Rayne
The word divorce hit harder than a punch.
I stood there, frozen, my breath caught somewhere between disbelief and panic. It echoed in my head like a gunshot in an empty room.
“I want a divorce.”
No warning. No pause. Just the nuclear option.
And then he was gone—walking away like I hadn’t just fought the entire world for him.
“Reed!” I called, voice hoarse. “Don’t walk away from me!”
He didn’t even flinch.
He stormed up the stairs, every step a thunderclap, every movement filled with finality. A door slammed seconds later, loud and cruel.
I didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Divorce.
That word didn’t belong in our story. Not after everything we’d survived. Five years of marriage. Longer than that if you counted all the stolen years before. The sneaking around. The lies we told just to be together. The sacrifices.
The hate. The opposition. The nights we clung to each other because no one else would understand.
I’d gone to war with my own Pack for him. I changed laws for him. I turned my back
