After three years of loving Tristan Callen with everything I had, he finally gave me flowers. 9,999 roses and a set of silk lingerie for my 25th birthday. A grand, sweeping gesture that felt like a dream. I posted it online, eager to share a rare moment of happiness.
But the dream shattered when Selene Ashford, his preferred mate, commented beneath my post: [Some people are just desperate enough to settle for scraps.]
I stared at the words, my chest tightening. The roses, the gifts… they weren’t meant for me. They were hers, as always. And the mansion he’d just bought? Not for us, but for her.
I should’ve known better.
Still, I needed answers. So I grabbed the flowers and drove to Selene’s new place, just outside our pack’s territory. The moment I stepped inside, I found them together, seated at a candlelit table, laughing like nothing else in the world existed.
Tristan’s eyes flicked to me, but there was no guilt. No shame. He just gave me that cold, indifferent stare and growled, “Can you stop being so damn paranoid? Selene and I are discussing pack business.” His voice lowered, laced with condescension. “And if there really was something between us, do you think you'd even be my Luna?"
I almost laughed. The sheer audacity of it. The old me would’ve screamed, demanded answers. But this time? I didn’t have the energy.
Instead, I smiled—a calm, bitter curve of my lips—and tossed the roses onto the table. Then, I slipped off the engagement ring and let it fall.
“I wish you both happiness.”
The ring clinked against the floor, rolling to Tristan’s feet. He crushed it beneath his boot, like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.
“If you want to stay my Luna,” he sneered, “fix your attitude. Stop being so suspicious. You’re embarrassing yourself.” His eyes flicked to the door. “Now get out. We’ve got serious matters to discuss.”
I stood there, frozen for a beat. Every word slicing deeper than I thought possible. But I didn’t cry. Not this time.
I turned and walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.
Back home, I opened the pack’s group chat and typed a simple message: [The engagement is off. Tristan Callen and I are done.]
I should’ve left it there. But anger burned beneath my skin, urging me to add: [Congratulations to Selene Ashford. You won.]
The group chat exploded within seconds.
Tristan, ever the master manipulator, posted a picture of his computer. [Handling pack matters, as usual.] Then came the twisting of the knife: [Ember, you don’t need to throw a tantrum just because I didn’t buy you that dress. And I never brought up the fact that you used my credit card to party with your male friends.]
My mother jumped in immediately, her scolding sharp and public. [You ungrateful child! Tristan has done everything for you. Apologize now. Don’t ruin this. You’ll regret it.]
I didn’t bother replying. Just sighed and exited the chat, tossing my phone aside. What did I expect? They always believed Tristan. He was their Alpha. Their golden boy. And me? I was the girl who never lived up to anyone’s expectations.
I leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling. My mother’s words echoed in my head, her disappointment cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. She hadn’t always been this way. Once, she was kind. Gentle. But after my father’s death, that version of her disappeared.
I’d clung to Tristan because he felt like an escape. A safe place. But I’d been wrong.
His warmth, his kindness—all of it was reserved for Selene. For me, there was only indifference. Cold remarks designed to wound. He was a master at making me lose control, watching as I unraveled in front of others. And every time, he played the hero, offering his forgiveness while painting me as the problem.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, forcing back the tears. Not this time. I wouldn’t let him break me again.
An hour later, Tristan came home. I was scrolling at my phone and he was standing, looking at me, while holding a wilted bouquet of roses.
“Really?” I said flatly, eyeing the flowers disgustedly.
He rolled his eyes. “Still sulking? I got you the damn flowers, Ember. What more do you want?” He shoved them at me, the petals damp and drooping. “You’ve always wanted this, right? Stop acting like a child.”
I took the bouquet, staring at it. Once, I would’ve been thrilled. I used to envy the girls who walked down the street, holding fresh flowers from their mates. I’d told Tristan that once, but he’d laughed it off.
“If I’d known you were this vain,” he said now, his voice sharp, “I wouldn’t have wasted my time. You’re a wolfless Omega, Ember. Be grateful Moon Goddess chose you at all to be my mate.”
I felt something crack inside me. He always knew where to hit, how to twist the knife just right.
I met his gaze, my voice calm but cold. “Grateful? For what? Being your second choice?” I stepped forward, the bouquet slipping from my hands. “Tell me, Tristan—are these the same roses you used with Selene? I saw Selene's post earlier while I was scrolling, she was in a tub, full of petals. You really are amazing…” I sarcastically added.
Tristan's jaw clenched, but he didn’t deny it.
I smirked, bitter and broken. “I don’t need second-hand flowers. And I sure as hell don’t need a second-hand man.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re acting ridiculous. Don't you know how lucky you are?.”
I laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. “Lucky? For what? Being treated like an afterthought?” I stepped closer, my voice sharp. “I deserve better than this. Better than you.”
Tristan opened his mouth to argue, but I was done listening.
“Get out, Tristan.”
For the first time in years, I felt something close to peace. Even if it hurts like hell.
