Chapter 2

Damian came home reeking of her.

Musk and vanilla—Serena's signature scent clinging to his skin like a brand.

Alphas can't hide their scents, and mates can't lie to each other.

Except he'd been lying for five years.

I pretended to sleep as he slid into bed, arms wrapping around me like he had every right.

"Border patrol ran late," he murmured into my hair. "Pack emergency, you know how it is."

My wolf stirred for the first time in years, a low warning growl vibrating through my bones.

I'd thought she was gone, killed by whatever made me weak.

Now I knew—they'd been drugging her silent.

"Mmm," I managed, keeping my breathing steady.

His hand stroked my arm, the same hand that had held another woman's child hours ago.

The same hand that signed off on my suppressant prescriptions.

When his breathing finally deepened into sleep, I slipped out from under his arm.

His private study had always been locked to me.

"Pack security," he'd said. "You understand."

I understood now.

The keypad glowed in the darkness—I tried our anniversary.

Wrong.

His mother's birthday.

Wrong.

My fingers hovered, then pressed the numbers slowly: my birthday.

Milo's birthday.

The lock clicked open.

Inside felt like walking into my own mausoleum.

His desk drawer held a leather journal labeled "Bloodline Records."

Page after page documented Milo's growth—first shift, wolf training, strength assessments, pack doctor evaluations.

My name appeared once, marked in red:

Mate bond stable. Non-aggressive. Suitable for long-term suppressant use.

Suitable.

Like I was a piece of furniture.

I found the hidden folder behind his awards—photographs of Damian and Serena on a beach, wearing ceremonial robes.

A secret mate ceremony.

My parents stood in the background, Frederick and Vivienne Ward smiling like proud grandparents.

Financial records showed pack funds flowing into Vale Gallery, building Serena's "future Luna" image.

Five years of my life, financing my own replacement.

My phone buzzed—another unknown number.

The photo showed Damian, Serena, and Milo posed like a magazine spread, perfect packaged family.

Serena's message underneath:

He told me you're not really a wolf anymore. Just a weak human playing dress-up. Did you really think he'd choose you?

Something inside me cracked.

Not my heart—that had died at the amusement park.

This was deeper, older, angrier.

My wolf opened her eyes for the first time in five years.

And she was done being quiet.

I photographed every document, every receipt, every damning piece of evidence.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

I shoved everything back, closed the drawer, killed the lights.

"Helena?" Damian's voice called from the bedroom. "Where are you?"

I pressed myself against the study wall, holding my breath.

His footsteps paused outside the door.

The handle turned slowly.

My wolf surged forward, ready to fight, ready to—

"Must've been dreaming," he muttered, footsteps retreating.

I waited ten minutes before slipping back to bed, lying rigid beside the man who'd murdered me slowly over five years.

He never even woke.

In the morning, I'd start planning Helena Ward's funeral.

Because the woman they'd created was about to die.