Chapter 2

Elena POV

Victoria's presence wasn't merely an invasion anymore; it was a full-scale occupation.

Her lipstick staked its claim on the bathroom counter in the master suite. Her coat hung on the rack by the door, arrogantly displacing mine to the floor. Her voice echoed in the hallways where silence had once been my only, and preferred, companion.

I sat at the far end of the dining table. It was a ridiculous expanse of mahogany, stretching out like a barren wasteland between my world and theirs.

Damien sat at the head, cutting his steak with precise, brutal motions. Victoria sat to his right, her chair pulled so close their elbows brushed with every intimate sip of wine.

"The garden needs replanting," Victoria announced, swirling the crimson liquid in her glass. "Those hydrangeas are dreadfully boring. I was thinking of Moonflowers. To match my scent."

Damien chewed, swallowed, and nodded mechanically. "Whatever you want, Victoria. Talk to the gardener."

He didn't even glance in my direction.

The hydrangeas were my mother's favorite. I had planted them with my own hands three years ago, digging into the earth until my fingernails were black with soil.

"Elena doesn't mind, do you?" Victoria asked, her eyes glinting with a sharp, performative sweetness.

I wiped my mouth with a napkin, stifling the grimace of pain that shot through my lower back. "I have work to finish," I said, standing up.

"Always working," Victoria sighed, feigning sympathy. "Marcus used to say that a woman's work is the home. God, I miss him."

Damien's fork clattered violently against his plate.

Mentioning his dead brother was Victoria's ultimate weapon. It was the morbid tether that bonded them-a shared shrine of grief that had no room for the living wife.

I walked out of the dining room before I could hear Damien murmur his comforts to her.

Later that night, the pain in my back shifted. It coiled around my abdomen like a tightening vice.

I was in my room-the guest room I had been exiled to months ago-trying to pack a bag without making a sound.

The door creaked open.

I froze, shoving a stack of tiny knitted onesies under a pillow just as the light from the hallway spilled in.

Damien stood in the doorway. He looked haggard. The top button of his shirt was undone, his tie hanging loose like a noose. He stepped inside, and instantly, the room felt suffocatingly small.

"You left dinner early," he said. It wasn't an accusation, merely a cold observation.

"I wasn't hungry," I lied.

He moved closer. I could smell the rich oak of the wine on his breath, clashing nauseatingly with the lingering, sickly-sweet perfume of Moonflower. My stomach churned.

"You've been distant," he murmured, reaching out to touch my arm. His fingers were warm, and for a split second, my body betrayed my mind. A shiver ran down my spine-a muscle memory of the desire I used to feel for him.

Then, a sharp cramp seized my uterus with a vengeance.

I gasped, doubling over, clutching my stomach.

"Elena?" Damien's voice sharpened. "What is it?"

"Nothing," I wheezed, backing away from him as if he were the source of the pain. "Just... cramps."

He frowned, looking at me with a mix of confusion and suspicion. He reached for his phone. "I'll call the doctor."

"No!" I shouted, the panic rising too quickly in my throat. "I'm fine. Just go."

His phone buzzed before he could dial. He looked at the screen, and his expression softened instantly, the tension leaving his shoulders.

"It's Victoria," he said, already turning toward the door. "She's having a panic attack about the renovation."

He didn't look back. He didn't ask if I was okay. He chose a panic attack about paint swatches over his wife doubling over in agony.

I sank onto the bed, waiting for the contraction to pass. When my breathing finally steadied, I saw it.

On the nightstand.

My travel documents. I had been careless in my haste. And right on top, the new ID card.

The door opened again. Damien had come back for his jacket.

His eyes landed on the papers.

He walked over, picking up the ID card. He read the name out loud. "Elena Sterling." Then he looked at the flight itinerary. "One way? To Zurich?"

The air was sucked out of the room.

"What is this, Elena?" His voice was low, vibrating with a dangerous frequency. "Planning a vacation without telling your Alpha?"

I stood up, using the bedpost to keep my legs from buckling. "It's not a vacation, Damien."

He stepped closer, looming over me like a storm front. "You think you can just leave? You represent this family. You carry the Sterling name."

"That name is a noose," I said, my voice shaking but clear. "And I'm taking it off."

"You're being dramatic," he scoffed, tossing the ID back onto the table dismissively. "Cancel the flight. We have the pack gala next week. You need to be there."

"It has nothing to do with you," I said, my voice turning cold. "My life has nothing to do with you anymore."

He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight. "Everything you do has to do with me. You are my-"

"Damien!" Victoria's voice shrieked from down the hall. "Damien, come quick!"

He dropped my wrist as if it burned him. He looked at me, then at the door, torn for a fraction of a heartbeat.

Then he ran. He ran to her.

I rubbed my wrist where his fingers had left red marks. I picked up a black marker from the desk.

With a trembling hand, I took the travel document. I stared at the word "Luna" listed under my title.

I drew a thick, black line through it, obliterating the rank.

Then I wrote, in bold, jagged letters:

MS.

He thought he had caught me. He thought he had stopped me. But all he had done was prove exactly why I had to vanish tonight.