Half-blood Luna and The Blind Prince of Rogue

THE LAST STRAW

(Serena’s POV)

The first time I realized I was invisible was on my wedding night.  

Not when Damian Blackwood whispered promises against my skin, not when the press called me the luckiest woman in New York City, and certainly not when his grandmother, Eleanor Blackwood, handed me a premarital agreement that was thicker than a Bible.  

No.  

It was when he left me alone in our penthouse suite, still in my wedding dress, to take a call from his mistress.  

Three years later, nothing had changed.  

The diamonds around my neck felt like a noose as I stood at the edge of the Blackwood Charity Gala, my fingers tracing the cold, perfect stones of the choker Damien had given me, another apology wrapped in luxury. It was a gift from him last week after missing our anniversary, again. The weight of it pressed against my throat, a constant reminder that I was owned.  

Around me, the grand ballroom of the Blackwood Estate glittered like a jewel box, its vaulted ceilings dripping with crystal chandeliers that cast fractured light across the marble floors. The walls were lined with gilded mirrors, reflecting the elite of New York society as they moved in a carefully choreographed dance of power and deception. Ice sculptures melted slowly beside towers of champagne flutes, their delicate shapes blurring at the edges.

The women were draped in couture gowns that cost more than most people’s yearly salaries, silks from Paris, lace from Venice, beads hand-sewn by artisans in Mumbai. Their jewels sparkled like frozen stars.

The men were no less calculated in their displays, their tailored tuxedos sharp enough to draw blood, their watches gleaming under the lights.

And yet, beneath the facade of luxury and refinement, every person in the room was aware of the scandalous secret that I was the wife nobody acknowledged, the invisible partner hidden in the shadows of my husband’s illustrious life.

Then she walked in.  

Natalia Orlova.  

The Russian ballet dancer who became an influencer, the woman whose I*******m Damien had been liking at three in the morning while I lay awake beside him.

She moved like smoke in a silver gown that seemed painted onto her body, the fabric slit to the thigh to reveal legs that had graced the stages of the Bolshoi. The dress shimmered with thousands of hand-sewn crystals, catching the light with every step, as if she carried her own spotlight. Her platinum hair cascaded down her back in a sheet of ice, perfectly straight, perfectly untouchable. Her lips were stained the color of crushed rubies, and her eyes were cold, and calculating 

The crowd parted for her like the Red Sea. Cameras flashed, their bursts of light catching the disdain in her smirk as she turned her gaze toward me.  

Oh, this was deliberate. I swallowed.

“Serena, darling!” Victoria Blackwood, Damien’s viper of a sister, appeared beside me, her voice dripping with false sweetness. She wore an emerald-green gown that matched the venom in her eyes, her dark hair coiled into an intricate updo that looked more like a crown of thorns than a hairstyle. “You don’t mind, do you? Grandmother insisted Natalia sit at our table.”  

I didn’t blink. “Of course not.”  I replied.

Natalia slid into the seat beside me, her perfume, something expensive and suffocating, like jasmine and poison, filling the space between us. She flicked her hair over one shoulder, the movement was practiced, and elegant.

“Your husband has exquisite taste,” she murmured, her accent thick as honey laced with arsenic.  

The table went still.  

Victoria’s lips twitched.  

And then…

Clink.

Natalia’s wine glass tipped in her hand, dark red liquid splashing across the front of my ivory gown. Gasps rippled through the crowd as they watched, their eyes hungry for my humiliation. The stain spread like blood, seeping into the delicate embroidery of roses and vines, just like every humiliation I’d swallowed for the past three years.

“Oh, mon Dieu,” Natalia said, not sounding sorry at all. “How clumsy of me.”  

I looked down at the ruined fabric, at the way the wine darkened the silk, and for a moment, I saw my marriage reflected in it, beautiful on the surface, rotting beneath.

And then, as if on cue…

He arrived.  

Damien Blackwood.  

My husband.  

The man who had once promised me the world and instead locked me in a cage.  

He strode into the room like he owned it, because he did, his black tuxedo tailored to perfection, the jacket hugging his broad shoulders, the pants cutting a ruthless line down his long legs. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d just run his hands through it in frustration. His jaw was sharp enough to draw blood, his lips curled into that smirk that had once made my knees weak and now made my stomach turn.  

And his eyes, those cruel, beautiful eyes didn’t even glance at me.  

His gaze went straight to Natalia instead.  

Of course.

What was I expecting? That he’d come running to me? Dream on, Serena.

Victoria giggled, her phone already raised to capture my reaction, her manicured fingers poised over the screen like a vulture ready to feast. 

The guests circled closer. Watch the spectacle, their eyes said. Watch the trophy wife break.

Deep down, a pathetic, foolish part of me still wished he’d choose me. That he’d push Natalia aside and finally see me.  

But I wasn’t his wife.  

I was his decoration.

Damien reached Natalia in three strides, cupped her face with those hands that had once traced promises over my skin, and kissed her, right in front of me. 

The room held its breath.  

And I?  

I laughed.

Not the broken, desperate sound they expected. No. This was colder and darker.

I stood, the stained dress clinging to me like a second skin, the weight of the diamonds suddenly became unbearable.  

Damien finally turned, his smirk fading. “Serena…”  

I didn’t let him finish.  

From my purse, I pulled out the folded papers, the ones I’d been carrying for weeks, the ones I’d drafted in the dead of night while he was in her bed, and slapped them onto the table in front of him.  

DIVORCE.

Silence enveloped the room like a blanket.

Absolute, deafening silence.  

Damien’s face went pale, his tan skin turning ashen. Victoria’s phone clattered to the floor, and the screen cracked. Natalia’s smirk vanished, her red lips parting in shock.  

And the entire gala?  

They watched.

I leaned in, close enough to smell Damien’s cologne, the one I had bought him, and whispered, “You should have paid attention, Damien.”  

Then, louder, for the vipers to hear.

“I quit.” I thundered.

I turned and walked out of the room, my heels clicking against the marble like a death bell, the sound echoing through the silence.  

Behind me, chaos erupted.  

“She’ll be back by morning!” Damien snarled, his voice raw with something that almost sounded like panic.  

Eleanor’s voice, cold as a blade, cut through the noise. “Starter wives always crawl back.”  

But I didn’t look back.  

Because they were wrong!

Serena Vaughn wasn’t crawling back.

She was about to make them burn!