Fated Tragedy

Starting the car after dropping off the divorce papers today, I saw my mom waiting with the moving truck, ready to take me to my new home. My new life.

The restraining order would be in effect soon, and I knew the moment he found out I was leaving, his hatred would burn hotter than ever. He’d already broken my leg last month—what more proof did I need that he was never going to change? That he would rather destroy me than ever love me?

I had no desire to stay tied to a man who hurt me. I deserved better than that. I could work for myself, side by side with my mom and siblings. I had my customer service job, and the blessing that I could do it from home. I wasn’t helpless. I wasn’t his prisoner anymore.

Looking back, maybe the signs had always been there. I was the one who had asked him to marry me. He struggled for two years to propose, and he never did. I finally forced the question, desperate for a promise that should have come willingly. That’s when I should have realized he wasn’t right for me—or for anyone.

Deiniol McDonnell. My first husband. My biggest mistake. A pathetic excuse for a werewolf. Even after the yellow moon proved we weren’t fated, I stayed. I stayed for over seven years, clinging to a ghost of what I thought love was supposed to be.

Ten years of my life wasted on a man who looked like perfection on the outside—reddish-blond hair, bright blue eyes, sculpted from years in the military. He was the kind of man strangers admired, envied, maybe even lusted after. But no one knew the monster that hid beneath that beautiful shell. I thought he was just difficult. That maybe he was worth the sacrifice, worth the patience. I was so, so wrong.

Driving away from the house he had bought me, I headed toward my new estate—a place that had started as a birthday present we had invested in together. He gave the money, and I gave my silence. My quiet obedience was the price he demanded of me every single day or suffer the consequences.

He never wanted anyone to know we were married. He said it would keep us from “getting the things we wanted.” Lies. All of it. My attorney uncovered the truth—he had already bought another home. A third one. All in his name, with his money, under his insurance. And I was never meant to find out.

Never in my life had I been made to feel like such a fool. His family, rich and blind, believed his lies. They thought he had left me years ago and showered him with praise—and money—when he “finally” did. They congratulated him for abandoning me, as if I were nothing more than dead weight he had finally cut loose.

The audacity. The cruelty. The betrayal.

And it didn’t stop there. He had been reassigned to another base, and we were supposed to move there together. But the very idea of following him again made my stomach twist in rage. No. I wasn’t his shadow anymore.

Instead, I gathered my things, left all his belongings in every single one of his homes, and I left him a message: a copy of the divorce papers.

The desire to set each of those houses on fire burned in me so fiercely that my hands trembled on the wheel. I wanted to erase every trace of him, every place he had ever pretended was ours.

But instead, I kept driving. Driving away from the house we had been living for a while waiting for the new one to be approved. Driving into the future I refused to let him destroy.

It got approved today.

And now, I’m on my way to meet the landlords and the moving company. To claim what’s mine. To finally breathe.

Pulling up to the building, I saw my phone light up with his name—my soon-to-be ex-husband. My chest tightened, but I didn’t answer. Not this time. Not ever again. Instead, with a shaking hand and a surge of defiance, I blocked his number. Blocked him everywhere. No more messages. No more manipulations. No more of him.

I stepped out of the car, head held high, and walked into the building where I knew my attorney was waiting. My heart raced, but I forced myself forward. This was the moment everything began to change.

Inside, surrounded by my little family, I felt the weight of both our struggles and our love. We had only been able to make this dream a reality because of them—my mother, my siblings, and especially the help of my uncle and grandmother. Their support had given me the strength to break free. To take what had once been tainted by him and claim it as mine.

With my uncle’s signature and his full agreement, with my own work involved my attorney was able to move everything into my name. Piece by piece, signature by signature, the house that once tied me to my ex was becoming solely mine. My freedom, carved into paper and ink.

When the final document slid across the table and I signed it, a rush of emotions nearly brought me to tears. Relief. Triumph. A fragile, aching hope.

This was my new beginning.

For the first time in years, I could breathe. For the first time, I felt like I had done the impossible. I was proud of myself—truly proud. The chains were gone, and in their place was a future I was finally ready to step into.

Things would be better for me now. I knew it. Deep in my bones, I knew it.

— Four Months Later —

Puking water had become my nightly ritual, my body convulsing as if it wanted to tear itself apart. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I hadn’t eaten in nearly three weeks, and yet every night I felt like I was dying all over again.

The divorce was almost finalized—just one more month until I would finally be free on paper. I had promised myself a fresh start, maybe even a daring one. For a while, I let myself flirt with the idea of love again, testing the waters with a young—though of age—werewolf. He was kind, but fleeting.

Before him, I had been fooling around with another wolf, one who had walked away from me a while ago the moment he met his fated mate. That chapter had been closed so long ago that the thought of him being the cause of my sickness never even crossed my mind.

But as I clung to the edges of the toilet, trembling, weak, broken, the possibility hit me like a dagger to the chest.

Deiniol.

My breath caught. My stomach turned colder than ice. I clutched at my hair, staring into the water as tears blurred my vision.

“No…” My voice cracked, barely more than a whisper of horror. “No. This can’t be happening.”

It was impossible. We hadn’t touched each other in months. I had sworn that part of my life was over. I had buried it, locked it away, promised myself he would never have a hold on me again.

And yet… the timing. The sickness. The gnawing dread in my gut.

The more I tried to push the thought away, the more it clawed back with brutal persistence.

What if the pup inside me was his?

My heart shattered at the idea. I couldn’t let him know—not now, not ever. If this baby belonged to Deiniol, then I would take the secret to my grave.

But the fear went deeper than him.

Pups born from unfated mates often carried burdens of their own—fragile bodies, sicknesses, lives cut short. Society rarely accepted them, and even when some found protection, too many never survived long enough to see the life they deserved.

My hand rested against my flat stomach, trembling. For the first time in months, I felt both hope and terror burn inside me.

If this pup was truly his… I would protect it. I would protect them with everything I had left in me.

Even if it killed me.