The pack manor was unnaturally quiet when Thorne returned late that night with Rionna, Arion, and Axton. Their laughter echoed through the stone corridor as they struggled with the warded lock, still drunk on moonwine and the thrill of the evening.

After leaving the neutral-territory tavern, they had lingered far longer than they should have—celebrating without restraint.

Thorne entered first and snapped his fingers, triggering the light runes.

Nothing happened.

The corridor remained drowned in shadow.

“What the hell?” Thorne muttered, activating the sigils again.

The runes flared to life, revealing the great hall.

Chaos.

Cushions lay scattered across the floor. Dishes sat untouched on the long table. A faint trail of dried mud streaked toward the door. The manor looked abandoned, as though no one had tended to it all day.

Thorne’s jaw tightened. “What is this mess?” he snarled. “Rayna! Explain this—now!”

Silence answered him.

He turned sharply toward the stairs, but Rionna caught his arm, laughing lightly. “Relax,” she said. “Don’t ruin the night. She’s probably sulking again. Asleep, maybe.”

“She always does this when she wants attention,” Arion added, kicking off his boots.

Axton smirked. “Yeah. Leave her alone. She’ll clean it up by morning like she always does.”

Thorne hesitated. “But this place—”

Rionna tugged him closer, her voice lowering. “Come to bed,” she whispered against his ear. “Don’t let her spoil tonight.” She chuckled softly. “She’s probably hiding somewhere, pretending she still matters. You know how dramatic she is.”

That ended the discussion.

With one last glance at the stairs, Thorne allowed himself to be pulled away.

Inside the chamber, Rionna slowly unfastened her dress, letting it fall like a performance meant to be seen. “You know,” she murmured, looping her arms around his neck, “this used to be her room, didn’t it?” She smiled coldly. “Must hurt—realizing she’s been replaced, even here.”

Laughter soon dissolved into muffled sounds behind the sealed door.

The rest of the manor stayed dark and untended, while inside that room, Thorne erased Rayna’s existence with every touch and whispered mockery.

***

Morning sunlight pierced through the curtains.

Thorne groaned, then jolted upright. “Damn it—my council meeting!”

Rionna shifted lazily beside him. “What meeting?”

“You didn’t wake me,” he snapped.

She stretched. “I didn’t know I had to.”

He threw off the covers and dragged on his trousers. “Rayna should’ve woken me—where is she?”

Storming into the hall, he called out, “Rayna!”

No response.

His frown deepened.

He checked her chamber.

Empty.

The bed untouched. No scent. No presence.

That was when Arion and Axton emerged, still half-asleep.

“What’s wrong?” Arion asked.

“She’s gone,” Thorne said tightly. “She’s not here.”

“Maybe she went out early,” Rionna said lightly from behind him. “She’s probably sulking again.”

They went downstairs.

The kitchen was silent. No breakfast. No steaming cups of brew. No food warming on the hearth.

Nothing.

Thorne slammed his palm against the table. “She didn’t even cook?!”

He pulled out his rune-phone and called her.

No response.

“Unreachable,” he hissed. “Where the hell is she?”

Rionna twirled a strand of hair. “She probably went to buy supplies.”

“No,” Thorne said sharply. “That’s not her. She never leaves the manor untended. She never misses my meetings. She never skips meals—”

He stopped.

A sick realization crawled up his spine.

“Last night,” he muttered. “The dinner…”

“What dinner?” Axton asked.

“I told her I’d take her out.”

Rionna’s gaze shifted. “You think… she waited?”

“She wouldn’t,” Arion scoffed. “She’s not that desperate.”

“Yeah,” Axton laughed. “She knew you were just saying it to shut her up.”

But Thorne was already grabbing his keys.

***

He drove like a man possessed.

At the restaurant on neutral ground, he rushed inside.

“There was a woman here last night,” he said urgently to the server. “She’s my Luna, Rayna. Did she say anything? Did she wait?”

The woman nodded slowly. “Yes. The Luna waited for hours.” She handed him an envelope. “She left this for Alpha Thorne Ridgefern.”

His hands shook as he opened it.

Inside lay her mating ring.

A copy of their bond record—stamped Nullified.

And a single document.

A healer’s certificate.

Declaring the death of their unborn pup.

The world tilted.

“Before Luna Rayna left,” the woman added softly, “she asked me to give this to you. And tell you to never find her again.’”

Thorne stood frozen.

The envelope felt heavier than any burden he had ever carried.

I stood by my parents' side, attending a wedding I had no desire to witness. The bride and groom were the "impoverished students" my parents had sponsored for years.

On the stage, the young couple choked back tears, voices trembling as they thanked my parents for their benevolence. It wasn't just tuition for high school and college. No, my parents' generosity had culminated in a commercial apartment worth over a million dollars—deeded entirely to them.

My father walked onto the stage and claimed the microphone, basking in the spotlight.

"Alex Woodward and Maya Swanson are exemplary young people," he announced, his voice projecting the authority of a tenured academic. "Their grades are excellent, and they possess the fortitude to endure hardship. I simply did my small part. I trust their future will only get brighter."

When the couple finally descended from the stage, I stared at them. Confusion curdled into something cold and tight in my stomach.

My mother noticed my gaze and leaned in, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. "Gabriel, think of the apartment as a loan. We wrote an IOU. They're about to get married—we couldn't very well let them sleep on the street, could we?"

I couldn't wrap my head around their logic.

"But that apartment..." My whisper came out harsh. "It was bought with twenty thousand dollars from Grandpa and Grandma, plus the twenty thousand I gave you. I'm dating someone too. Why didn't you consider *my* marriage?"

My father turned to me. His expression hardened into a mask of indifference. "You aren't married yet, are you? Besides, what we're doing is building good karma for you."

——

"Building karma for me?" A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Am I supposed to thank you for giving away my future?"

My mother tried to soothe me. "Gabriel, the apartment can be taken back. Don't worry about it."

"Taken back? How? With a flimsy piece of paper?"

My questions only fueled my father's irritation. He glared at me, eyes dark with warning. "There is a wedding happening right now. Do not cause a scene."

My mother chimed in, clearly thinking I was being petty. "Didn't you say you wanted to focus on your career? You aren't in a rush to buy a house. Besides, whether your relationship even works out is another matter entirely."

I stared at them blankly. Words failed me.

Were these really my biological parents? In what world do parents not hope for their own child's success?

"You want to play the saints? Fine, I can't control that." My voice shook with suppressed rage. "But that apartment contains half a lifetime of savings from my grandparents. And the twenty thousand I scraped together working all these years."

That snapped my father's patience.

"What are you trying to imply? You want us to pay you back?" He scoffed. "Can't you act like a big brother for once? Even if you share no blood, Alex and Maya are your siblings in spirit!"

Our hushed argument had begun to draw the attention of nearby guests.

Lily Woodward, Alex's mother, approached us with a wine glass in hand, oblivious to the tension. Overflowing with gratitude, she toasted my father, declaring that without my parents, her son would have nothing.

My father didn't hesitate. He stood up, downed his wine, and beamed. "Maya is a good girl. You must treat her well."

Lily nodded vigorously. "Rest assured, Professor Fox. It is the least we can do."

*Professor.* The title scraped against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

My father had taught for thirty years in the Chinese Department at a local university. I understood the old-school mentality, the obsession with reputation. But time and again, they sacrificed what belonged to me to impress outsiders.

Why?

It had been this way since childhood. They always claimed it was for my own good, but it was nothing more than vanity. They lived for their "face."

"I don't care about your charity projects." My voice cut through the noise of the banquet. "Give me back Grandpa and Grandma's money. Give me back *my* money."

My mother immediately gripped my arm, nails digging in, signaling me to shut up.

"That is the blood and sweat of two generations," I continued, undeterred. "It is not a prop for your ego."

If our family were wealthy, perhaps I wouldn't care. But the truth was, we had barely saved anything over the years.

That apartment represented a million dollars—the total liquidation of assets from three generations of my family. And they handed it over to outsiders with zero blood relation? No matter how I tried to rationalize their "selflessness," the math didn't add up.

My father's face turned a violent shade of red. Humiliated, he lashed out.

*Smack!*

The sharp crack of his palm against my cheek silenced our table. My skin burned. The sting radiated across my jaw.

"I'm not dead yet, and you dare speak to me like this?" he roared.

I looked at his ferocious expression, and a strange urge to laugh bubbled up in my chest. It was a hollow, self-mocking sound. Being born into this family was nothing short of a tragedy.

My mother looked at me with disappointment. "Even if you're upset, you have to pick the right occasion. Making a scene on such a happy day... people will think you're immature."

*Immature.* Right.

I nodded slowly. Picked up a wine glass from the table. Turned to the happy couple, Alex and Maya.

"I wish you a long life together." My smile didn't reach my eyes. "May you be of one heart, forever."

I drained the glass in one gulp, turned on my heel, and walked out of the hotel.

My mother made a move to chase after me, but my father held her back. His voice carried to the door. "How did I raise such a thing? He is simply a misfortune to this family!"

*Misfortune.* The word branded itself into my mind.

Since I was little, I was "immature" because I believed that suffering losses was a virtue. I suffered alongside them, time and again. During the New Year, my classmates wore brand-new outfits while I played in threadbare clothes. My parents would rather donate their entire salary to remote mountain villages than buy their own son a new jacket.

In middle school, I placed third in the entire grade. They promised me a laptop. What I eventually received was an empty shell; the internal components had been stripped out and given to my cousin because "Uncle's child is going to college and needs it more."

They could be public-spirited saints; I didn't oppose that. But could they not have raised their own child first?

From age three until college, I practically lived at my grandparents' house. My parents had time, yet they always found excuses, claiming they were "too busy." Growing up in that environment, loneliness became my only constant companion.

They spoke so prettily, claiming it was all for me.

If they didn't want to raise me, why did they have me?

Only after I graduated college and started working did they think to bring me back into the fold.

I returned to my rental apartment and lay in the dark for hours. That evening, my phone buzzed. It was my uncle, Mason Larsen.

"Gabriel, you fought with your parents, didn't you?" Mason sighed. "After all, they are your parents. They gave birth to you. What they did today was a bit excessive, sure, but..."

My anger, far from dissipating, flared up again.

"Uncle Mason," I cut in. "I lived with you and Grandparents growing up. You don't deny that, do you?"

A pause. Two seconds of dead air. "That is true."

"Then tell me, after they gave birth to me, did they actually raise me?"

Silence stretched over the line. Uncle Mason was speechless. I knew my mother must have called him, begging him to talk some sense into me. After all, I had spent more time with Mason than with my own parents.

"They were busy back then," Mason mumbled weakly. "They didn't have time. Now they're about to retire..."

"If you're here to persuade me to make up with them, forget it." I didn't let him finish. "In their world, the only thing that matters is their reputation."

If I hadn't been starved for parental affection, if I hadn't genuinely missed them, I never would have moved back in with them after college. But those two years together only highlighted the chasm between us—in thinking, in habits, in values.

"Uncle Mason, do you have anything else to say?"

He remained silent.