Chapter 5
Violet's POV:
Daemon nodded once, a curt, dismissive gesture, and slid into the backseat. The heavy door thudded shut, sealing him back into his world of silence and power.
I turned to head back toward the lobby to wait for my parents, seeking the shelter of the portico as a sudden gust of wind threatened to dismantle my carefully styled hair. As I stepped into the shadows cast by the massive Roman pillars, a jagged sound cut through the ambient noise—the wet, gasping sob of a woman trying to scream without making a sound.
I froze, pressing myself against the rough stone. A few feet away, hidden in the alcove, stood Petra Quinn. The confident, sneering woman from the terrace was gone. In her place was a ruin of smeared mascara and trembling shoulders, clutching her phone as she wailed to someone on the other end.
"He just cut the line! He didn't even say goodbye!" Petra’s voice cracked, high and hysterical. "I don't care about the island! He gave me a deed to a rock in the Pacific and thinks that settles it? How can he just turn it off?"
I stood in the darkness, a cold smile touching my lips. Oh, Petra. You poor, stupid girl. She thought the island was a grand romantic gesture, a testament to his love. She didn't understand that for an Alpha of Daemon's standing, an island was nothing more than loose change found in the couch cushions. I looked at her and saw the ghost of my former self: hysterical, confused, trying to find logic in the actions of a man who viewed emotions as inefficiencies.
The sight of her misery sparked a sudden, clarifying shift in my own strategy. For the past twenty-four hours, I had been frantically trying to force a divorce, to run away before the inevitable collision. But Daemon was too proud, too possessive of his "belongings" to let me walk away on my own terms. Watching Petra crumble, I realized I had been going about this the wrong way. I didn't need to fight him for my freedom; I needed to let nature take its course.
In two weeks, he would meet Celeste. The Mate Bond would hit him with the force of a freight train. He wouldn't just agree to a separation then; he would demand it. In my past life, I had fought that rejection for a year, dragging us both through hell, clinging to my title while he grew to hate me. I had forced him to publicly humiliate me. This time, I wouldn't fight. I would wait for him to ascend the throne of his true love, and the moment he asked me to leave, I would bow and exit stage left.
Exhaustion suddenly crashed over me, heavy and suffocating. I retreated into the hotel lobby, sinking into a velvet armchair in a secluded corner to wait for my parents. My eyelids fluttered shut, and the soft jazz of the lobby faded into the roar of a torrential downpour.
I was on my knees in the mud. The rain was freezing, smelling of ozone and iron. The Alpha pressure bearing down on me was physical, a crushing weight that threatened to snap my spine. I looked up, mud plastering my hair to my face, to see Daemon standing over me. Behind him stood the Elders, their faces grim masks of judgment, and further back, my parents, screaming silently behind a barrier of Frost Pack warriors.
"Violet Goldcrest," Daemon’s voice was thunder, vibrating through the wet ground and into my bones. "You have failed as Luna. You have failed as a mate."
I tried to speak, to beg, but my throat was filled with blood. Behind him, sheltered under a black umbrella, stood Celeste. She was heavily pregnant, her hand resting protectively on her swollen belly.
"I, Daemon Blackwood, Alpha of the Frost Pack," he intoned, the ancient magic gathering in the air like a storm front, "reject you as my mate."
The pain was like the sensation of a hook burying itself in my chest and ripping upward. The spiritual tether that had connected us for a decade didn't just snap; it shredded. I felt my wolf, Ember, howl in agony before going silent. I grabbed at the mud, my fingernails tearing, looking up at him one last time.
"Ten years," I choked out, blood spilling over my lips. "Did you feel nothing?"
Daemon didn't answer. He turned his back, wrapping his arm around Celeste and walking away into the gray mist. The pain exploded in my skull, a white-hot supernova that consumed everything.
I jerked awake, my body convulsing as I slammed into the floor. I had rolled off the sofa in my sleep. I lay on the Persian rug, gasping for air, my hand clutching my chest. My silk dress was soaked with cold sweat, sticking to my skin like a shroud.
"Violet!"
The voice was frantic. I looked up through hazy vision to see the elevator doors sliding open. My father was already sprinting across the lobby. My mother was right behind him, her face pale with terror.
"I'm fine," I wheezed, struggling to sit up as my father’s strong arms wrapped around me, lifting me as if I weighed nothing. "Just... a nightmare. Just a bad dream."
The ride to the Wildfire Pack territory was swift and tense. My father drove with a jerky, aggressive erraticism that betrayed his fury, the engine of his SUV growling as he wove through traffic. I sat in the back, my head resting on my mother’s lap. Her fingers carded soothingly through my hair, a rhythm I hadn't felt in years.
"Did he hurt you?" Eleanor asked softly, her voice trembling. "Violet, tell me the truth. Did Daemon do something to cause this?"
I looked up at her, seeing the lines of worry etched around her eyes. For years, I had treated my childhood home like a distant memory, rarely visiting, all because I was desperate to be at the manor on the off chance Daemon came home. My sudden plea to return must have felt like a siren wailing in the night.
"We didn't fight," I whispered, closing my eyes. "I just... I realized something tonight."
"I don't want to live like that anymore," I continued. "I don't want to be a shadow in that big, empty house. I don't want to revolve around him like a satellite. I want to be Violet Goldcrest again. I want to come home."
The car swerved slightly as Marcus gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked.
"I knew it," he roared. "I knew that bastard was mistreating you! The tabloids, the rumors, the late nights—I held my tongue because you said you were happy. Because you begged us to respect your marriage." He slammed his hand against the dashboard. "If not you, I would have gone over there and ripped his dick off years ago!"
"Marcus!" my mother scolded, though she was wiping tears from her own cheeks.
I watched them, tears pricking my own eyes.
"I'm sorry," I sobbed, burying my face in my mother’s stomach. "I'm so sorry I made you endure that."
The next morning, I walked into Room 304 carrying a basket of imported fruits. He was awake, propped up against the pillows, his leg encased in a heavy plaster cast.
"Luna? You came back," he said, sounding surprised.
"I told you I take care of my responsibilities," I said, setting the basket down. I pulled the single visitor’s chair close to the bed. "How is the pain?"
"Manageable," he said. "The doctors here are amazing. I can't believe I'm in the VIP suite. I've never even seen a room this nice."
Then, the door handle turned.
"Zane? I got here as fast as I could!"
The voice was like wind chimes—light, airy, and cheerful. Celeste Morrison burst into the room, clutching a modest bouquet of supermarket daisies. She was wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she rushed toward the bed.
"Celeste!" Zane’s face transformed. The polite admiration he held for me vanished, replaced by a deep, adoring love. "I told you not to skip class."
"Idiot," she scolded gently, tears in her eyes as she reached for his hand. "You get hit by a motorcycle and expect me to sit through History of Lycanthropy?"
Slowly, I stood up.
My movement caught Celeste’s attention. She froze, seemingly noticing me for the first time. Her blue eyes widened.
"Wait," she whispered, staring at me. "The McDonald's... You're the woman from the McDonald's."
I smiled. "Small world, isn't it?"