The kitchen smelled of roasted herbs and simmering broth, the scent wrapping around me like a long-forgotten comfort. I moved through the space with practiced ease, my hands working automatically as I stirred the stew. Cooking had always been second nature to me—a labor of love, a quiet act of devotion—but tonight, the act felt hollow.

Tonight, I wasn’t just making dinner. I was cooking for the last time in this pack.

I didn’t let myself linger on the thought. I didn’t let myself feel.

Instead, I focused on the warmth of the pot against my palm, the steady rhythm of the knife slicing through vegetables, the way the fire crackled beneath the bubbling stew.

For years, I had been the one to do this. Every meal, every gathering, every celebration.

Not because it was my duty, but because I had wanted to. For him.

Even when Damon never once acknowledged the effort. Even when he took it for granted.

I should have stopped a long time ago.

I lifted the ladle, bringing a spoonful of the rich, aromatic broth to my lips. Perfect. It was warm and hearty, seasoned just right.

I had just begun plating when I heard him enter.

The air in the room shifted. The warmth that had lingered in the kitchen was stripped away in an instant. I didn’t need to turn around to know he was in a foul mood—I could feel it in the way his energy pressed against me, sharp and cutting.

His footsteps were slow, deliberate, as he approached.

I inhaled, steadying myself. Just a little longer.

Damon stopped at the counter, arms crossed as he stared down at the meal I had carefully prepared.

I waited for the usual indifference. The half-hearted nod before he walked away without a word of thanks.

But today was different.

The moment his eyes landed on the stew, his lips curled in disgust.

“What the hell is this?”

I blinked. “Dinner.”

His jaw tightened, irritation flashing in his gaze. "This?" He gestured to the plated food like it was something vile.

I set down the ladle, keeping my voice steady. “Yes, this.”

Damon let out a low, humorless chuckle. “You expect me to eat this garbage?”

The insult should have hurt. Maybe once, it would have.

But after everything? After watching him parade his mistress in front of me? After hearing the cruel words he whispered behind my back?

I simply stared at him, my face carefully blank.

“I made it the way I always do,” I said calmly.

His expression darkened. “Well, then maybe you’ve been making it wrong this whole time.”

I said nothing, refusing to take the bait.

Damon’s anger thrived on reactions. He wanted me to flinch. He wanted me to cower.

But tonight, he would get nothing.

His hand shot out, grabbing the heavy pot from the stove. For a brief second, I thought he was going to throw it at the wall. Instead, he took a step toward the sink and, in one smooth motion, poured everything down the drain.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

I just watched as the stew—the meal I had spent hours preparing—disappeared in a swirl of wasted effort.

The scent of roasted herbs turned bitter in my nose, the steam rising from the sink mocking me.

A sharp, searing pain flared across my hand.

I hissed, jerking back. Some of the stew had splashed, burning the skin along my wrist. It hurt, but I didn’t make a sound.

Damon turned, leaning casually against the counter as he studied me with cold amusement.

“Even an animal wouldn’t eat that,” he muttered.

The words echoed in my head, bouncing off every scar, every past humiliation.

Not once had I ever asked for his gratitude. Not once had I demanded his appreciation.

But to pour it out?

To burn me in the process?

I slowly exhaled, wiping my hand against my dress. The pain was manageable. The sting, temporary.

The damage had already been done long before this moment.

“Noted,” I murmured.

Damon raised a brow, as if surprised by my lack of reaction. He had expected tears. Maybe even anger.

But I was beyond that now.

I turned away, grabbing a damp cloth to press against the burn.

For the past years, I had stood in this very kitchen, making meals for a man who had never once deserved them.

And tonight, for the last time, I had done it again.

A few warriors passed by the open kitchen door, throwing me quick glances—not all of them cruel, not all of them indifferent.

Some of them had always respected me. They had eaten what I made, thanked me in quiet ways Damon never did.

They were not the problem.

But they also weren’t the reason I was leaving.

Damon pushed off the counter, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled.

“Alina made dinner at her place,” he said carelessly. “I’ll just eat there.”

Of course, he would.

I nodded, setting the cloth aside. “Enjoy.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the lack of emotion in my voice unsettled him.

I wasn’t giving him anything.

No tears. No anger. No sign that he had wounded me.

Because he hadn’t.

Not in the way he wanted.

Without another word, I walked out of the kitchen, leaving the empty pot behind.

The boutique was bathed in soft golden light, reflecting off the rows of white, ivory, and champagne gowns that lined the walls. The air smelled of fresh fabric and expensive perfume, a place meant for joyous occasions, for cherished memories.

I had envisioned this day countless times—standing before the mirror, draped in silk and lace, with my heart racing in anticipation of the moment Damon would see me walking down the aisle.

Now, I knew better.

But I still played my part.

I let the boutique owner guide me to the private fitting area, my fingers tracing the delicate embroidery of the gown I had chosen days ago. The dress was everything I had dreamed of—graceful, timeless, a perfect representation of the woman I had once believed Damon loved.

A woman who still mattered.

“Luna, we have your selection ready,” the boutique assistant said, offering a polite smile.

I nodded, forcing myself to return it. Not for long, I thought. Soon, I would be gone.

I was about to step into the dressing room when the chime of the boutique’s entrance echoed through the space.

Then, I heard his voice.

“Oh, come on, Alina,” Damon’s deep chuckle rolled through the air. “You’ll look good in anything.”

I stilled.

A sick feeling coiled in my stomach.

No.

Not here.

Not now.

Slowly, I turned, my fingers curling into my palm as I took in the scene before me.

Damon strolled in with her draped on his arm.

Alina.

His mistress.

She was dressed to perfection, her long legs on display beneath a fitted dress, her manicured nails resting lightly on Damon’s arm as she laughed at something he whispered.

She shouldn’t be here.

She had no reason to be here.

Yet she walked in like she belonged—like she had every right to be standing beside my mate on what was supposed to be our wedding shopping trip.

Damon’s eyes landed on me, and for a split second, something flickered across his expression.

Then, it was gone, replaced with that easy, careless smirk.

“Didn’t expect to see you here so soon,” he said, his voice light.

I swallowed the anger rising in my throat. “It’s my appointment.”

Alina sighed dramatically, stepping closer as she looked around. “I told Damon we should come. He said you might need help making a decision.”

My jaw tightened. “I already made my decision.”

She tilted her head, her smile too sweet. “Oh? Well, let’s see it.”

I should have ignored her.

I should have walked away.

But instead, I turned, gesturing toward the elegant gown waiting on the display.

Alina’s eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, I thought she would say something.

Then, she laughed.

“This?” she giggled, looking at Damon. “Oh, honey, this is so… plain. You don’t think so?”

Damon barely glanced at the gown before shrugging. “It’s fine, I guess.”

I clenched my fists.

I had spent hours choosing that dress.

It had been everything I wanted—everything I had imagined myself wearing when I walked down the aisle to the man I thought loved me.

But Damon didn’t care.

He never had.

“I think we can do better,” Alina hummed, walking toward another rack.

The boutique assistant hesitated, glancing between us. “Luna—”

“I’ll take this one,” Alina cut in, reaching for a gown—the most extravagant one in the store.

The assistant’s lips parted, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

Because the gown Alina held?

It was one of my choices.

One I had considered before settling on the simpler, more elegant design.

But now, she held it up against her body, twirling as she turned to Damon.

“What do you think?” she asked, batting her lashes.

Damon smirked. “It’s perfect.”

I felt the blow of his words like a slap.

Alina turned back to me, a victorious gleam in her eyes. “Sorry, Luna,” she cooed. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s just… this one suits me so much better.”

This was deliberate.

She had always known what she was doing.

Still, I refused to give her the reaction she wanted.

I exhaled slowly, my face impassive. “It’s just a dress.”

Alina’s lips twitched, disappointed that I didn’t lash out.

But then, she stepped closer.

Too close.

Her shoulder brushed against mine, her perfume overwhelming, suffocating.

And then—she staggered back, letting out a sharp cry.

Damon’s head snapped toward her, his entire body going tense.

“Alina?”

She gasped, clutching her arm. “She—she pushed me!”

I blinked, startled. “What?”

“She used her wolf,” Alina whimpered, trembling. “I felt it.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

Damon’s eyes darkened, his gaze locking onto mine.

My stomach turned.

He believes her.

“Is that true?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm.

I scoffed, unable to stop the bitter laugh that escaped. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

Alina sniffled, playing the perfect victim. “I know I’m not as strong as her. I would never lie about something like this, Damon.”

His expression hardened.

And then, he turned on me.

“Is this what you’ve become?” His voice was low, filled with disgust.

I stared at him. “You think I’d hurt her?”

“She has no reason to lie,” he snapped.

But she does.

She had every reason to lie.

And he knew it.

But still, he stood there. Choosing her.

“She’s just a friend,” Damon said, his words sharp and clipped. “And yet, you can’t even control yourself around her.”

A bitter taste coated my tongue.

Just a friend.

That’s what he called her.

Even after everything.

I exhaled, a deep, steady breath.

“Then let your friend have the dress,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion.

Damon’s brows furrowed. “What?”

I turned away. “I don’t need it.”

I didn’t need any of this.

The dress.

The wedding.

Him.