I remember the day I caught Edwin staring at Laura’s picture days before our mating ceremony and he said to me.

“She’s not wife material. Too young to understand what it takes to be Luna.” Then he looked at me and whispered, “But you, Selene, you’re different. I love you because you’ll always tend to my needs.”

I was only nineteen, almost twenty.

Like any foolish girl in love, I believed him. When he asked for a small court wedding, I didn’t argue. I’d dreamed of a fairy tale wedding, but I said yes because I loved him. I did everything he wanted, even when it hurt.

Now I see clearly. I ignored the red flags, thinking love had to be difficult. But while I thought he was my mate, he only saw me as a maid, someone to cook, clean, and obey without question.

Like I expected, no one noticed my tear-rimmed eyes, the patch of hair I’d pulled out in despair, or the fresh scars I hid beneath my sleeves, my only way to dull the pain.

My hands trembled as I stared blankly at the pancake batter, muttering nonsense just to stop myself from breaking down.

As usual, I washed endless dishes and cooked meal after meal to satisfy everyone’s cravings.

By noon, shopping bags spilled across the house—shoes, clothes, jewelry—proof I didn’t matter.

Rowan, my husband’s son, showed off his suit, grinning. “We have an important wedding on this trip. What do you think?”

I asked quietly, “Why a wedding? Isn’t this supposed to be a business conference?”

My mother snapped, “If you spent less time poking around and more time fixing your childlessness, maybe you’d be useful.”

Edwin sneered from his seat, “Since when did you become a detective? If you watched the news, you’d know one of my business partner’s daughters is getting married. Now, go get me a cold beer. The whole place smells like you haven’t showered today.”

I swallowed my tears, feeling invisible and worthless in the house I once called home.

As I handed Edwin his beer, he clicked his tongue. “The dry cleaner bailed. Family emergency. And every other place is closed. I want everything ironed—tonight. No creases, Selene..if I notice anything, you'll sleep in the cell”

Evening came fast.

The house buzzed with cologne, zipped luggage, and scattered shoes.

I stayed in the background, adjusting sleeves, buttoning shirts, tying scarves, wiping smudges from their polished shoes.

I even dabbed Edwin’s face with moisturizer like he asked, careful not to mess up his hair.

Then it happened.

A shriek tore through the hallway. “Mom! My dress!”

Laura stormed in, clutching her gown—ivory, pearl-stoned, and worth more than a year of my life.

The zipper hung open, broken clean through. She was trembling. “It’s ruined!”

Before I could speak, my mother was on me. A sharp slap cracked across my cheek, knocking the breath from my lungs.

“You stupid mistake of a child! What did you do?” she yelled.

I stood there, dazed, my fingers still stained with fabric softener and heat cream like a servant who forgot her place.

“I—I didn’t do anything,” I stammered, heart pounding. “I spent the night ironing, just like you asked. I didn’t even touch the dress.”

Edwin scoffed. “Of course you didn’t. Jealousy looks so ugly on you, Selene. You hated that I bought your sister something special, so you ruined it.”

My lips parted, searching for words but none came out.

“No, I swear—”

“Shut up!” he snapped.

Then he turned to the guards by the door. “Take her to the dungeon. Six lashes. Leave her there until I say otherwise.”

“What?” My voice barely came out.

“Don’t worry,” he turned to Laura, gently pulling her close, “I’ll get you another one, something even more expensive once we land. Let’s go, or we’ll miss our flight.”

The guards didn’t wait. Rough hands gripped my arms.

My feet scraped against the marble floor as they dragged me out.

Behind me, laughter resumed, luggage zipped, perfume filled the air.

The last thing I saw before the heavy door slammed shut was the hem of Laura’s heels brushing the floor... and no one even turned to look at me.

And as the guards shoved me into the damp, dark cell, pain laced through my back and my chest in equal measure.

I wondered—is this how I’ll spend the last days of my life?

Locked away like filth, punished for something I didn’t even do?

Five days

That’s how long I spent in that cell, starved, cold, reduced to nothing in the eyes of the very people who once bowed in respect when I walked past.

Now they whispered, smirked, pointed like I was a joke.

The moment they let me out, I limped straight to the kitchen.

I didn’t care what I looked like. I tore into a loaf of bread with trembling fingers and drank the last juice box in the fridge like my life depended on it.

Then my phone pinged.

It was a message from Laura.

I didn't even know she had my number.

The message read

[Hey, I know we don’t talk much, but I hope that changes. The dress wasn’t your fault. It was a factory error. Please take something for the pain]

I read it once. Then again.

A production mistake?

After being whipped and locked away like an animal, this was supposed to patch it all up? Was this her version of comfort or guilt dressed in politeness?

I didn’t know whether to scream or cry.

I was still standing there, pasta in hand, water boiling behind me, when my phone pinged again.

This time, the message was from Edwin.

[I’ve asked my beta to issue a cheque for $100,000. That should cover your two weeks]

I laughed bitterly as tears slipped down my cheeks.

So this was it? Money as an apology? As if a check could erase the cell, the slap, the shame?

I could almost hear him: You better take it or leave it. Plenty of women would kill to be you.

I read it once. Then again. Then I deleted and blocked their numbers.

By evening, I needed air. Edwin never let me step outside the packhouse, not even to the market.

But tonight, I will.

I let my hair down. The long blonde curls he once called “ugly” spilled over my shoulders.

From a forgotten box, I pulled out a red dress I used to wear before I stopped trying to get him to notice me.

It clung to my body, showed my legs, made me feel something again.

I slipped into heels, shaky at first, but steady after a few steps.

Then I withdrew a little from my secret stash just enough for the night and went to the club.

I didn’t know how the night would end.

But tonight, I planned to forget. Even if just for a few hours.

Once, Laura came home raving about the club music and drinks.

I begged Edwin to take me too, just once.

He snapped.

“A Luna has no business in a club. No self-respecting woman does.”

But every Friday, he took Laura there to catch up over drinks and dance to loud music.

So tonight, I walked in on my own.

Heads turned. Men whistled. Women smiled. Complimented my dress, my hair.

I didn’t know how to respond. I just smiled awkwardly and kept walking.

At the bar, I ordered a few shots of liquor Edwin always said wasn’t “ladylike.”

I sipped slowly, scrolling through my phone, trying to distract myself from the crowd.

Then I saw it. A post from Katrina, our childhood friend.

I tapped it.

It was them.

Edwin and Laura. Exchanging vows in the Moonstone Sanctum.

Kissing like it wasn’t their first time.

Like I had never existed.

I watched as Edwin lifted Laura in his arms, spinning her around the sanctum, calling her the most beautiful wife.

My mother was in the background, crying.

“I’ve waited so long for this day,” she said.

The glass slipped from my hand and shattered.

My marriage meant nothing. I was just a sacrifice. A stepping stone he used to rise to Alpha.

I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, tossed a few bills on the counter, and walked out.

Across the street was a spa I had passed a thousand times with Edwin in the car but never dared to enter.

A young woman smiled as I stepped in.

“Welcome to deluxe spa house”

“I’m here for a full facial and body massage,” I said.

The woman at the desk smiled and took my details. After a moment of checking, she looked up.

“We only have a male masseuse available right now.”

I smiled. “That’s fine.”

If Edwin could cheat with my sister, then I had every right to feel the touch of another man even if it was just for peace.

Inside the room, the masseuse’s hands moved with expert ease, kneading through the tension I didn’t realize I’d been carrying for years.

I passed my phone to the receptionist, asked her to take a few pictures and short clips.

As his hands moved to my lower back, I took a deep breath and made a call to a close friend at the pack court—someone who’d once offered to help when I was ready.

Then I made the call I’d been avoiding for years now.

“I’m done with this marriage ” I said simply. “It’s time I chose myself.”

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!