Chapter 3

The moment that slap rang out, the entire hall fell deathly silent.

I could feel all eyes pinned on me—shocked, contemptuous, gleeful... but I didn't care anymore.

Royston clutched her face, staring at me incredulously, her scream nearly piercing the roof: "You! You bitch! How dare you hit me?!"

Clare finally snapped out of his shock, leaping forward to grab my wrist so hard he nearly crushed my bones. His face showed undisguised fury: "Silvia! Have you lost your mind?! In front of all these people!"

I forcefully shook off his hand, my eyes coldly sweeping over him before settling on Royston. "So what if I hit you? That slap was to teach you to watch your mouth and not let your filthy tongue touch my son."

"Your son?" Royston acted as if she'd heard the greatest joke, pointing at Owen and complaining to the crowd, "Everyone saw, right? This shrew, this wild woman from who knows where, with a bastard of unknown paternity, actually dares lay hands on the future Luna!"

The word "bastard" stung my nerves again, and Owen's too. He shuddered in fear, burying his small face against my leg, quietly sobbing.

Clare's face grew even uglier. He seemed to want to scold Royston, but ultimately only barked irritably at me: "Enough! Silvia, apologize to Royston immediately! Then take Owen back and stop making a spectacle of yourself!"

Apologize? Making a spectacle?

I looked at him, this man I'd once given everything to love, now feeling only immense strangeness and absurdity. What he cared about was always his face, Royston's feelings—never the humiliation I suffered, never his son's broken heart.

I looked down at the ring on my ring finger that once symbolized all his love and promises. This ring—he'd asked me for it countless times, saying it was the symbol of the Alpha's mate, representing status and exclusivity. Now I realized what he'd wanted was perhaps never the ring itself, but to use it to confirm my dependence and submission to him.

Slowly, forcefully, I pulled that ring off my finger. The moment the cold metal left my fingertip, it seemed to also drain away the last trace of attachment I had to him.

I held the ring up before Clare, and in his stunned gaze, I released my grip.

The ring fell onto the polished floor with a crisp "ding," rolling a few times before stopping at his feet.

"From now on," my voice was strangely calm yet clearly carrying throughout the entire hall, "Owen is only my child, Silvia's child. He has no connection whatsoever to Blaze Tooth, to you, Clare."

Without another glance at any of them, I bent down, picked up the still-trembling Owen, turned, straightened my back, and walked out of that suffocating place step by step. Behind me were Royston's hysterical screams and Clare's suppressed roars, but to me, they were already noise from another world.

Holding Owen back to our home—cold and empty as a temporary shelter—I began packing. There wasn't actually much to take. Most traces of my presence had long been eroded away by Clare's indifference and Royston's exclusion over these years.

I pulled out a small suitcase, stuffing in a few of Owen's little clothes, his favorite toy bear, and my few necessities. Then I walked to the fireplace and threw in all those objects carrying the past—our crudely drawn portraits together, his so-called love letters, even that small wildflower he'd picked for me the night we "eloped," now long dried—all into the still-smoldering fire.

The flames leaped, consuming those ridiculous sweetness and promises, crackling softly like a funeral for a completely dead relationship.

Owen had been quietly following beside me, his small hand gripping my hem tightly, his big eyes full of fear and confusion. Only after I finished everything did he timidly speak: "Mom... are we... leaving Daddy?"

I crouched down, pulling him into my arms, feeling the warmth from his small body. My heart ached unbearably, but my tone had to be firm. "Yes, baby. We're leaving here, going to a new place, somewhere with just Mom and Owen, where no one will bully us ever again."

Owen's tears suddenly poured out, but he didn't wail, just sobbed quietly: "But... but my birthday is coming... Daddy promised to blow out candles with me... he said so..."

The child's words were like the last straw, crushing all my resolve. I could bear Clare's betrayal, face Royston's humiliation, but I couldn't refuse my son's one small, hope-filled request.

I held him tightly, voice choking: "Okay... Mommy promises you, we'll wait until after your birthday to leave. Let you and... and Daddy have one birthday together."

Consider it giving this child's five-year childhood a seemingly complete goodbye. And giving myself a ritual to completely sever the past.