17

Zara pulled out her phone. The name “Declan” lit up on the screen, making her chest tighten on instinct.

For five years, that name had always meant two things: hope and pain.

She stared at the screen for a few seconds, hesitating. Her finger almost touched the accept button, but right then the ringtone stopped abruptly.

Zara frowned.

Reflexively, she tapped to call back. The line connected, but after only two seconds of beep, beep, the call was cut off.

Before Zara could even wonder what was going on, a message notification chimed.

She opened it.

[Sorry, Zara. It’s me, Marina.]

 [The call just now was actually from me.]

Zara didn’t blink.

The message continued.

[I was going to borrow your pajamas for a moment, but it turns out I don’t need them anymore.]

 [Declan already lent me his pajamas.]

Zara stared at that sentence for a long time.

On the surface, everything sounded normal and polite, even. But Zara knew better. Marina was never truly “normal.” Every word that woman sent was arranged neatly like a thin blade, slipped slowly between skin and bone.

Soft. Bloodless. But it hurt.

Strangely, this time Zara only smiled faintly.

No anger.

No jealousy.

No suffocating feeling like she usually had.

Her heart was calm.

As if something inside her had finally died or maybe, instead, had been born again.

Marina often sent messages in that same style. Sometimes she mentioned Declan driving her home, sometimes she said Declan brought her medicine when she was “sick,” sometimes she slipped in a photo of Declan standing beside her, claiming it was just a coincidence.

Zara had once tried to talk to Declan about Marina.

But every time Zara even hinted at suspicion, Declan would look at her with the cold stare of an Alpha as if Zara were nothing more than a Luna with too much imagination.

You’re overreacting.

 You’re too sensitive.

 Marina isn’t like that.

That was always his answer.

Now, Zara was in the process of Rejecting the severing of the mate bond recognized under pack law. She was clearing the path so Declan could be with Marina without having to pretend anymore.

If she had already handed Declan over to Marina, why should she care about a pair of pajamas?

Zara typed a short reply.

[Okay.]

Then she turned off her phone, slipped it back into her coat pocket, and continued walking toward the registration counter for the Rejection Bond.

The air inside the Bond Council building was cold, carrying a mix of old paper, ink, and the metallic scent of blood-seal stamps. Pack crests hung on the walls symbols of the major packs across Nordigo, including the crest of Pack Jordan: a black crescent moon with silver claws.

Zara forced herself not to stare at it for too long.

The clerk handling her file was a young woman probably only a few years into the job. She examined Zara’s documents, then lifted her head.

“Mrs. Zara.” Her voice was hesitant. “Are you sure? A mate bond isn’t something easily severed. Many Luna's regret it after.”

Zara didn’t answer.

She simply opened her bag and pulled out several photos she had prepared.

One by one, she placed them on the desk.

A photo of Declan with Marina at a pack gala.

 A photo of Declan leaning down to listen to Marina speak.

 A photo of Declan holding Marina’s shoulder during a snowstorm at the border.

 A photo of Declan standing in front of Marina’s house, carrying his own thick coat.

Some of the photos were even taken from angles deliberately chosen that made their closeness unmistakable, as if they were already mates.

Zara knew.

Those photos were either sent by Marina herself, or by Declan’s friends whether intentionally or not, they all helped humiliate her.

In the photos, Declan wore his usual serious expression. But Zara could see something she had never received in five years.

Sincerity.

Declan looked happy.

Zara had once begged just once for Declan to take a photo with her.

But every time Zara lifted the camera, Declan would sigh like it was a burden, then walk away with excuses: pack meetings, patrol training, territorial matters.

Even during their bond ceremony, they never took wedding photos. The picture printed on their bond document was merely an edited image at Declan’s own request.

That alone was enough proof.

Proof that Declan had never loved her.

If the clerk had time, Zara could have shown three straight days of photos without a single one being the same. But she only laid out a few.

That was enough.

The young clerk’s face changed.

The doubt and the urge to persuade vanished, replaced by a silence filled with understanding.

She gathered the photos carefully, returned them to Zara, then lowered her gaze to the documents again without another word.

The Rejection process went smoothly.

Blood-seal stamp applied. Signatures recorded. Registration number issued. At last, the clerk spoke in a formal voice.

“After a thirty-day cooling period, you may return here to collect your Rejection certificate.”

Thirty days.

In thirty more days, everything would truly be over.

Zara felt something loosen in her chest not sadness, not pain but relief. A relief she had never imagined she could feel.

She gave a small nod. “Thank you.”

Zara took her documents and prepared to leave.

But before she could step out, the clerk called again.

“Mrs. Zara.”

Zara stopped and turned, confused.

The clerk left her seat, walked around from the side window, and stopped directly in front of Zara. Without much hesitation, the woman wrapped Zara in a warm embrace.

Zara froze.

The hug felt unfamiliar.

It had been a long time since someone held her with no ulterior motive.

Before Zara could react, the clerk whispered gently, as if soothing wounds no one could see.

“Rejection isn’t the end,” she murmured. “It’s the beginning of a new life. You’re amazing. And from now on everything will get so much better.”

Zara’s throat tightened.

Something threatened to heat her eyes, but she held it back. She only nodded faintly, then walked away, her chest feeling heavy and light at the same time.

When Zara stepped out of the Bond Council building, the morning wind struck her face. The sky was still pale, and the pack district streets were starting to fill with werewolves heading to work.

But in the middle of the crowd, Zara spotted a figure she knew all too well.

And instantly, irritation slipped into her chest.

“Zara! What are you doing here?”

The woman’s voice rang with mockery, sharp as a blade thrown straight at her.

Zara turned toward the sound and saw Jane, her stepsister.

Jane had just finished shopping. Both her hands were full of gift boxes in every size, from small to large, all luxuriously wrapped with gold ribbons. The scent of her expensive perfume stabbed Zara’s nose, and her sneering smile was the same as always.

Zara clenched her fists.

After Zara’s mother died, her father Caksa had once sworn at her mother’s sickbed.

Sworn he would never marry again.

Sworn he would never bring another woman into their home.

But those vows had been nothing but empty words.

Not even half a year after the funeral, Caksa brought Wenny and Jane into their house, claiming he wanted to find a “new mother” to take care of Zara.