Chapter Fourty Five

Chapter Fourty Five
Diana sat alone in her chamber, impatiently tapping her long nails on the table in front of her.

Grey had not come.

The realization irritated her more than it should have. This was the fifty-second night. An Alpha king did not simply forget his Luna, and yet here she was, listening to the quiet, staring at an empty doorway that should have opened by now. Her fingers curled against the arm of the chair, nails pressing into polished wood. She had been patient—more patient than anyone gave her credit for. She had endured the whispers that still followed Oliver’s name, the looks from omegas who should have known better than to mourn a ghost. She had played her role perfectly.

Grey was hers. By choice. By bond. By right.

She rose and crossed the room, stopping beside the bed. The sheets were untouched. Cold. The sight pulled a thin smile from her lips—tight, humorless.

He’ll come, she told herself. He always does.

She lay down at last, but then the pain came without warning. It tore through her chest like a blade, brutal and sudden, knocking the breath from her lungs. Diana gasped sharply, spine arching as her fingers clawed at the bedding. The bond flared—hot, furious, wrong. Not the dull ache of distance, but a violent pulse that screamed of closeness.

Of intimacy.

“No—” she hissed through clenched teeth.

The pain intensified, radiating outward, crushing her ribs, stealing the air from her chest. Her vision blurred as a sharp burn filled her nose. She lifted a shaking hand just as blood spilled over her fingers, bright and unmistakable.

Her breath came in ragged bursts.
This was betrayal.
The bond surged again—harder this time—and her body gave out.

Diana slid from the bed, hitting the floor with a sharp cry as agony ripped through her, folding her in half. She landed on her side, silk tangling around her legs as she struggled to push herself up. Her hands trembled violently against the marble, but the pain pinned her there, relentless and unforgiving.

Grey was awake.
Grey was with someone.
The realization didn’t shatter her—it enraged her.

After everything she had taken. After every sacrifice she told herself she’d made. After three years of waiting, of enduring. Someone was touching what belonged to her. Another wave of pain crashed through her chest, stealing her breath completely. She choked, teeth grinding as fury drowned out the agony. Her nails scraped against the floor as she dragged herself upright, blood dripping from her nose onto the marble below. Her eyes burned—not with tears, but with cold, calculated wrath.
“How dare you?” she whispered, though she didn’t know who she was speaking to yet.

She was forced to experience the pain over and over again that night until the next morning. She forced herself to stand, legs unsteady, wiping the blood away with the back of her hand in a careless smear. Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye—pale, furious, broken.

There was only one place he could be.

Diana straightened her spine, pain still screaming through her veins, and stalked toward the door. She didn’t slow. She didn’t hesitate. Whoever this was—omega, alpha, mistake—they would be dealt with swiftly.
Grey would remember who his Luna was.
She didn’t knock.
She flung the door open with all the authority of a woman who had never once questioned her right to take—and keep—what she wanted.
And when she finally entered his chamber…

The pain didn’t lessen.
It sharpened.
......
The color drained from Diana’s face—then surged back in a violent, furious flush.
“What is this?” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut. “Who are you? Why are you in his room?”

For a split second, she looked as though she’d aged a hundred years.

Her skin went deathly pale, her body swaying as if it could no longer hold itself upright. Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding as though she were trying to contain the pain tearing through her chest—but it hit her all the same. She lurched forward.

Grey moved on instinct, catching her before she fell. His hands closed around her arms, steadying her. “Diana,” he said tightly.

Oliver turned then—slow, unhurried, utterly unbothered. His expression was lazy, almost amused, as though the tension in the room barely registered.

“Good morning to you, too,” he said lightly. His fingers brushed his collar, tugging it aside just enough for the bruises beneath to show. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock?”

“You did this on purpose,” she whispered, venomously.

Oliver smiled—not warmly, not cruelly. Simply knowingly.
“I didn’t do anything,” he replied. “I just didn’t bother hiding.”

Silence slammed into the room.

Grey looked between them, jaw tight, guilt and confusion warring behind his eyes. “This isn’t the place for this,” he said at last.

Diana let out a brittle laugh. “Oh, but it is,” she said. “Because now I finally see what you’ve been so distracted by.”

Diana’s breath hitched, rage distorting her features. Blood slipped from her nose, a thin, startling line she didn’t seem to notice. “Aren’t you ashamed?” she shouted at Oliver, voice trembling with fury. “Sleeping with my mate? Did you ever stop to think about the pain I’d go through?”

Oliver stared at her for a second. Then he laughed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t hysterical. It was soft, incredulous—like she’d just told the most ridiculous joke he’d ever heard. “Funny,” he said, tilting his head. “Yet I’m the one you chose to confront.”

Diana stiffened.

“Why not him?” Oliver continued calmly, eyes flicking to Grey for half a heartbeat before returning to her. “Why don’t you ask your mate why he let it happen?”

Grey’s jaw clenched. “Oliver—”

“Oh, don’t,” Oliver cut in smoothly. His gaze sharpened, all amusement draining away.

He stepped closer to Diana, close enough that she had to tilt her head to keep eye contact. “And the nerve,” he went on quietly, venom threading through every word, “to talk to me about shame—when you crawled into Grey’s bed three years ago without a shred of guilt. When you took him, like his mate didn’t exist. Like his pain didn’t matter.”

Diana’s eyes widened. “What do you know—”

“Don’t,” Oliver snapped, finally raising his voice. “You didn’t care then. So why should I care about your pain?”

Oliver smiled again—but this time, there was nothing lazy about it. “This?” he said, gesturing vaguely between them. “This isn’t a mistake.”
He leaned in just enough for her to hear him alone.
“Call it karma.”

Silence crashed down.
Diana shook—rage, humiliation, and something dangerously close to fear bleeding through her scent.
And Oliver?
Oliver straightened his collar, turned on his heel, and walked away—leaving devastation behind him exactly where he’d intended it to fall.

And Diana was about to visit her witch mother after that. Just as Oliver had expected.