The heavy oak door swung open without a single squeak of protest.

Damien sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his attention locked on a glowing tablet. He didn't bother looking up when I stepped onto the plush carpet. My shoes made no noise as I crossed the expansive room, stopping right at the edge of his workspace.

I held a single, thin folder.

I dropped it directly over his screen. The cardboard slapped against the glass.

Damien finally raised his head. His dark eyes met mine, flashing with momentary irritation before settling into a strange, unfamiliar expression. Guilt. Just a tiny, fleeting shadow of it, softening the sharp angles of his jaw.

"Isabella," he murmured.

"Sign it," I demanded.

He ignored the file. He leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. "I was at an international conference all week. I didn't have time to explain things to you."

"Explain?" I asked, keeping my voice dangerously flat.

"Yes, explain." He shifted in his seat, looking almost uncomfortable. "If you hadn't kept calling the other night, Olivia and I wouldn't have been exposed in the first place."

I stared at him. The sheer audacity of his words hung in the air between us.

"You're blaming me," I stated.

"I'm saying you forced the issue before I was ready to handle it." Damien sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "As for the pregnancy..."

He paused. His gaze drifted away from me, landing on the city skyline outside his window.

"Maybe the miscarriage is a good thing," he finished.

A freezing sensation washed over my skin. The numbness I had felt in my office cracked, letting a sharp, jagged spike of agony pierce my chest. I thought the broken Mate Bond had taken all my pain with it. I thought I had no tears left to shed over this man. But the memory of my pup—the tiny life that had washed away on a sterile hospital bed—tore through my defenses.

"A good thing?" I whispered.

"Look at us, Isabella." Damien met my gaze again, his expression completely serious. "Our current state isn't suitable for raising a child. We're too busy. The pack needs my undivided attention, and you have your duties here at the company. A baby would have just complicated everything."

He reached for the folder on his desk.

He didn't open the cover to read the first page. He didn't scan the paragraphs detailing my immediate resignation, the forfeiture of my pack benefits, or the formal severance of our union.

He just flipped straight to the signature line at the very back.

He grabbed a silver pen. The metal nib scratched against the thick paper. A rapid, careless scrawl.

Damien Blackwood.

He had just signed away his Luna, his mate, and his most loyal employee, all without reading a single word.

I watched the ink dry. My fingers twitched, aching to snatch the paper away and run, but I forced my hands to remain still at my sides. The man sitting in front of me wasn't just a cheating husband; he was a monster who viewed our dead child as a convenient scheduling adjustment.

I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what he had just endorsed.

A bright, cheerful pop melody interrupted me. Damien's phone lit up on the desk.

He glanced at the screen. A soft smile broke across his face—a smile he hadn't given me in years. He held up his index finger, silencing me with a sharp gesture.

"Quiet," he mouthed.

He picked up the device and answered. "What's wrong, baby?"

Olivia's voice filtered through the receiver, high-pitched and whiny. Even from three feet away, I could hear my sister complaining about being bored, her tone dripping with exaggerated poutiness.

"Okay, okay," Damien soothed, his voice dropping into a tender, affectionate register. "Don't be upset. I'm free next week. I can accompany you to an island vacation."

He listened to her squeal of delight.

"Yes, anywhere you want," he promised. He looked right at me, his eyes cold and calculating while his voice remained sweet for her. "Send me the location. I'll have Isabella book your flights and the hotel."

My stomach twisted. The absolute disrespect slammed into me like a physical blow.

Damien ended the call and placed the phone face-down on the desk.

"I am your Luna," I said, my voice trembling with a rage I could barely suppress. "And you want me to book flights and a hotel for your mistress?"

Damien didn't flinch. He remained perfectly calm, as if we were discussing a lunch order.

"Since you already know about the situation, just do me a favor," he replied. "In the company, we are simply superior and subordinate. You're my secretary. Booking travel is part of your job."

"She is my sister."

"And she makes me happy." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "As for the Luna position, you don't need to feel threatened. I promise Olivia won't take it from you."

A harsh, unexpected laugh ripped from my throat. It sounded like shattering glass. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just smiled a dead, empty smile.

Damien frowned, clearly displeased by my reaction. "I'm serious, Isabella. She doesn't want the title or the responsibilities. She just does this because she loves me. She isn't after your crown."

"How generous of her," I mocked.

He picked up the signed folder and shoved it across the polished wood toward me.

"Before, you had to handle all the company affairs and constantly worry about taking care of Olivia when she went out to play," Damien continued, completely ignoring my sarcasm. "It was hard on you. You were always stressed. Now it's perfect. The secret is out. You guys have balanced it out."

Balanced it out.

He actually believed this was a functional arrangement. He thought I would sit in the neighboring office, managing his schedule, while he took my sister on tropical island getaways.

I reached out and grabbed the folder. The paper felt heavy in my grip.

"Are you going to book the tickets?" he pressed, his tone shifting back to an Alpha's command.

"I'll make sure the arrangements are handled exactly as they should be," I answered.

"Good. Send the confirmation to my personal email." He dismissed me with a wave of his hand, already turning his attention back to his tablet.

I nodded slowly.

I turned my back on him and walked toward the heavy oak doors. My posture remained rigid, my shoulders pulled back.

*Yes,* I thought silently as my hand grasped the brass doorknob. *Let this be my last day as Damien's secretary.*

*And my last day as his Luna.*

I stepped out into the hallway and let the door shut firmly behind me. The click of the latch echoed in the empty corridor, sounding like a judge's gavel.

I opened the folder one last time, staring at his bold, arrogant signature at the bottom of the resignation and mate-severance form. He had given me everything I needed to disappear.

Damien thought he had everything under control. He thought he had tamed his wife and secured his mistress.

Tomorrow at noon, HR would process this document.

I just wondered who he was going to destroy first when he realized his perfect world had legally ended with a single stroke of his own pen.

[Damien's POV]

Damien pressed the intercom button. "Grace. Get Isabella in here. I need the revised budget for the pack expansion."

Silence answered him.

"Grace!" he barked, slamming his palm against the mahogany desk.

The heavy oak door opened. A young woman with short brown hair hurried inside. She clutched a silver tablet to her chest, keeping her eyes firmly on the carpet.

Damien’s jaw tightened. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sarah, sir," she stammered. "The new temp."

"I didn't ask for a temp. I asked for Isabella."

Grace Morgan walked in right behind Sarah, holding a stack of mail. "Miss Isabella resigned a week ago, Alpha. Didn't you know?"

Damien stood up. His chair rolled back, hitting the credenza. "Excuse me?"

"She left the company," Grace stated calmly.

"People don't just leave, Grace," Damien snapped. "Not my Luna. Not my secretary."

"She is no longer your secretary, Alpha. HR processed everything."

"Get the HR director on the phone right now."

"There is no need. You signed and approved it yourself, sir."

"That is a lie."

"I have the copy right here." Grace placed a single sheet of paper on his desk.

Damien snatched the document. His bold signature sat at the bottom of the page. The memories from last week rushed back. He had been on the phone with Olivia, planning her island vacation. He hadn't read a single line of the folder Isabella handed him.

A sharp, uncomfortable pinch hit his chest. Regret?

He shoved the feeling down and tossed the paper into the trash bin. "She's playing games. Call her cell phone."

"I already tried, Alpha. The number is disconnected."

"Then call her apartment."

"Her lease was terminated," Grace added. "She moved out five days ago."

Damien sneered. "She's throwing a tantrum because of Olivia. Give it a few days. She'll come crawling back once her bank accounts run dry."

"Her company cards were surrendered to HR," Grace noted. "And she emptied her personal pack accounts before leaving."

"She won't last a month out there alone," Damien muttered, sitting back down. "Dismissed."

***

[Isabella's POV]

The scent of linseed oil and crushed pigment filled the airy Paris studio.

I dragged the brush across the canvas, blending a streak of cobalt blue into the harsh black background. Three years. I had abandoned this for Damien. I had traded my art for pack politics and endless spreadsheets.

"You have a rare gift, Isabella."

I lowered my brush. Professor Claire Beaumont stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chic tweed jacket.

"I'm just out of practice," I replied.

"Nonsense." Claire stepped closer, scanning the violent strokes on my canvas. "You paint like someone who just broke out of a cage."

"That's exactly what happened."

"What is this piece about?" Claire asked, pointing to the dark center of the canvas.

"Betrayal," I said simply. "And the death of something that should have lived."

Claire's eyes softened. "It is heartbreaking. But your technique is flawless, and the emotion is what captures the eye. I want you in the World Art Foundation's emerging artist program."

I wiped my hands on a paint-stained rag. "I don't have a portfolio yet. Just this one piece."

"This piece is enough," Claire insisted. "The foundation's primary investor relies on my recommendations. He is looking for raw, unfiltered talent."

"Who is the investor?" I asked.

"Alexander Ravenscroft."

I shook my head. "The name means nothing to me."

"He is the youngest Lycan Duke in the European Council," Claire explained. "He has an eye for the extraordinary. And he has the wealth to turn an unknown artist into a global sensation."

"I just want to work, Professor. I don't care about titles or Lycan nobility."

"You will care when he funds your first gallery exhibition. The program starts next week. Do not miss this opportunity, Isabella."

"I'll be there," I promised.

Claire smiled and left the studio. I turned back to my easel.

I grabbed my palette knife, scraping a thick layer of crimson paint across the canvas.

"You missed a spot."

A deep, resonant voice echoed from the doorway.

I turned around. A man stood at the threshold. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his broad shoulders filling the frame. His silver-gray eyes locked onto mine, carrying a heavy, commanding weight. A Lycan. The aura rolling off him was undeniable.

"Excuse me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The bottom left corner," he pointed. "It lacks the violence of the rest of the piece."

I let out a short, unexpected laugh. "I'm not finished yet."

"I look forward to seeing the end result." He took a step into the studio. "I'm Alexander Ravenscroft."

The Duke. Claire's mysterious investor.

"Isabella," I replied, not bothering to bow or show the submission his title usually demanded. "You're the one funding the emerging artist program."

"I fund talent," Alexander corrected, his gaze dropping to my paint-stained hands. "And I rarely visit the academy studios myself."

"Then why are you here?" I asked.

"I heard the scrape of your knife from the hallway. It sounded like a fight."

"It was."

"Did you win?"

"I'm still standing," I replied.

Alexander smiled. It wasn't a polite, aristocratic smile. It was genuine. "Good. Dead weight ruins good art. Keep painting, Isabella."

He turned and walked away, leaving me alone with my canvas. He didn't know I was a runaway Luna. He didn't know an Alpha on another continent was probably tearing his office apart looking for me. I didn't care. For the first time in years, I felt entirely free.

***

[Damien's POV]

Damien sat alone in his darkened office. The sun had set hours ago, casting long shadows across the walls.

He dialed Ethan Carter's number.

"Ethan," Damien growled into the receiver. "Where is Isabella?"

"I don't know, Alpha," Ethan replied, his voice tight. "She didn't tell anyone where she was going."

"She has to be somewhere!"

"She's gone, Damien. You signed her release."

Damien ended the call, throwing the phone onto the desk.

It vibrated immediately. Three new messages from Olivia. Pictures of her posing in a tiny bikini on a white sand beach.

"Having the best time, Alpha!" the text read. "Wish you were here."

Damien stared at the screen. He felt absolutely nothing. No spark of lust. No amusement. Just a hollow, echoing silence in his chest.

"Isabella," he muttered to the empty room.

It had been over a week. She hadn't called. She hadn't begged for her job back. She hadn't even shown up at the pack house to scream at him.

He closed his eyes and reached inward, searching for the familiar hum of their Mate Bond. He expected to feel her anger, her jealousy, or her sadness. He pushed his senses out, grasping for the invisible thread that connected his soul to hers.

Nothing.

He pushed harder, his claws extending and digging into the leather armrests. Panic flared in his chest, hot and sharp.

The bond wasn't just quiet. It was completely, utterly gone.

Damien dropped his phone. The screen cracked against the floorboard.

"Where are you?" he whispered to the dark.