Vincent's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist before I could step away from the microphone, his fingers digging into my skin with bruising force. The Alpha authority in his grip was unmistakable—a power play meant to remind me of my place, to cow me into submission in front of hundreds of witnesses.
"Constance," he hissed, his voice low but carrying clearly through the sound system. "Think very carefully about what you do next."
The threat in his tone was unmistakable, and I felt another sharp cramp tear through my abdomen. The twins were responding to my elevated heart rate, my spiking blood pressure, the toxic cocktail of rage and betrayal flooding my system. I pressed my free hand against my stomach, trying to send them silent reassurance even as my world crumbled around me.
"Let go of me," I said quietly, but Vincent's grip only tightened.
"You need to understand something," he continued, his eyes boring into mine with cold calculation. "If you walk out of here tonight, if you abandon your duties to this pack, then Moonstone will no longer offer you protection. Do you understand what that means?"
The implication hit me like a physical blow. Without pack protection, I would become a rogue—a lone wolf vulnerable to attack, to exploitation, to death. Rogues rarely survived long in the wilderness, picked off by hostile packs or driven mad by isolation.
"Vincent, please—" I started, but he cut me off.
"You'll be out there alone," he said, his voice gaining strength as he played to the audience. "No territory, no allies, no safety. Is your pride really worth that?"
Sandra stepped forward then, shifting the baby in her arms with practiced ease. Tears had begun to stream down her cheeks—perfect, crystalline drops that caught the light beautifully. Her lower lip trembled as she looked out at the crowd of shocked faces.
"Please don't blame me for this," she said, her voice breaking with what sounded like genuine distress. "I never wanted to come between anyone. I'm just trying to do what's best for my son."
She turned those tear-filled eyes toward me, and I saw the calculation beneath the performance. "Constance, I know this is hard, but surely you can understand? As women, as members of the same pack, can't we find a way to work together? Vincent has room in his heart for both of us."
The audacity of it stole my breath. Both of us. As if I were the other woman, the interloper disrupting their perfect family unit.
"Room in his heart," I repeated, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
Elder Malcolm's voice carried from the front row, dripping with sanctimonious authority: "A true Luna would show compassion in this situation. She would put the needs of the pack above her own petty jealousies."
Other voices joined in, a chorus of disapproval that had been building for seven years:
"Always knew she wasn't suitable..."
"Too emotional, just like her mother..."
"A proper Luna would handle this with grace..."
The pain in my abdomen intensified, sharp and insistent. My babies—Vincent's babies, though he would never know—were reacting to the stress, to the hostility, to the toxic environment their mother was trapped in. I could feel them moving restlessly, as if trying to escape the poison seeping through my bloodstream.
I looked at Vincent, really looked at him, and saw no love there. No regret, no apology, no acknowledgment of what we'd built together over seven years. Only expectation—the assumption that I would swallow this humiliation, accept this arrangement, and smile while doing it.
Sandra bounced the baby gently, and he made a soft cooing sound that seemed to echo through the silent ballroom. "See?" she said, her voice gaining confidence. "Even little Marcus wants us all to get along. Don't you, sweetheart?"
Marcus. She'd named Vincent's son Marcus.
The name hit me like a slap, because it had been on our list. The list of names Vincent and I had discussed hypothetically, playfully, during lazy Sunday mornings when we'd talked about our future children. Marcus had been his favorite boy's name.
Another cramp seized me, so intense I had to bite down on my lip to keep from crying out. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth as I fought to stay upright, to maintain some shred of dignity in this public execution of my dreams.
"You're right," I said finally, my voice cutting through Sandra's performance like a blade. "A Luna should put the pack's needs first."
Vincent's grip on my wrist loosened slightly, and I saw relief flicker across his features. He thought I was capitulating, accepting this twisted arrangement.
How wrong he was.
"Which is why," I continued, my voice growing stronger as I stepped closer to the microphone, "I cannot allow these children to be born into such a toxic environment."
The words were out before I could stop them, before I could think about the consequences. The ballroom fell into absolute silence, the kind of quiet that precedes an earthquake.
Vincent's eyes widened in shock. "Constance, what are you—"
"Vincent Howard," I said, my voice ringing clear and strong through the sound system, carrying to every corner of the grand ballroom. The words felt like they were being torn from my soul, each syllable a piece of my heart dying. "I reject you as my mate."
The effect was immediate and devastating. Vincent staggered backward as if I'd struck him, his hand flying to his chest. The mate bond, that invisible thread that had connected us for seven years, snapped with an almost audible crack. Pain lanced through my own chest—sharp, brutal, final.
Gasps echoed throughout the ballroom. Someone screamed. The baby began to cry, a high, piercing wail that seemed to underscore the magnitude of what had just happened.
Rejection. The most forbidden act in werewolf society. The ultimate severing of the sacred bond between mates.
Vincent's face went ashen, his Alpha authority crumbling as he fought to stay upright. "You... you can't... do you know what you've done?"
But I was already moving, already pushing past him toward the edge of the stage. The pain in my chest was overwhelming, but beneath it was something else—something that felt almost like relief. The toxic bond was broken. My children would be free.
Sandra rushed to Vincent's side, the baby still crying in her arms. "Vincent! Oh my god, are you alright?" Her concern seemed genuine now, no longer performed for the audience.
I didn't look back as I gathered up my torn skirts and stumbled down the stage steps. The crowd parted before me like a sea, faces blurring together in a kaleidoscope of shock and judgment. Some looked horrified, others fascinated, a few even sympathetic.
But I couldn't focus on any of them. All I could think about was getting out, getting away, getting to safety before the full weight of what I'd just done crashed down on me.
The ballroom doors seemed impossibly far away as I pushed through the crowd, my heels clicking against the marble floor like a countdown to my exile. Behind me, I could hear Vincent's labored breathing, Sandra's soothing voice, the rising murmur of hundreds of conversations as the pack tried to process the unprecedented scene they'd just witnessed.
I burst through the ballroom doors into the cool night air, my chest heaving as I fought to catch my breath. The parking lot stretched before me, filled with expensive cars that belonged to people who would never accept me now, never welcome me back.
I was truly alone.
But as I stood there in my torn wedding dress, one hand pressed protectively over my still-flat stomach, I realized something that surprised me.
I wasn't afraid.
Even if seven years of waiting had ended in betrayal. Even if the children growing inside me would never know their father. Even if the future ahead looked uncertain and bare. I felt no fear.
Perhaps it began the moment I learned I would become a mother—or perhaps it had always been this way.
I was stronger than I had ever allowed myself to believe. And maybe, in the end, I had never needed an Alpha mate at all.
---
"Constance!"
I turned at the sound of my name and saw my best friend Cheryl hurrying toward me, her face tight with concern. She was late for the ceremony—typical Cheryl, always running on her own schedule—but her timing couldn't have been more perfect.
"What the hell happened?" she demanded as she reached me, taking in my disheveled appearance and tear-streaked face. Behind her, through the ballroom windows, I could see the chaos unfolding as guests crowded around Vincent and Sandra.
"It's over," I said simply, my voice breaking on the words. "Everything's over. I need to leave. Leave the pack. Leave him."
Cheryl's eyes narrowed as she took in the scene through the windows. Without another question, she grabbed my arm gently but firmly. "Come on," she said, steering me toward my apartment building across the pack grounds. "We need to get your things before they realize what's happening."
As we hurried away from the pack house, I could hear Vincent's voice carrying through the open doors: "Find her! Bring her back!"
But it was too late for that. The bond was broken, and nothing would ever make me go back to him again.
