Chapter 2

Adrian didn't return to the bedroom until midnight. I kept my eyes closed, maintaining steady breathing as I feigned sleep. He lay down beside me, white pine scent faintly wrapping through the air. My wolf senses could clearly identify that foreign smell—Isabella's. My nails dug deep into my palms, using pain to keep from trembling.

"Celeste?" His palm stroked my back. "I'm sorry I couldn't be with you for our anniversary today. There was trouble at the border outpost that required my personal attention."

Lies flowed so naturally from his lips that my stomach turned.

"I'll make it up to you." His lips brushed my shoulder. "Next week I'll take you to the mountain estate, just the two of us. And that antique jewelry set you liked."

He thought I was a fool who could be bought with material things, that these small favors could fill the crack in my heart.

When he reached to pull me into his arms, my body stiffened like stone. Bone-chilling rage surged through my blood, more scorching than his deception. The mate bond in my chest sent waves of stabbing pain, as if it too was protesting this defiled contract.

I focused on listening to his deepening breaths, waiting quietly. Only when I was certain he'd fallen into deep sleep did I silently rise.

Something instinctive in my Silver Wolf bloodline was awakening—stronger than sorrow, colder than anger.

I walked straight to his study. His private filing cabinet stood quietly in the shadows. I tried my birthday—wrong. His birthday—still wrong. Finally, I entered today's special date—our anniversary, which was also that boy's birthday.

Unlocked. Ironic enough to laugh at.

Encrypted folders were nested layer upon layer, but I understood his arrogance—he always believed no one dared snoop through an Alpha's privacy.

In the section marked "Pack Reproduction Planning," I found the truth.

First was a long-term herbal prescription specifically for "suppressing female wolf fertility." The notes clearly stated: "Once daily, mixed into beverages. Wolfsbane and silverleaf compound, effectively blocks Silver Wolf bloodline reproductive function." Signed by Dr. Lawrence—the family physician I trusted most.

Memory fragments rewound frantically: the "calming tea" he personally handed me every night, the "wellness herbal drink" he always prepared when we went out, even the morning coffee he personally brewed... Every thoughtful gesture of care had been a carefully mixed poison.

My fingertips went cold as I continued reading. Next came my medical reports. The diagnosis "fertility severely compromised by long-term ingestion of unknown suppressants" hit like a hammer to the chest. The report specifically noted: "For Silver Wolf bloodline, this damage is nearly irreversible."

Then came Isabella's pregnancy records. The companion signature—Adrian's handwriting was painfully familiar. The conception date was shortly after he started drugging me.

There were even Adrian's handwritten notes beside it, from early pregnancy to delivery, every page recording their joy in anticipating new life.

The truth was naked and cold. My infertility wasn't fate—it was my husband's meticulous plan spanning years. He'd enjoyed being a father while robbing me of the possibility of motherhood.

I leaned back in the chair, breathing deeply. His study still held the scent of his cedar cologne, once comforting, now only nauseating. When I opened my eyes again, the last trace of warmth had vanished from them.

I pulled out an encrypted storage device and began copying all the evidence. Prescription scans, medical reports, pregnancy records, even several suspicious financial statements.

My movements were precise and swift, my fingers steady as if I hadn't just had my entire world destroyed. Each file transfer built an ice wall between him and me.

After completing the backup, I carefully cleared the access records, restoring everything to its original state.

I didn't return to the master bedroom but turned toward the west wing guest room. It had been unused for a long time, the air carrying a faint dusty smell. I stood by the window, gazing at the heavy darkness, moonlight casting a pale glow over the courtyard.

Then my phone screen lit up in the dimness. An unknown number sent a photo, timestamped six years ago, long before our marking ceremony. In the photo, Adrian bent to kiss Isabella's pregnant belly, his eyes tenderly unfamiliar.

A message followed: "Still don't see your place? A she-wolf who can't breed doesn't deserve the Luna title."

A wave of intense nausea surged up my throat—my old soul's final struggle. But that heart-wrenching pain had long been consumed by rage. What now occupied my chest was a coldness that could make the entire pack tremble.

From my purse's hidden compartment, I retrieved another phone, opened the encrypted messaging app, and sent a brief message: "Zoe, meet at the usual place tomorrow morning. About dissolving the mate bond."

The message sent successfully, and I gripped the phone tight, the cold metal casing keeping me alert.

I wouldn't cry, wouldn't question, wouldn't tip my hand. I'd let them all think I was still that clueless, naive, obedient Celeste.

But something had fundamentally changed. The girl who'd yearned for love and believed in vows died tonight. What survived was a woman who'd seen the truth and was ready to reclaim her life.

I walked to the guest room's vanity mirror, studying my reflection. Silver hair, pale skin, and eyes like polar ice. Those eyes had once been full of love; now only cold determination remained.

Outside, a waning moon hung high. I whispered to my reflection: "Want me to exit quietly? Too bad—I've never been good at following other people's scripts."