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.