The Rejected Luna's Spectacular Comeback

ELEANOR'S POV:

I placed the last white rose into the crystal vase.

Its petals were perfect, almost unnaturally so. They stood pristine and cold in the center of the massive oak dining table. Silverware gleamed under the chandelier, each fork and knife a soldier standing guard over an empty plate. The entire room felt like a museum exhibit: beautiful, silent, and completely devoid of life.

My phone buzzed on the polished wood, the screen lighting up the silent space.

Genevieve Blackwood — Donavan's mother, the former Luna of the Blackwood Pack.

A familiar tightness coiled in my stomach. I pressed a hand against the spot, my breath catching for a second before I forced it out in a slow, controlled stream.

I swiped to answer.

"Genevieve, dinner is ready." My voice was a flat line, scraped clean of any emotion.

"Where is Donavan?" Her voice was just as I expected—imperious, sharp, and accustomed to immediate obedience. "This is a Pack dinner. The Alpha cannot be absent."

My fingers tightened on the edge of the table. The wood dug into my skin. "I'll find him."

"See that you do."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a long moment, then at the two dozen empty chairs surrounding the table. A wave of dizziness washed over me, the cavernous room seeming to tilt on its axis. I knew better than to call Donavan. He wouldn't answer my call. He never did.

My feet carried me through the silent, opulent halls of the Blackwood manor, the plush carpets swallowing the sound of my steps. I didn't go to our—to his—wing of the house. I went to the garage.

My modest sedan was parked in the corner, dwarfed by his collection of sports cars that sat like sleeping beasts. I slid into the driver's seat, the worn fabric a stark contrast to the cold leather of everything else in this house.

The GPS on my phone didn't need a new address. The destination was already there in my recent history, a place I knew intimately by name but had never dared to visit.

The Onyx Lounge.

As I drove through the imposing iron gates of the estate, I caught a glimpse of the manor in my rearview mirror. It stood illuminated against the twilight sky, a fortress of power and wealth. And I was its pathetic, unloved queen, driving out into the night to retrieve her king, like some desperate, cliché wife from a bad movie.

The lounge was in the city's most expensive district. Valets in crisp uniforms hurried between Bentleys and Lamborghinis. My car felt like a stray dog that had wandered into a purebred dog show.

A host at the velvet rope tried to stop me. "Members only, ma'am."

His dismissive gaze raked over my simple dress, my unremarkable car. I lifted my chin, the motion feeling stiff and unnatural.

"Eleanor Blackwood."

The name was a key. The host's posture changed instantly. The disdain vanished, replaced by a practiced, deferential respect. "Of course, Luna. Right this way."

He led me into a world of dim lights and thick cigar smoke. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive whiskey and a dozen different perfumes. A jazz trio played softly in the corner, their music a low, mournful thrum beneath the murmur of conversation.

My eyes scanned the room, and it didn't take long.

I found him in a corner booth, tucked away in the shadows. Donavan Blackwood — Alpha of the Blackwood Pack, my mate, my husband.

He was leaning back against the plush leather, the picture of lazy, arrogant power. A cigarette smoldered between his long fingers, and his ice-blue eyes were fixed on the woman sitting across from him.

Christie Stone — Donavan's younger sister of his deceased true love, Blaire Stone; sweet on the surface but deeply manipulative.

She was laughing, her head tilted just so. Her body was leaned far over the small table, her fingers holding a single, perfect strawberry. She was raising it toward Donavan's mouth.

He didn't eat it. But he didn't pull away, either. He just watched her, a faint, amused smile on his lips, letting her fingers hover inches from his mouth in a gesture of obscene intimacy.

The blood in my veins turned to ice. It was a physical sensation, a cold slush starting in my chest and spreading to the tips of my fingers and toes.

I started walking.

The heels of my shoes made no sound on the thick carpet, lost in the music and the noise.

Christie saw me first. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second before it returned, wider this time, sweeter, and laced with something sharp and triumphant. It was a look of pure provocation.

Donavan followed her gaze.

When his eyes landed on me, the lazy amusement vanished. It was replaced by a look of pure, undiluted annoyance. His face hardened into the cold, dismissive mask I knew so well.

I stopped at the edge of their table. My throat was dry, and my voice came out as a rough whisper. "Genevieve wants you home for dinner."

A humorless laugh escaped his lips. He stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray, the motion sharp and violent. "Are you spying on me now?"

His voice wasn't loud, but it was pitched to carry, laced with an insult that made my cheeks burn. I could feel the eyes of the people in the nearby booths turning toward us, sensing drama.

I forced myself to meet his gaze. "It's a Pack dinner."

Christie chose that moment to stand. She moved with a practiced grace, stepping to Donavan's side and smoothing a non-existent wrinkle on his collar. "Donavan, if it's Aunt Genevieve's request, you should probably go."

Her words were for me, a performance of a dutiful niece. But her posture, her hand on his arm, was that of a hostess dismissing an unwanted guest.

Donavan didn't look at me. His eyes were on Christie. "I'll walk you out."

He stood, his tall, powerful frame eclipsing the light. He walked past me without a glance, his shoulder not even brushing mine. He treated me like air.

Christie followed him. But as she passed, she paused. She leaned in close, her perfume cloying and sweet, her lips almost touching my ear.

"Thank you for coming to get him, Luna," she whispered.

She drew out the word "Luna," her voice a soft, venomous caress. It was pure mockery.

I stood frozen, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I watched her catch up to him, her hand slipping into the crook of his arm. Just before they disappeared through the door, Christie glanced back over her shoulder.

She gave me a smile. It was small, contemptuous, and utterly victorious.