his eyes are black with hunger. “Lillian, why are you making me wait?” His voice is rough, desperate, edged with need. “Don’t you care about me? Don’t you want me, baby? I love you. I want you. I want forever with you. What are you waiting for?” His body doesn’t move, heat radiating off him, his arousal impossible to miss. “I do care, Ryan. I really do.” My voice comes out soft, uncertain, painfully honest. “But I don’t know if I love you… or if you’re even my mate. What if I give you something I can never take back, and then find out you’re not the one? What if my true mate finds out and rejects me for it? I can’t risk that. I care about you—but it’s only eight more days. Can’t you wait just eight more days until the ceremony? Please, baby? We only started kissing at the end of January. There’s no reason to rush this when we’re so close to the truth.” He exhales, a slow, frustrated breath, and nods, pulling me into him, burying his face at my throat, then my hair, filling his lungs with me before letting out a low, guttural groan. “I’m only holding back because it’s you, baby. I need to go train—blow off some steam.” He peels away, gives me one last slow, lingering kiss, and slips out of the laundry, his phone already in his hand as he vanishes down the hall. Ryan is always training. It’s part of the warrior’s life. As an Omega, I’m not allowed to set foot on the mats, so I support him the only way I can: by not complaining when he disappears to keep his edge. Still, the pressure from him has been mounting. Every week, he pushes harder, wanting more. I keep begging him to wait, to be patient, and he keeps finding new ways to test my boundaries. Maybe I’ll drop by the gym later, surprise him with fresh towels. That usually lifts his spirits. Towels are my territory. With all the training and endless showers, they vanish fast. Thank the Goddess for industrial washers and dryers. I finish loading the next cycle, stack a cart with folded towels, and start the familiar walk down the path toward the gym. I make this trip three times a week, always restocking shelves outside the showers. The guys swoop in from practice, grabbing towels from wall cubbies I keep filled. Privacy isn’t much of a thing here—everyone’s body honed from work and training. Not that I stare, but it’s impossible not to notice: 85% of the guys have those sharp V-cuts, and Ryan’s six-pack could stop traffic. He’s even got a fan club. Savannah Pierce, the school’s reigning flirt, is always there to watch him train. She’s gorgeous—brown hair, piercing blue eyes, barely 5’5”, with a smile that never falters. She isn’t cruel; we just don’t talk. But every time she sees me, she flashes a warm smile and tells me how lucky I am to have Ryan. I smile back, and I mean it. I do feel lucky. Ryan is sweet and beautiful and, if the Goddess paired us, I’d count myself blessed. I duck into the women’s locker room first. It’s dead quiet, the space echoing with silence. I shove towels onto the shelves, check the supplies—soap, lotion, toilet paper, everything still fully stocked from Thursday. Nothing left but to prep for the next rush. I step into the men’s locker room. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, soap, and something unmistakably masculine. I hear showers running—someone’s in there. Not wanting to intrude, I peek into the training room to see if Ryan’s still working out. The gym is empty, every bench and treadmill abandoned, the space eerily still. Maybe I’m lucky. Maybe that’s Ryan in the shower, and we can grab lunch once he’s dressed. I start stacking towels onto the shelf just outside the showers, careful not to cross the threshold. I don’t care that we’re dating; there are lines I won’t cross, not when I’m this close to eighteen. I still haven’t met my wolf, and I pray every night that she’ll come to me on my birthday. I want her. I need her. She’s the missing part of me, and I ache for her to finally arrive. But then I freeze. A moan slices through the steady rush of water. High-pitched. Definitely female. “Faster, Ryan… faster. I’m almost there…” The words ricochet off the tile, shameless, breathless. Wet, rhythmic slapping—skin on skin—echoes in the steamy air, followed by another desperate scream. “Oh Goddess… yes! Ryan, yes! Baby—YES!” Chapter 4 My heart plummets. Nausea twists through me, bile rising sharp and bitter in my throat as the truth slams into me like a freight train. We’ve been together since last August—eight months. Eight months of hope, of trust, of letting myself believe I was wanted. And this is how it ends? Ryan’s groan—low, drawn out, unmistakably satisfied—echoes through the steam. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. My body pulses with shock, every nerve ending raw. There’s no escape without being seen, so I shove the cart behind the third row of lockers and crouch, trembling, heart hammering in my chest. Two piles of clothes are carelessly abandoned on the bench near the showers. I sink to the cold tile, fighting down the urge to vomit, forced to listen as my world unravels. “Baby, I’m so glad you called me,” the girl purrs, her voice smooth and dripping with satisfaction. “But I thought you were staying with Lily for the rest of the school year?” “I am,” Ryan snaps, irritation bleeding through. “But she won’t sleep with me unless we’re confirmed mates. I’ve tried—really tried—but she’s stubborn as hell. All I get is kissing, a little touching, and then she shuts me down. Every time.” “She’s turning eighteen soon,” the girl teases, light and easy, like this is all just a game. “Maybe she’ll turn out to be your mate. You never know. But hey… you know I’m always here for you. I love our training sessions.” I peek around the lockers, desperate to put a face to the voice, but all I catch is a flash of pale thigh and damp hair. That voice—just the sound of it—makes my skin crawl, leaves me feeling raw and exposed. “She’s not my mate,” Ryan says, voice flat and cold. “I already know. That’s why I’ve been pushing so hard—to sleep with her before she finds out. I turn nineteen in two months. I met my actual mate four months ago at a club. She was just an Omega. I want a warrior, someone who can give me strong pups. If my second-chance mate isn’t a warrior, I’ll reject her too and just pick someone I want.” My stomach knots, every muscle rigid. “I haven’t found mine yet,” the girl sighs. “But with all the training I’ve done, he might reject me when I do. I hate that you missed out on being with your mate. I’ve heard it’s incredible.” Ryan laughs—a sound so ugly, so cruel, it chills me to my core. “Who said I missed out? I gave her a fake name, danced with her for a while, then fucked her in the women’s bathroom. I asked her name while I was kissing her goodbye—Ava, Bianca, something like that. Doesn’t matter. I rejected her right there and left her crying on the floor.” He laughs again. Loud. Shameless. Brutal. “I got what I wanted. I’m not going back. I hope she’s not pregnant—I’d hate for my firstborn to be out there without me, especially if it’s a son. But that’s not my problem. She’s done.” It’s like being gutted. My insides twist, cold and slippery, as if I’m bleeding out from the inside. He used her. Threw her away. Didn’t care. Didn’t even bother to use protection. I start to shake—rage and disgust, disbelief and shame. I want to scream, to claw my way out of my own skin. But underneath it all, I feel a rush of gratitude—pure relief that I never let him get what he wanted from me. That I trusted my instincts. That I stood my ground. Ryan’s not a boyfriend. He’s a predator—a collector of bodies, a liar, a cheat. Another notch on his belt, nothing more. And I am done playing his game. Lily’s POV I wait. Still pressed behind the third row of lockers, I hold myself perfectly still, barely daring to breathe. They’re taking their time, laughing, talking, lingering in the haze of what they’ve done. All I can do is crouch here, suffocating, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Wait,” the girl says, her voice softer now, uncertain. “So you’re just trying to sleep with Lily? That’s all this is for you? Don’t you want to settle down at some point? She could still be your second-chance mate.” She doesn’t sound cruel. There’s no malice in her voice—only confusion, maybe even a trace of sympathy. She doesn’t know. She has no idea what he’s doing to me. Or to her. He’s just lining us up, one after another. Disposable. Ryan’s voice slices through, ice-cold and scornful. “Did you not hear me? I’m not settling down with some lowly Omega. I need a warrior or higher—someone who can give me strong pups, not some weak nobody. Sure, Lily’s got curves, but she’s too skinny for my taste. I just wanted to fuck her a couple times. I never loved her. Never cared. She was just—something to try. A warm-up. Teach her a few things, then move on. She’s an Omega. She doesn’t matter. Not to me. Not to anyone.” I close my eyes tight as rage boils up inside me—pure, acidic, burning. I clench my fists so hard my nails dig bloody crescents into my palms, fighting the urge to charge out there and rip him apart. Or better yet—leave him bleeding, helpless, ruined. Thank the Goddess I never gave myself to him. She must have heard my prayers, kept me from making the worst mistake of my life. Kept me from giving my soul to a snake in a warrior’s skin. I stay hidden, listening as they dress and giggle their way out of the building. Only after the last echo of their voices dies do I risk peering around the corner. And there he is. Ryan. With Savannah Pierce. His arm draped casually over her shoulders, their heads bent together, laughing—like nothing happened. Like everything isn’t shattered. And in that instant, everything falls into place. Chapter 5 The extra workouts that started in November. The late-night clubbing in Redding back in December—he and his buddies staggering home the next afternoon. That’s when he met her. His true mate. That poor, unsuspecting girl. He lied to her. Used her. Took what he wanted. Rejected her on the spot and left her sobbing on a bathroom floor, discarded like trash. The nausea twists inside me, fresh and sharp. She never had a chance. No warning. No protection—he didn’t even try. If she’s not on birth control, she could be pregnant right now, carrying his baby, clueless that her mate is nothing but a monster in disguise. I send a silent plea to the Moon Goddess to watch over her. At the sink, I splash water on my face, hands shaking so badly the droplets spatter the mirror. A few tears slip loose, but I’m not unraveling. I’m not drowning. I’m burning—burning from the inside out. Betrayal is acid in my veins. But even through the fury, I feel relief. Pure, searing relief. For the hundredth time, I thank the Moon Goddess I never gave in. That I didn’t let him pull me under with his lies. I push the laundry cart back to the workroom and start loading the damp clothes into the dryer. Only an hour left on the cycle—enough time to check if Mom needs help in the kitchen. She puts me to work slicing thirty-five bananas for her banana pudding, the one everyone in the packhouse begs for. She lines the trays with vanilla wafers, stirs warm pudding on the stove, and sets a little tub aside—just for us. She always makes an extra, knowing how much Dad and I love it. I watch her fill our container first and tuck it into the fridge before finishing the big trays. Once the last pan is sealed and chilling, I return to the laundry, pulling out the now-dry sheets. King size goes to the Alpha and Beta floors. Queens for the couples. Twins for the kids. I fold each set by size, stack them neat as bricks in the cart, then wheel everything into the supply closet. Everything is clean, ready, machines silent and waiting for Monday. Back in the kitchen, Mom is wiping down counters, getting ready to head home. Dad sits at the counter, grinning as he snacks on cheese and meat she’s plated to tide him over until dinner. He’s spent the day fixing leaks and hauling soil and mending fences—strong enough to be a warrior, but content in his quiet, steady ways. Safe. Gentle. Unshakable. He sees me and opens his arm, and I go to him, letting him fold me in. His hug is solid and warm, grounding me. “What’s wrong, Lily?” he asks, voice low and velvet-soft. “I don’t want to talk about it here, Dad,” I whisper, my words small and tight. “We can talk at home.” He nods, worry flickering across his face. “You okay, sweetheart?” “I’m fine, Mom,” I tell her as she joins us, her arms circling me, her lips brushing my cheek. Their comfort is an anchor, steadying the storm inside me. Then the door creaks open behind us. Ryan steps into the kitchen. “There you are. I was looking for you, Lily,” he says, wearing that practiced, easy smile—the one he probably still thinks works on me. I force myself to meet his gaze, my face polite, my voice breezy. “Yeah, we’re heading home. I’m wiped out after this week, and I just want to crash with my parents tonight. Thanks for checking in, I’ll see you Monday.” I scoop up the last of Mom’s packed food—leftovers, her banana pudding, a few wrapped cuts of meat—and turn to leave, not sparing Ryan another second. My head throbs, but I don’t let myself explode. Not here. Not in front of my parents. School isn’t right either. But he’s not stopping me. Not anymore. I’m done letting him take up space in my mind, my life. Let him try to poison my reputation. Let him spread rumors. I don’t care. I’m finished with him. With this pack. I am going to talk to my parents tonight and start planning. We’re not ready yet—nothing is packed, there’s no place to go—but we will be. And I know they’ll stand with me. They always have. Two years ago, when I started coming home bruised and battered, spinning excuses that never quite fit, they offered to leave. They were ready to walk away from everything they’d ever known for my sake. But I couldn’t ask them to do it then. This was their only home, and we barely had a thousand dollars to our name. I thought I could survive it. I thought I could endure. Mom picks up catering gigs for Sunday events, and when she’s hired, Dad and I help. That’s what our good clothes are for—black pants, white shirts, simple but clean. We work as a team. Always. We don’t have much, but we have each other. “Oh, I was hoping you’d eat with me tonight,” Ryan says, shifting into that wounded-dog voice he thinks is irresistible. “Thought maybe we could watch a movie or something, and I could walk you home after. You never have time for me anymore, Lily. You’re making me feel like I don’t matter to you.” He’s laying it on thick, hoping I’ll cave. I see Dad tense beside me, ready to say something—probably to insist it’s fine if I stay. I shake my head ever so slightly, and he catches on. He fakes a yawn, covering for me. “I’m tired too, Lily,” Dad says, casual as you please. “Here, let me carry that for you.” He takes the food containers from my arms and gives Ryan a firm, neutral nod. “See you later, Ryan. Have a good night. Maybe next time, yeah?” Ryan’s jaw ticks, but he swallows his protest. He stands there, watching us go, frustration carved into his face. Dad just shut him down, clean and quiet. He knows Sundays are sacred—family days. Always have been. We clean the house together, top to bottom, because between my school, pack chores, and homework, and my parents working twelve-hour shifts, things pile up. We tackle it as a team, then spend what’s left of the day in the garden, and I steal a little time at the lake, breathing in the quiet before facing another week. Ryan knows better than to come around on Sundays. Even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t get in. I’ll deal with him on Monday. In public. Where everyone can see. Because I’m done. So fucking done. No more sweet words. No more kisses. No more pretending. I don’t care what he says or promises—I’m out. The first chance I get, I’m gone. And if the Moon Goddess grants me my mate before then, he comes with us—or I request asylum in a pack that treats people like me as if we matter. Because I do matter. Enough of being used. Enough of being overlooked. Enough of being treated like I’m disposable just because I’m an Omega. I am not disposable. I am not nothing. And one day—one day—they’re all going to see it. Every single one of them. Mark my words.

deoncaseyphotography

Nothing but elegance ✨ �Makeup Artist: @alayzacaseymakeup Photographer: @deoncaseyphotography • • • • • • #ADMagazine #AlayzaDeonMagazine #DallasMagazine FashionMagazine BeautyMagazine DallasPhotographer DFWPhotographer DFWModel DallasModel DallasMakeupArtist DFWMakeupArtist MUA Photography BeautyModel DallasBeautyModel DallasHeadshots DallasMagazine ADMagazine AlayzaandDeonMag AlayzaCasey DeonCaseyPhotography EditorialPhotography DallasMUA BeautyShots DallasInfluencer CelebrityMakeupArtist DallasCelebrityMakeupArtist