Chapter 3

Sienna was there. She heard everything. And she threw the kind of spectacular, theatrical fit that Lucian had always mistaken for fragility.

That was the version he believed, anyway. The version he'd always believed—that Sienna was delicate and emotional and needed his protection, while I was tough and steady and could handle being pushed aside.

What he never understood was that Sienna wasn't fragile. She was calculating. Every tear, every trembling lower lip, every strategically timed collapse—she'd been perfecting those moves for years.

She'd learned from the best: her father, the Alpha of the Garrick Pack, who'd taught her that the only power a woman could wield in their world was the power of looking powerless.

I knew because I'd overheard her once. Years ago, before the rivalry between us had hardened into something permanent.

She'd been on the phone with her mother, sobbing—real tears that time, not the performance she saved for Lucian.

"I can't come home, Mother. He won't let me. He says if I don't lock down this alliance, he'll send you away. He'll find someone else to warm his bed, and you'll be out on the street. Just like last time."

I never told anyone what I'd heard. Not because I pitied her. Because in that moment, I understood that we were both prisoners of the same system. Just locked in different cages.

But understanding her didn't make what she did next any less cruel.

The council chamber was already buzzing with tension when I arrived. The elders had gathered to finalize the northern trade negotiations.

I'd spent three months preparing the briefing—pages of analysis, forecasting, risk assessments. If Lucian had actually read it, it could've saved the pack millions.

He hadn't even glanced at it.

"We move forward with the Garrick alliance," Lucian announced from the head of the table. "Sienna's father is offering unprecedented access to the northern routes. In exchange, we provide military support for his border dispute with the Crescent Pack."

One of the elders frowned. "That border dispute has been simmering for decades. We'd be pouring resources into a conflict that has nothing to do with us."

"It has everything to do with us now," Lucian said flatly. "Garrick is our oldest ally. We honor our commitments."

I stood at the back of the room, my briefing notes clutched in my hands. The Garrick deal was a trap—their "unprecedented access" came with hidden tariffs that would bleed Thorne dry. But I didn't say a word. It wasn't my place anymore.

From across the room, Sienna caught my eye and smiled. A tiny, private, victorious smile.

I won. He chose me. And there's nothing you can do about it.

She was right. There was nothing left for me to do.

That night, I stood on the balcony of the villa that no longer felt like home. The moon hung low and swollen, nearly full.

In ten days, it would be the anniversary of the day I'd met Lucian. The day the bond had snapped into place. The day I'd started believing in a future that was never going to come.

Then I heard it. Voices rising from the grand hall. Glass shattering. And Sienna's scream—sharp, theatrical, pitched perfectly to carry across the entire compound.

I closed my eyes. Here we go.

By the time I reached the hall, Sienna was on the floor in a puddle of champagne and broken glass, her dress ruined, her mascara streaked just enough to look tragic without actually looking ugly. Lucian was already at her side, cradling her shoulders, his face twisted with concern.

"She pushed me!" Sienna sobbed, jabbing a trembling finger in my direction. "I was just trying to be nice, and she shoved me!"

I hadn't been anywhere near her. I'd been standing ten feet away, minding my own business, trying to leave. Not that it mattered.

"She's lying," I said. "I didn't touch her."

Lucian shot to his feet. His eyes were blazing. "You've been jealous of her since the second she got here. Everyone knows it."

"Jealous?" The word tasted like ashes. "You think I'm jealous of her?"

"What else would you call it? You can't stand that I chose her. You can't stand that someone else is going to be Luna."

"Lucian." My voice was calm. Steady. Almost unnervingly so. "I didn't push her. Believe me or don't. It's not going to change anything at this point."

"It changes everything." He grabbed me by the collar and slammed me against the edge of the table.

The shards of broken champagne flutes bit into my palm. Blood welled up instantly, hot and slick, dripping down my wrist onto the marble floor. The pain cut through the numbness I'd been wrapped in since the hospital—sharp, clarifying, almost welcome.

"I told you I'd handle things!" he shouted. "Why do you have to keep going after her? Why can't you just let this go?"

I looked up at him. This man I had loved with every cell in my body. This man who had shattered me. This man who had me pinned against a table with my own blood pooling in my palm.

And I felt something shift deep inside me. Something ancient. Something that had been sleeping since the day I walked away from the New Moon Pack at eighteen years old, convinced that love was worth more than legacy.

It was finally waking up.

"I'm not hurting her," I said. My voice was quiet. Serene. "She's hurting herself. You're just too blind to see it."

Lucian's grip faltered. For a heartbeat, that same flicker of fear I'd seen at the assembly crossed his face. Then Sienna let out another perfectly timed wail, and his attention snapped back to her like a compass needle finding north.

"Get her out of here," he ordered the guards. "She's banned from all pack events. Effective immediately."

I straightened up. My hand was still dripping blood onto the pristine floor. I watched them drive away—Lucian's black SUV disappearing into the night, Sienna's head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

The night was quiet. Cold. The moon hung overhead, indifferent to everything that had just happened.

"Lucian," I whispered into the empty air. "We're done. On our tenth anniversary—I accept your rejection."

Through the tinted window of the departing SUV, I saw it. His hands, trembling. His phone, slipping from his fingers. His driver, twisting around in alarm.

He'd felt the words. Somehow, through whatever fractured thread of the bond still connected us, he'd felt them.

But it didn't matter anymore.

I was already gone.