Chapter 3

Three days after the executive briefing where I'd been publicly silenced, a sharp knock interrupted my morning tea. I opened the door to find two stone-faced messenger wolves in Northclaw uniforms, their postures rigid with formality.

"Luna Bella," the taller one said, extending an envelope bearing Damien's seal. "A formal decree from Alpha Damien Cross."

My fingers trembled slightly as I broke the wax seal. The paper inside was heavy, official—the kind used for Pack proclamations and laws. My eyes scanned the document, each word driving deeper like a knife between my ribs.

"By order of Alpha Damien Cross, Luna Annabelle Hale is henceforth forbidden from attending any business or strategic meetings of the Northclaw conglomerate..."

The words blurred as I continued reading. My security clearance—revoked. My access to the executive floor—terminated. My position on every committee—eliminated.

"This is effective immediately," the messenger added unnecessarily, reaching for my security badge. I unclipped it from my blouse and handed it over, feeling as though I were surrendering a piece of myself.

After they left, I pressed my back against the closed door and slid to the floor, the decree crumpled in my fist. Five years as Luna, reduced to this—a piece of paper stripping away what little autonomy I had left.

The mate bond in my chest pulsed with a dull ache. I'd once believed it meant something sacred, unbreakable. Now it felt like a chain tethering me to a sinking ship.

---

I found Sarah in the servants' wing the next morning, supervising the weekly linen change. Her eyes widened when she saw me, darting quickly to the exits as if planning an escape route.

"Sarah," I said, keeping my voice low. "I need to talk to you."

She dismissed the housekeeping staff with a quick nod before turning to me, her expression carefully neutral. "Luna Bella, how can I assist you?"

The formality stung. This was the woman who had helped me navigate Pack politics when I first arrived, who had shared late nights preparing for events, who had once confided in me about her hopes to attend university.

"Sarah, you know me," I pleaded, stepping closer. "You know I would never betray the Pack. Someone is framing me, altering documents, sending emails in my name."

She maintained perfect posture, her eyes never quite meeting mine. "I'm sorry, Luna, but I haven't seen anything troubling."

The practiced response told me everything. Clara had gotten to her completely.

"Sarah, please," I whispered, desperation creeping into my voice. "We've worked together for three years."

Something flickered in her eyes—doubt, perhaps, or guilt—but it vanished quickly. "If there's nothing else, Luna, I have duties to attend to."

She slipped past me, leaving behind only the faint scent of fear. Another ally lost. Another piece of my world chipped away.

---

The annual reception for visiting Alphas was a cornerstone of Pack diplomacy, an event I'd helped organize for years as Luna. I stood before my closet that evening, fingers trailing over gowns I'd worn to previous receptions, wondering which would be appropriate for my diminished status.

My phone remained silent. No schedule from Sarah. No reminder from the event coordinator. No message from Damien.

A cold certainty settled in my stomach as I made my way to the grand ballroom, dressed in a simple navy gown. The guards at the entrance stiffened when they saw me approach.

"Luna Bella," one began awkwardly, "I don't see your name on the guest list."

I blinked, the humiliation washing over me in a hot wave. "There must be a mistake. I'm the Luna."

"I'm sorry," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Alpha's orders."

I retreated before anyone could witness my shame, finding my way to a service corridor that ran alongside the ballroom. Through a gap in the heavy curtains, I could see the reception unfolding—Damien at the center, commanding and charismatic, with Clara at his side wearing a gown of deep crimson.

My seat at the head table—the Luna's traditional place—was occupied by a visiting Beta diplomat. I had been erased, replaced, as if five years as Luna meant nothing.

I pressed my hand against the wall for support, a wave of dizziness washing over me. The mate bond in my chest—once a source of pride and security—now felt like a parasite, draining my strength, my identity, my very self.

Behind the curtain, Damien laughed at something Clara whispered, his hand casually resting at the small of her back.

In that moment I knew, whatever faith I used to have in our bond shattered completely.

For the first time since our mating, I allowed myself to think the unthinkable: I needed to escape.

Not just from this corridor, or this mansion, but from Damien himself—from the bond that had become my prison.