I don't bake the tiramisu.

Instead, I sit in the dark kitchen, water pooling beneath my chair, staring at the ruined ingredients scattered across the floor where I dropped them. My wolf is still snarling, a low vibration in my chest that feels foreign after years of silence.

When the SUV pulls into the driveway hours later, I don't move. Don't rush to clean up. Don't paste on the smile that usually greets them home.

Henry walks in first, Caleb trailing behind, both of them dry and laughing about something. They stop when they see me.

"Stella." Henry's voice carries that edge of irritation he gets when I'm not performing correctly. "Why are you sitting in the dark? And what's all over the floor?"

"The ingredients," I say quietly. "For the tiramisu you demanded I make while you took our only vehicle to the Moon Festival."

The temperature in the room drops. Caleb shifts uncomfortably, but Henry's expression hardens.

"I told you we were doing border patrol."

"You lied." The words taste like freedom. "I saw you. At the festival. With Everly."

Henry's Alpha aura slams into me like a physical blow, crushing down on my shoulders until my bones creak. My wolf snarls louder, pushing back against the pressure, but she's weak from years of suppression.

"You're being paranoid," Henry says, his Alpha tone weaving through the words, trying to rewrite reality inside my head. "We stopped by the festival after patrol to check on pack morale. Everly was helping entertain Caleb. I was doing what's best for our son."

"In your coat," I whisper. "She was wearing your coat."

"It was cold." His aura intensifies, and I feel my wolf whimper despite her earlier fury. "You're imagining things, Stella. This jealousy is beneath you. Beneath a Luna."

Caleb won't meet my eyes. He just stands there, silent, letting his father gaslight me into questioning my own reality.

I want to scream. Want to show them what I saw, make them admit the truth. But Henry's aura is crushing the air from my lungs, and I'm so tired of fighting battles I can never win.

"Go to bed," Henry commands, his Alpha voice making it impossible to disobey. "We'll discuss your behavior in the morning."

My body moves before I can stop it, the Alpha command overriding my will. I climb the stairs like a puppet on strings, my wolf howling in rage at our helplessness.

I don't sleep. I lie in our bed—the one Henry hasn't shared with me in months—and stare at the ceiling until dawn breaks gray and cold through the windows.

When I finally rise, I need to see them. My paintings. The only pieces of myself I've managed to keep safe from this place, hidden away in the storage closet at the end of the hall where I've been secretly working for years. Every emotion I couldn't speak, every dream I'd sacrificed, every moment of beauty I'd managed to capture despite everything—it's all there, waiting.

My hands shake as I unlock the closet door.

Empty.

Completely, devastatingly empty.

The easel I'd hidden behind old boxes—gone. The canvases I'd stacked carefully against the wall—gone. My sketchbooks, my brushes, my paints, the portfolio I'd been building in secret—all of it, vanished.

I stand in the doorway of the empty closet, my wolf's snarl dying into something worse than silence. This is violation. This is theft. This is the final erasure of everything I am.

Footsteps on the stairs pull me from my shock. I stumble toward the sound, desperate for answers, and freeze when I hear Former Luna Murphy's voice drifting from the sitting room.

"Oh, the exhibition is tomorrow night," she's saying, her tone warm with approval I've never heard directed at me. "At the Silverfang Pack gallery, no less. Marcus Reed himself is curating. Can you imagine? Our Everly, recognized by such a prestigious critic."

Our Everly.

My stomach turns to ice.

"The paintings are extraordinary," Former Luna Murphy continues. "Such profound emotional depth. Such technical mastery. Henry was right to encourage her talent all these years."

I grip the doorframe, my knees threatening to buckle.

"She'll be the toast of the art world," Former Luna Murphy says. "Finally, a Luna this pack can be proud of."

The pieces fall into place with devastating clarity. Henry didn't just take my paintings. He gave them to Everly. My stepsister is hosting a solo exhibition of my work, claiming my art, my voice, my soul as her own.

And Henry—my fated mate, the man who was supposed to cherish and protect me—orchestrated the entire theft.

My wolf doesn't snarl this time.

She roars.

I don't knock.

Henry's office door slams against the wall as I shove it open, and for the first time in years, I don't care about the noise or the disrespect or what anyone thinks. My wolf is pushing forward, her fury giving me strength I'd forgotten I possessed.

Henry looks up from his desk, irritation flashing across his face before he schools it into that cold Alpha mask. "Stella. I'm in a meeting—"

"Where are my paintings?" My voice doesn't shake. My wolf won't let it.

His amber eyes narrow. "Lower your voice. You're being hysterical."

"Where. Are. My. Paintings." Each word comes out sharp as broken glass.

Henry stands slowly, his Alpha aura beginning to press down on me. But my wolf snarls, pushing back against the pressure. We're done being crushed.

"Those paintings were taking up valuable storage space," he says, his tone dismissive. "I donated them to someone who could actually use them."

"You gave them to Everly." It's not a question. "She's hosting an exhibition tomorrow night at the Silverfang gallery. My work. Under her name."

Something flickers in his expression—surprise that I know, maybe, or annoyance that I found out so quickly. But it's gone in an instant, replaced by cold calculation.

"Everly has been developing her artistic talents for years," Henry says smoothly. "Those pieces were collaborative efforts—"

"Liar." The word explodes from me. "I'm calling Marcus Reed. I'm telling the entire Silverfang Pack that those paintings are mine. I'm exposing her fraud to the whole werewolf world."

Henry moves faster than I can track, his hand slamming down on his desk with enough force to crack the wood. His Alpha aura surges, trying to force me to submit, to back down, to be the good little Luna who never causes problems.

But my wolf is done submitting.

"You will do no such thing," Henry growls, his voice dropping into that Alpha tone that used to make my knees weak. Now it just makes me angrier. "You will not embarrass this pack. You will not ruin Everly's moment. And you will not question my decisions again."

"Or what?" I meet his eyes, and I see the moment he realizes I'm not afraid anymore. "You'll what, Henry? Take more from me? There's nothing left to steal."

His expression goes cold. Calculating. And I see the exact moment he decides to destroy me.

"Get out of my office," he says quietly. "Before you do something you'll regret."

I leave because my wolf tells me to—not out of submission, but strategy. We need to contact Marcus Reed, need to gather evidence, need to move quickly before Everly's exhibition tomorrow night.

But I'm not fast enough.

By dinner time, the pack mind-link explodes with images I've never seen before. Photos of me at the territory border, grainy and dark, but unmistakably me. Except I'm not alone. Figures lurk in the shadows around me—rough, dangerous-looking wolves with rogue written all over them.

The accompanying message from Henry's Beta burns through the mind-link: *Luna Stella Wood has been consorting with rogues at our borders. Alpha Henry asks all pack members to remain vigilant and report any suspicious behavior.*

My wolf howls in rage. Those photos are fake—they have to be. I was buying groceries, alone, soaked to the bone in the storm. But the timestamps match. The location matches. And Henry's Beta has always been skilled with image manipulation.

The mind-link erupts with responses. Shock. Disgust. Betrayal. Pack members I've known for years, wolves I've served and supported and cared for, turn on me in an instant.

*I always knew something was off about her.*

*A true Luna would never betray her pack like this.*

*Thank the Moon Goddess Alpha Henry has Everly to rely on.*

I try to defend myself through the mind-link, try to explain, but Henry's Alpha authority blocks me. I can receive messages but can't send them. He's silenced me completely.

When I walk through the packhouse halls to dinner, pack members openly sneer. Some turn their backs. Others whisper just loud enough for me to hear—traitor, rogue-lover, disgrace.

Diana Cross, who used to have coffee with me every Tuesday morning, stops directly in my path. For a moment, I think she might defend me. We've been friends for years.

Then she spits at my feet.

"Traitor," Diana hisses, and walks away.

The dining hall goes silent when I enter. Every eye turns to me, and the hostility is so thick I can taste it. My wolf whimpers, overwhelmed by the pack's collective rejection.

Caleb is already seated, Everly beside him, her hand on his arm in a maternal gesture that makes my stomach turn. When my son sees me, his expression hardens into something cruel and unfamiliar.

I move toward my usual seat—beside Caleb, across from Henry—but Caleb deliberately shifts his plate, moving closer to Everly and farther from me.

"I don't sit with traitorous Omegas," he says loudly, and the pack murmurs approval.

Everly makes a show of comforting him, her voice carrying across the silent hall. "It's alright, sweetheart. You don't have to pretend anymore. We all see her for what she really is."

Henry watches from the head of the table, his expression unreadable. He doesn't defend me. Doesn't correct Caleb. Doesn't acknowledge that his Beta fabricated those photos to protect his chosen mate's stolen exhibition.

He just watches as his pack destroys me, piece by piece.

And I realize with devastating clarity: this was always the plan.

The fever hits me like a rogue's claws tearing through flesh.

One moment I'm standing in the dining hall, surrounded by hostile pack members and my son's cruel rejection. The next, my knees buckle and the world tilts sideways. My wolf whimpers deep in my chest, her aura flickering like a candle in a storm.

Someone catches me before I hit the floor—Henry's hands, familiar and wrong. Through the haze of fever, I hear him speaking in that concerned Alpha tone he uses for the pack's benefit.

"She's burning up," he announces, his voice carrying across the silent hall. "The stress of her... activities... has clearly taken a toll. I'll take care of her. A good mate doesn't abandon his Luna, no matter what she's done."

The pack murmurs approval. Everly makes soft, sympathetic noises. Caleb doesn't even look at me.

Henry carries me through the packhouse, and I'm too weak to fight him. My wolf tries to snarl, tries to push back against his aura, but she's fading. The toxic mate bond—poisoned by years of betrayal and gaslighting—is actively rejecting my body now, burning through me like silver in my veins.

I expect him to take me to our bedroom. Instead, he climbs the narrow stairs to the attic.

"Henry—" My voice comes out as a rasp. "What are you—"

"Shh." His Alpha aura presses down on me, crushing what little strength I have left. "You need rest. Somewhere quiet. Away from the pack you've betrayed."

The attic is drafty and cold, filled with forgotten furniture and boxes covered in dust. A single narrow bed sits against the far wall, the mattress thin and stained. This isn't care. This is punishment.

Henry deposits me on the bed like I'm something distasteful. His amber eyes are flat and cold as he looks down at me.

"You brought this on yourself," he says quietly. "If you'd just accepted Everly, if you'd been a proper Luna instead of chasing childish artistic dreams, none of this would have happened."

I try to speak, to defend myself, but my throat is too raw. My wolf whimpers, so weak now I can barely feel her presence.

Henry's Alpha aura surges, slamming into my wolf with brutal force. She yelps and retreats deep inside, suppressed so completely I lose our connection entirely. The sudden emptiness is terrifying—like losing a limb, like being cut in half.

"You'll stay here until you remember your place," Henry says. He walks to the door, and I hear the lock click from the outside. "Until you're ready to apologize to Everly and accept her exhibition with grace."

Then he's gone, and I'm alone.

The fever worsens over the next days—or maybe it's hours, I can't tell anymore. Time blurs into a haze of burning skin and shivering cold. The drafty attic offers no comfort, and no one comes. Not Henry. Not Caleb. Not a single pack member who once smiled at me and called me Luna.

I can't access the mind-link. Henry's Alpha authority has blocked me completely, cutting me off from the pack consciousness. I'm isolated in every way that matters—physically, mentally, spiritually.

My wolf is silent. Suppressed so deeply by Henry's aura that I wonder if she'll ever resurface.

On what might be the third day—or the fourth, I've lost count—I try to stand. My legs shake violently, barely supporting my weight. I need water. Need to find a way out. Need to do something other than lie here dying while my mate and stepsister steal everything I am.

I stumble toward the small window, hoping for fresh air, but my foot catches on something. I crash to the floor, pain exploding through my shoulder as I hit the rough wooden boards.

Something shifts beneath me. A loose floorboard.

Through the fever haze, I notice the gap. My fingers, clumsy and weak, pry at the board until it comes free. Underneath is a metal box, hidden deliberately beneath the floor.

Henry's box. I recognize his scent on it.

I shouldn't look. Some distant part of my fevered brain knows this is a violation of his privacy. But he's violated everything about me—my body, my art, my dignity, my very soul. What's one more betrayal between mates?

The box isn't locked. Inside are financial records, pack documents, things I don't understand through the fever fog. But then I see them.

Receipts. Dozens of them. From the Silvermoon Luxury Hotel, located three hours outside our territory.

My hands shake as I sort through them, my vision blurring. The dates swim before my eyes, but one stands out with devastating clarity.

The day Caleb was born. The day I nearly bled out on the delivery table, screaming for my mate while the pack healers fought to save both me and our pup. The day Henry claimed he was delayed by rogue attacks at the border.

The receipt is timestamped. 3:47 PM. Room service for two. Champagne. Strawberries. Luxury suite.

The same time I was dying.

My wolf, suppressed and weak as she is, manages one small, broken howl deep in my chest.

And something inside me—something fundamental and irreparable—finally shatters completely.