Aurora's POV:

I didn't turn on the lights when I got back to the manor.

The house was a cavern of shadows, silent and empty. I walked into the living room and sat on the sofa. The gift-wrapped box with the Patek Philippe watch—which I’d snatched from the dining table in a daze before heading out—slid from my lap and landed silently on the plush rug. I glanced at it, a six-figure asset, now just a piece of evidence.

I just sat there. Waiting.

The grandfather clock chimed midnight. Headlights swept across the front windows.

He was home.

The front door opened, and Conrad stepped inside, bringing the scent of expensive wine and Jasmine's cloying perfume with him. He flicked on the lights, and his eyes narrowed when he saw me.

"Why are you sitting in the dark? You look like a ghost." His voice was rough with impatience.

I didn't look at him. My voice was terrifyingly calm. "Happy anniversary, Conrad."

He froze for a second. A flicker of something—annoyance? guilt?—crossed his face before his usual arrogance settled back in. "There was an emergency at the Pack. It's just an anniversary, Aurora. Do you have to be so dramatic?"

A laugh, brittle and sharp, escaped my lips. "Yes. Just an anniversary. Not nearly as important as Jasmine's birthday."

His face hardened. "Did you follow me?" he snarled.

Before I could answer, a small voice called from the top of the stairs. "Daddy, you're finally home!"

Delma came running down, clutching a new, elaborately dressed doll. Conrad had sent her home with a driver an hour ago, presumably to steal more private time with Jasmine. She stopped when she sensed the tension, her eyes darting between us.

"Look!" she said, holding the doll up for Conrad. "Aunt Jasmine said this one's way prettier than the one you got me!"

Her innocent words were a calculated strike, a testament to Jasmine's insidious influence.

She turned to me, her lower lip pushing out in a pout. "Mommy, why did you call Daddy? You ruined Aunt Jasmine's birthday party!"

A triumphant smirk touched Conrad's lips. He looked at me as if to say, See? Even our child chooses her.

Just then, my assistant, Paige Sullivan, hurried in through the side entrance, a folder in her hand. She stopped dead, her gaze taking in the scene: Conrad's smugness, Delma's accusatory stance, and my frozen posture. Her face tightened.

"Ma'am," Paige said, stepping forward and handing me the folder. "The background check you ordered last month. I finally secured the medical records."

Her eyes flickered to the father and daughter, and she leaned in close, her voice a fierce whisper only I could hear. "It confirms your suspicions, ma'am. Jasmine lost the ability to have children after an accident years ago."

My head snapped up. I stared at her, my mind reeling.

Paige's voice was relentless. "That's why the Harris family needs you. To them, you're nothing more than a tool. A womb to produce a pure-blood heir for the Blackwood Pack."

Tool.

The word didn't shatter anything. It simply confirmed the cold calculus I had begun to suspect. The marriage wasn't a failure; it was a transaction.

"What are you two whispering about?" Conrad's voice cut through my shock, laced with irritation. "I'm tired, Aurora. Stop this nonsense."

"Yeah, Mommy, you're so mean!" Delma chimed in. "Aunt Jasmine is sick, but she still played with me. All you do is stay home!"

The contempt from my husband. The accusation from my daughter. This alliance solidified my next move.

I stood up. For the first time since he'd walked in, I looked directly at him. The love that had lived in my eyes for so long was gone. In its place was the cold, detached assessment of a stranger.

Without a word, I walked past him and up the stairs.

I heard him take a sharp breath. For a fleeting moment, I felt a strange tremor through our bond-a flicker of unease from his inner wolf. It was too little, too late.

I entered our bedroom and locked the door behind me.

I walked to the antique writing desk, pulled out a sheet of heavy cream paper, and uncapped a fountain pen.

The nib hovered over the fibers. In the silence, a memory surfaced—our wedding night. Conrad’s hand, warm and rough, cupping my face. ‘I’ll protect you, Aurora. Always.’ The mate bond had hummed bright and gold between us then. Now, it was a severed wire, sparking uselessly in the void. I couldn’t believe how stupid I had been to cling to that promise for so long. Now my heart was utterly dead. What was left of me was nothing but a creditor come to collect.

At the top of the page, I wrote two words.

Divorce Agreement.

Outside, the full moon rose. It illuminated the path I would now have to walk alone.

Aurora's POV:

The next morning, I found Conrad in the study.

I was dressed in a sharp charcoal pantsuit, my hair pulled back in a severe knot. He was slumped in his leather chair, nursing a hangover, his eyes bloodshot.

"What now, Aurora?" he grumbled, rubbing his temples. "What new drama are you inventing today?"

I didn't answer. I simply slid a single document across the polished surface of his desk.

"Sign it," I said.

He picked it up. His eyes scanned the title. "Divorce Agreement."

First, a look of disbelief. Then, he threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, mocking sound.

"A divorce? Aurora, be serious." He crumpled the paper into a tight ball and tossed it into the wastebasket. "You can't even pay next month's credit card bills without me. Stop playing games."

My expression didn't change. I reached into my briefcase and pulled out an identical copy, placing it in the exact same spot.

"I'm not playing," I said, my voice flat. "I want a divorce. I want full custody of Delma. And I want fifty percent of your personal assets."

The laughter died in his throat. His face went dark. He stood up, towering over me, his Alpha presence flooding the room like a toxic wave. "Are you insane? On what grounds?"

I met his furious gaze without flinching. "On the grounds of Dr. Julian Price."

The name hit him like a physical blow. His face went white. Dr. Price was the world's leading oncologist, the only surgeon skilled enough to perform the delicate operation Jasmine needed.

"What did you do?" he hissed, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

A small, cold smile touched my lips. "Nothing much. Dr. Price was a scholarship student my mother sponsored through medical school. He owes the Marshall family a favor. I called him yesterday. He has canceled Jasmine's surgery."

I didn't just speak. I pulled out my phone, tapped the screen, and slid it across the desk toward him. The email confirmation from Price's office glared on the screen: Surgery for Patient J. Becker — CANCELLED. Rescheduled for priority Patient S. Harris.

"Instead, he will be prioritizing another patient," I said, watching his eyes lock onto the screen. "Your father, Sebastian Harris."

He looked like I had just stabbed him. His father was also gravely ill, waiting for the same surgeon, though his condition was considered less immediately critical than Jasmine's.

Now, I held two lives in my hands. His lover and his father. The choice was mine.

His eyes turned a feral, blood-red. In a flash, he crossed the space between us, his hand clamping around my throat, slamming me back against the wall.

"You wouldn't dare," he snarled, his face inches from mine. "Jasmine can't wait."

Air struggled to enter my lungs. My vision started to spot, but my eyes remained locked on his, cold and defiant.

Time dilated. I saw the war in his eyes—the Alpha wolf howling for blood, the man terrified of losing his mate. His fingers tightened, crushing my windpipe. Then, a tremor. His thumb brushed the skin he was bruising. The red in his irises flickered, fighting the human rage. He saw the hatred in my eyes—no fear, only absolute, fatal resolve—and the wolf whimpered. He understood then: this was not a game. This was checkmate.

"Sign the papers," I rasped, the words scraping my raw throat. "And Dr. Price will be back on her surgical schedule immediately. Don't... and you can start planning her funeral. And hope your father holds on."

My words were poison, and I watched them work their way through him.

His hand trembled violently. He was caught between his Alpha pride and his desperate need to save his precious Jasmine.

He saw the hatred in my eyes and finally understood. This was not a game.

Suddenly, he let go.

I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, my hand flying to my bruised neck. The pain was sharp, grounding. I sucked in oxygen, rattling and loud.

Conrad stood over me, his chest heaving. "You think this is how you win? You're a fool, Aurora."

He didn't pick up the agreement. He turned, and with a roar of pure rage, he slammed his fist into the solid oak door. The wood splintered with a deafening crack.

"I will not divorce you," he bit out, each word dripping with venom. "I will make you regret you were ever born."

His eyes held a terrifying, possessive madness. "You are my Luna. You will die as the Luna of the Blackwood Pack."

He ripped the damaged door open and stormed out, leaving me alone in the silent room.

I stayed on the floor, shoulders shaking, letting the tears come. I looked utterly broken. But as I lifted my phone with trembling hands, switched to the front camera, and captured the purple fingerprints blooming on my throat, my mind was ice-cold. The first piece of evidence was already in my lawyer's hands—the video of the three of them having dinner together, a perfect family portrait without me. Now I had the second: domestic violence, timestamped and documented. I let the tears fall harder for the camera, playing the part of the shattered wife. Evidence logged. Case built.

A grim, humorless smile twisted my lips.

The war had just begun.