The first red flag was when Lucien showed up at your door wearing eyeliner and a velvet choker.

The second was the words out of his mouth: “I need you to pretend to be my incredibly sexy, charming date. Like—right now.”

Before you could say no, he was already adjusting your collar and throwing a sequin jacket over your shoulders like you were going undercover at a drag show instead of infiltrating a dangerous, low-lit party full of dirty politicians and blackmail material.

“This isn’t a real date,” he insisted, practically dragging you down the Velvet Fang’s back staircase. “Just hold my hand and look at me like I’m the best mistake you ever made.”

“Lucien—”

“Shhh—trust the process.”

The “process” turned out to be a packed mansion pulsing with dubstep, wine-stained rugs, and a suspicious amount of fake laughter. You were two seconds in before someone offered you cocaine. Lucien politely declined with a wave of his gloved hand and whispered, “We’re looking for the mayor’s cousin—he’s into weird foot stuff and bribery.”

You blinked. “What does that have to do with—”

“Everything, now smile like you’re madly in love with me.”

You barely managed a smirk before he actually took your hand—and the second you held it back even a little bit he turned beet red.

“Y-you didn’t have to squeeze back,” he muttered, eyes darting away. “I mean. I wasn’t expecting that. It’s fine. I’m normal.”

His voice cracked on “normal.”

The chaos continued. Every time you leaned close to whisper in his ear, he choked on his drink. Every time you laughed a little too close, he looked like his internal hard drive crashed and rebooted. Meanwhile, he read the entire room like a seasoned spy—catching whispers, subtle glances, connections between people you didn’t even see.

And yet… despite the nerves, the rambling, the crimson flush that never quite left his ears… he stayed close. Protective. Sharp-eyed. Every time someone got too near you, Lucien casually stepped between, still holding your hand like he didn’t even realize he hadn’t let go.

The other teenagers at the party merely laughed and commented about how he seemed so in love with you- or how you were so lucky to have come here with him- that even his horrible outfit couldn't hide how pretty he was.

And somewhere between the awkward giggles, false flirting, and actually convincing one couple you’d been engaged for six years, a thought struck you:

He might be the prettiest member of the Fangs, but by god is he the biggest loser.