Azalea Sanders was waiting for me at the edge of the pack’s territory.

The chilly wind bit at my skin, and I hurried to meet her.

But when I looked up, I saw the concern in her eyes.

"Is Alpha Raphael here to claim Ximena as his mate?"

I froze for a moment.

Suddenly, I remembered—Azalea had asked me the same question in my past life.

Back then, I had been so heartbroken that I gave her a vague answer before retreating to my room.

Now, thinking about it, the one who had been even more distressed than me was my mother.

A warmth spread through my chest, and I gently patted Azalea’s hand.

"Azalea, I don’t care for Alpha Raphael. Please don’t worry about me."

She seemed ready to say more, but when she saw the clarity in my eyes, the sincerity in my tone, she finally relaxed a little.

That night, Ximena came to find me.

She was dressed in a striking red gown, her scent sharp and overpowering, even in the darkness.

Her lips curved into a smirk, her voice as sweet as honey but laced with venom.

"Quincy, do you know why I happened to pass by that day?"

She fixed her gaze on me, her words light but cutting.

"I did it on purpose. I can’t stand to see you happy, and I certainly can’t stand to see that little wretch Azalea happy. If you’re in pain, she’ll be in pain too.

"Everything you love, I can take it from you. Even if I don’t want it, I have the power to make sure it’s always thinking of me, always longing for me!"

I stared back at her, the silence between us thick with tension.

From the smallest things—clothes, trinkets—to the biggest, like mates, even the stray wolf pup I had found as a child, Ximena had taken it all.

But the things I cherished, she despised.

I would never forget the moment my pup, bloodied and broken, lay dying in my arms. With its last bit of strength, it nuzzled my hand, whimpering softly, as if to say it was in pain.

It hurt, and I hurt more.

Ximena said the next target would be my mother.

I knelt before her, my voice trembling. "Please, show some mercy."

And so, Azalea and I were sent away to a small, distant pack for five long years.

I knew she wouldn’t let me go.

So, she took my "heart’s desire" too.

I looked at her now and let out a sigh.

I spoke, my voice steady.

"Yes, I did love him."

So please, Ximena, never let him go.

Alpha Raphael, I reject you as my mate.

The Luna hosted a pack gathering at the pack mansion.

Each guest was invited to share a piece of their own writing, to be judged by the Luna herself.

But the world has always favored beauty—whether in objects or in people.

My older sister, Ximena, radiant and poised, naturally drew the Luna’s attention.

She sat at the head of the table, her aura commanding the room before landing on me. With a soft, sweet smile, she said,

"My sister, Quincy, may not have the strongest aura, but her heart is kind."

All eyes turned to me.

Some of the pack members stifled laughter behind their hands.

"Look at her," one of the pack members whispered, loud enough for me to hear. "How could she even compare to Ximena? The difference between them is like the moon and dirt."

"I heard Quincy’s been clinging to Raphael, always chatting about pack history and traditions. Disgusting. She should know her place."

"One’s a star, the other’s an Omega. Ximena’s mother is the Luna, while Quincy’s is just a kitchen servant, for Moon Goddess’ sake! Of course she’d try to claw her way up. Like mother, like daughter."

I sat quietly, my face impassive.

Years of ridicule had thickened my skin.

Why should I care what they thought?

I adjusted the hem of my dress, my movements deliberate and calm. Then, by chance, my eyes met Raphael’s.

His Beta discreetly slipped me a folded note. I opened it to find two hastily scrawled words: *Don’t worry.*

I let out a soft, bitter laugh.

Then, without hesitation, I crumpled the note and tore it to pieces.

Raphael, your mate had just humiliated me in front of the entire pack.

You didn’t dare stand up to her, yet you couldn’t let go of whatever this was between us.

What did that make me?

Yes, I was ordinary in appearance, and my rank was lowly.

I’d spent years drowning in self-pity because of it.

But I wasn’t the spineless, groveling creature they painted me to be.

So.

I would no longer love you.

I would no longer spend twenty years caring for you, tending to your broken leg.

I would no longer exhaust myself managing your pack, sacrificing my health for your sake.

And I would no longer cut my wrist to save you when you were on the brink of death.

This time, Quincy Morrison would not waste a single glance on you.

The pack gathering was supposed to be a peaceful event, but of course, it didn’t stay that way for long.

Ayra Robertson, the Gamma from the Lycan Prince’s pack, called me forward, her eyes sharp and scrutinizing.

“Is this your poem?” she asked, holding up a piece of paper.

I glanced at it and nodded. “Yes, I wrote it.”

But Ayra’s expression darkened.

“Ximena claims you plagiarized her work, and Raphael has confirmed it. How dare you steal from your own sister and claim it as your own?”

I froze.

This had happened in my past life too.

Back then, I still had some pride left in me, so I refused to admit to the accusation, even when the consequences were dire.

But Raphael had stood by Ximena’s side, vouching for her, and I became the pack’s outcast, my words and poems forever attributed to Ximena.

And now, here we were again.

Raphael stepped forward, his brows furrowed with silent disapproval.

“Quincy,” he said, his tone firm, “Ximena has been working hard on her poetry lately. This is her work. Even if you don’t get along with her, you can’t just take credit for someone else’s efforts.”

I stared at him, taking in the sharp lines of his face, the piercing eyes that had once made my heart flutter.

But now, all I felt was a dull ache.

He had forgotten—or chosen to ignore—that we had exchanged poems for five years in that small town. He knew my writing style better than anyone.

Yet here he was, defending Ximena.

The favoritism was so blatant it was almost laughable.

Almost.

“Are you sure this is Ximena’s work?” I asked quietly, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.

Raphael’s frown deepened.

“If it’s not hers, then whose is it? Yours? Quincy, it’s alright to admit it. Ximena is kind; she’ll forgive you.”

Quincy. The name felt hollow now, stripped of the affection it once carried.

I looked down at the ground, focusing on the intricate design of my boots—a pattern Raphael had once complimented.

“I’m not just Quincy,” I said softly, more to myself than to him. “My name is Quincy Morrison.”

A flicker of something crossed Raphael’s face—recognition, perhaps, or regret.

But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

We both remembered the past, the promises we’d made, the bond we’d shared.

But now, it felt like a lifetime ago.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted it back.