The divorce papers came the next morning—just an e-signature needed.
I didn’t hesitate. I scribbled my name, exhaled, and felt something shift in my chest.
My body had craved this freedom long before my mind allowed it.
Later, I walked to the closet Edwin had padlocked for years.
He’d tossed everything in there: my sketches, my fabrics, my dreams. He called it rubbish.
But it wasn’t rubbish to me.
One by one, I pulled out my designs—dresses, suits, old sewing patterns.
I touched each one like it was a piece of who I used to be. Before the titles. Before the cage.
As a child, I spent nights sketching by candlelight, sewing with a rusty old machine our neighbor had gifted me.
I wanted to be a fashion stylist, to make beauty from thread and vision.
But after our mating ceremony, Edwin threw it all away.
“A proper Luna doesn’t need needles and threads,” he said. “The pack needs you. Stop wasting time on things that won’t take you anywhere.”
But now, I saw it for what it was: power. Mine. And I was taking it back.
I boxed my dreams to keep the peace.
Folded them neatly, like clothes no longer worn, and hid them away so I wouldn’t upset my precious mate.
But I never stopped.
Between his demands and the silence that followed,
I sketched.
Late at night, between chores and tending to Edwin's insatiable needs over the years, I designed.
I sold them anonymously online—high-end designers paid well.
Some even offered me contracts, asked me to be their personal stylist.
I always said no. I didn’t want to ruin a marriage that had already ended the day it began.
That afternoon, I picked up my phone and called Damian, my childhood best friend, now a top fashion designer.
He answered instantly. “Selene?”
I swallowed. “I’m ready to chase my dreams,” I said. “And this time, no narcissistic selfish husband is going to stop me”
Damian’s voice exploded through the phone. “Selene, do you know how much I’ve prayed for this day? You’re insanely talented, and the world needs to see it. I’m going on a fashion tour this weekend—I’ll book an extra seat. Pack your bags. You’re about to become very famous.”
For the first time in forever, I felt it—joy. Real joy.
The kind that didn’t come from surviving or pretending, but from choosing me.
After the call, I dialed the beta of the Black Wolves Pack, the largest and richest pack in New York.
I wasn’t just an ordinary Luna. I was stolen at birth.
Hidden from my real father the Alpha who had banished his corrupt beta and paid the price. The woman who raised me let me pay it too.
But I had proof, Documents hidden in my late father's safe.
Damian helped me trace my bloodline.
And when my father heard my voice, he said with a tremble,
“Just say the word, daughter. The jet will come for you. And the throne—it’s yours.”
I stared at Edwin’s picture on my phone and whispered, “In a few weeks… I’ll be gone. You’ll beg, but you’ll never have access to me again.”
Then I opened my gallery and started uploading.
First, the photo at the spa wrapped in white towels, glowing.
Then the next one—me lying face down while a handsome male masseuse worked magic on my back.
The calls started almost instantly. Unknown numbers. Then the texts. And the voice notes followed.
“Who’s that man? You let another man touch you? You're Luna, Selene—have you no shame?”
“Are you trying to bring bad luck to the pack with your adultery?”
“I said I was sorry for locking you up! I even gave you a hundred grand! What more do you want?!”
I stared at the screen, calm… amused even.
Typical Edwin.
Never truly sorry. Always using money to excuse his cruelty. Always trying to stay in control, and because he thought I was answerable to him all the time.
I laughed quietly, shook my head, and tapped the “send” button.
The next video went up—me in the club, downing liquor shots under neon lights, surrounded by strangers with the caption: All the single ladies say cheers!
