A howl splits the air as a guard bursts into the room, his eyes wild with urgency.

"Found Susan! She's teaching disabled kids to paint at the Moonlight Orphanage."

I watch in horror as Alex's eyes light up with a possessive glow.​

Without a second glance in my direction, Alex races out the door.

I reach out, my fingers brushing against the cold, empty air where he once stood.

"Alex, my stomach..."

I gasp, doubling over in pain as a sharp cramp rips through my abdomen.

But he's already gone.​

The butler, a stoic figure with a long - scarred face approaches me with a heavy sigh.

His eyes flicker over my blood - stained nightgown, and I can see the pity in his gaze.

"Sir, the mistress might be miscarrying," he says, his voice low and hesitant.​

Alex's growl echoes through the phone. "She's too disobedient. That child shouldn't exist,"

Before I can protest, the butler grabs my arm.

He leads me to the meditation chamber, a cold, windowless room.

As the door slams shut behind me, I sink to the floor, my body racked with sobs.

I crawl to the door, pounding on it with all my strength.

"Let me out! Save my baby!" I scream, my voice hoarse and raw.​

The butler's voice comes through the door, muffled but clear.

"Madam, the child wasn't in alpha's plans..."

In the darkness of the chamber, I lie there, alone and in pain.

As consciousness fades, I touch my empty womb, whispering: "Alex Hilton, the baby's gone. I don't want you either."​

When I wake, the antiseptic stench of the infirmary fills my nostrils.

I'm lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by white sheets and machines that beep and hum.

I reach down, my fingers trembling as they touch my flattened stomach.

It's empty, hollow, and aching.​

The ward door swings open, and Alex enters, his fingers laced with Susan's.

She's a tiny thing, with big, doe - like eyes and a shock of red hair that falls around her shoulders like a wildfire.

But her gaze is ice - cold as she glares at me, her lips curled into a sneer.​

"Mrs. Hilton, I've left alpha. Why threaten my parents? Can't control your man, so bully the vulnerable?" she spits.​

I turn to Alex.

But his gaze is fixed on Susan.

A stab of pain shoots through my heart as I remember the way he used to look at me.​

"Alex," I croak, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Why didn't you save our child?"​

He doesn't even glance in my direction, his voice cold and indifferent.

"Ask why you got pregnant without permission."​

"Don't I have the right to a child in this marriage?"

"Correct,".​

Susan stamps her foot impatiently, her eyes flashing. "Alpha Alex, I'm not here for baby talk. You promised me closure."​

Alex pats her back reassuringly, then turns to me, his expression dark and menacing.

"Yuki, you drove Susan away and threatened her parents. Apologize."​

"I did nothing!" I snap, my head shooting up.

"I won't!"​

His face contorts with rage, and he waves his hand.

Two burly guards, their eyes glowing with the feral light of the wolf, flank my bed.

"Apologize, or they will help," he growls.​

I look up at him, hope flickering in my chest.

Will he spare me for old times' sake? But he simply nods. "Assist her."​

The guards grab my shoulders.

They yank me out of bed, and I fall to my knees with a painful thud.

"Sorry," I grind out through clenched teeth.​

Alex smirks at Susan, his eyes filled with triumph.

"Accept her apology?"​

Susan nods, then stiffens.

"alpha, we're done. My parents won't allow me to be a mistress."​

He laughs, a cold, harsh sound, and crushes her to his chest.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, dialing his lawyer.

"Prepare divorce papers. Give Yuki Smith 500 million."​

My heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vice, and I can barely breathe.

The man who once endured three days of brutal shrine punishment to make me his mate is now expelling me for another woman.​

"You will be my mate," Alex says, tilting Susan's chin up with his finger.

His eyes are dark and predatory, and I can see the wolf within him stirring.​

She hugs him tightly, but over his shoulder, she smirks at me.​

Later, Alex's lawyer arrives with the divorce papers and a black card.

"Mrs. Hilton, alpha says it's all pretense. He'll remarry you when he's done,".​

I take the papers, my eyes fixed on the signature line that reads "Yuki Smith."

Once, I thought I could never leave him, that I was destined to be by his side forever.

But now I see the truth: love that steals your self - worth is the deadliest cage of all.​

Without hesitation, I pick up the pen and sign my name.

As I lift the pen from the paper, something inside me cracks, but beneath the pain, there's a sense of relief.​

Alex Hilton, this time, I'm the one walking away.

Tabloid photos of Alex Hilton and Susan Charles flash across my phone like a strobe.

His pupils are slitted in every image, a detail the paparazzi mistake for camera glare but I recognize as the telltale sign of his wolf .​

He buys her full-page spreads in Vogue, where she poses in threadbare cotton dresses, ponytail swishing like a flag.

Socialites who once sneered at my thrift-store clothes now clamor for "Susan-core"-designers stitch fake ragged patches onto silk gowns, as if poverty were a chic accessory.

The trending that turns my stomach: "Hilton Heir Splurges Millions on Visually Impaired Muse."

He flies in ophthalmologists from six continents, their reports piled like a pyramid, then shatters the table when they confirm her congenital vision loss is irreversible.

In the leaked security footage, his eyes glow molten gold as he pins a healer by the throat: "I'll rip out my own retinas to match hers!"

I know that look-the mania of a werewolf desperate to bind his mate.​

So his brand of madness isn't exclusive.

Those once-sacred gestures-canceling board meetings to tune my flute, tattooing my name over his heart-were just his playbook for seduction, rewritten for each new obsession.

I was naive to think I was different.

At the hospital, my brother's hand is cadaverous.

Three years ago, Alex summoned a private air ambulance with a trauma team, yanking him back from the brink.

Now I press his cold fingers to my cheek: "I'm taking you somewhere we can start over."

Tears fall like ash on his hospital gown.

I thought he'd rescued me from the streets, but he'd only built a gilded cage .

I should have known his kindness came with a price.​

At the registry office, the clerk studies my ID-she remembers the tabloid story of the beggar who became Mrs. Hilton.

The auction house is flooded with his gifts: diamond chokers that once graced my neck, jade bangles that matched his mother's.

Under the auction lights, they gleam like the false promises in his eyes.

Back at the villa, I feed my old keepsakes to the fire: a half-knitted scarf, charcoal sketches of his sleeping face, a patchwork cushion made from his discarded shirts.

Flames curl around the fabric, and I see eighteen-year-old Alex kneeling on the floor, carefully folding these "trash" into a cigar box: "These mean more than all my trust fund."

Now I know he was just playing the part of the smitten lovers.​

Now he stands in the doorway, Susan tucked under his arm: "What's burning?"

His nostrils flare as he catches the scent of wolfsbane ash.​

"Memories," I say, not looking up.​

"Fetch the emerald bracelet for Susan."

That heirloom piece, pressed onto my wrist on our wedding eve: "This links you to the Hiltons-forever."

Now he dangles it before another woman.

As I climb the stairs, Susan trails me, fingernails clicking on the banister.

Her eyes rake over my walk-in closet, jealousy pooling in her gaze:

"Yuki Smith, still lurking? How desperate."

I place the velvet box in her hand, missing the predatory glint in her eye.

She smashes the bracelet on the floor, then shoves me hard.

The staircase railing slams into my spine; my forehead splits on a marble step, blood dripping onto the carpet like rubies.

When I look up, Alex is cupping Susan's scraped knee, his pupils slitted: "Did she attack you?"

Susan buries her face in his chest, voice vibrating: "She said I wasn't fit to wear Hilton jewels, then threw me down the stairs!"

Alex's stare bores into me like ice picks.

His guards drag me to the drawing room, where a silver-tipped cane whistles through the air. Each lash splits my skin.

I wake with gauze wrapped around my back like a mummy's bindings, but it can't trap the chill seeping from my wounds.

Alex Hilton sits by the bed, smoking.

Ash falls onto my pillow like shards of glass.

"Susan's pissed. You need to apologize."

He crushes the cigarette with his usual ferocity, smearing ash across my lips.

"Baby, don't be difficult."

The predatory glint in his eyes reminds me of Grandpa Hilton's words:

"He sees you as a trained dog."

He pets my hair approvingly.

"Play something for Susan. She likes Adagio in G Minor."

His voice blends with tobacco smoke, and I recall when he said my flute could melt snow-now it's a tool to entertain his new toy.

The champagne gown chokes me, diamonds blinding under chandeliers.

As I enter the Hilton ballroom, whispers sting like needles:

"The beggar dares show her face"...

"Dressed like a peacock, still reeks of poverty".

Once, he'd have sewn up such mouths, but now he enters with Susan on his arm, her plain sundress and ponytail a flag of defiance.

I finally see the pattern-Susan mirrors the girl I was when he found me: wild, unbowed.

Yet he'd frowned then: "A lady shouldn't be so bold", shaping me into a docile doll.

Now he smiles indulgently as she commands: "Alpha Alex, where's my performance?"

The flute feels like a cold iron rod in my hands.

The first note of Adagio makes him scowl.

With each stroke, I hear echoes of him in music school-

"Your music saves me"-now it's a public execution.

"Stop!" Susan interrupts.

"Playing the victim? You begged for divorce."

Her sneer pierces me.

Laughter ripples through the crowd as Alex murmurs comforts into her hair-a gesture once mine.

A string snaps, slicing my finger.

Watching his irritation, I realize this farce ends now.

When he furrows his brow for Susan, I understand: he loves not Susan, but the game of dominance she lets him play.

And I, the broken toy, belong in the trash.

I watch Alex Hilton tilt Susan Charles' chin, his thumb brushing her cheek-the same gesture once reserved for me.

"Don't pout," he murmurs, guiding her onto the dance floor.

The flute in my arms suddenly sears hot, strings digging into my ribs like a dying animal's whine.

Turning to leave, my gown sweeps a champagne tower.

Crystal shatters like the decade of lies I've swallowed.

Three steps out, hands yank my hair, dragging me into shadow.

A man raises his empty left wrist: "Remember? Alex had my hand chopped off for brushing you." A woman rips off her mask, acid scars glowing green under chandeliers:

"Called you ugly-he poured acid on my face."

Their accusations hail like hail.

Gazing at their maimed bodies, I retch.

These were Alex's "protections," now nooses around my neck.

When a needle jams under my nail, I black out from pain, screams smothered.

As they pin me to broken glass, wine and blood soak my dress.

Across the room, Susan stands at the fringe, lips curling in a wolfish smile.

"She sent you!"

I snarl, struggling.

They force my palm onto shards.

"She's framing Susan!" someone shrieks.

Glass shatters around me, ice cubes stinging open wounds.

Through the crowd, I lock eyes with Alex.

He's dabbing wine from Susan's skirt, expression bored.

When our gazes meet, he frowns as if I've spilled soup at a picnic.

All pain vanishes. the farce reveals itself: his paranoia wasn't love, his control wasn't protection.

I was a caged songbird, discarded when my tune grew tiresome.

I rise on broken glass, each step a bloody print.

No one stops me; Alex doesn't bother to look.

As I push through the ballroom doors, night air chills my neck-and I realize I'm weeping.

Behind me, the waltz continues.

But the Yuki Smith who loved Alex Hilton?

She died tonight.