2. Just die.

Camilla.

My hand shook so violently that the tip of the pen scratched against the paper before I could even write a letter. I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a ragged, painful breath that burned my bruised ribs, trying to steady the frantic beating of my heart.

‘Sign it,’ a voice whispered inside my head. ‘Save whatever dignity you have left.’

I pressed the nib to the line and dragged it across, spelling out the name that had brought me nothing but three years of quiet agony. 

‘Camilla.’

As soon as the last stroke was complete, I pulled my hand back as if the pen had burned me. I didn't look up, but I could feel the suffocating weight of Ragnar’s presence looming over the bed.

A low, dark chuckle echoed through the sterile room—a sound devoid of any humor, laced only with bitter mockery.

"Well, well," Ragnar said, his shadow falling over me as he stepped closer to snatch the papers off my lap. He shuffled the pages, inspecting my signature with a cold, ruthless satisfaction. "You signed it awfully easily, Camilla. That’s not like you."

I kept my gaze fixed firmly on the white hospital blanket, afraid that if I looked at him, the floodgates would burst and I would reduce myself to begging.

"What's the angle?" he pressed, his voice dropping into a dangerous, suspicious purr. "Are you planning to run straight to my grandfather? Hoping the old man will take pity on you, invoke his ancient authority, and force me to annul the divorce?"

A painful, hollow smile tugged at the corner of my lips. His grandfather, the former Alpha King, had been the only person in the Royal Pack who had ever shown me an ounce of warmth or kindness. 

He had championed our union, believing I had the quiet strength required to be a Queen. But I was done hide-and-seeking behind an old man’s protection. I was done fighting for a man who looked at me with nothing but disgust.

I forced myself to tilt my head up, meeting his storm-gray eyes. I fought back the thick, burning tears that threatened to spill, swallowing down the copper taste of my own blood from where he had struck me.

"I won't," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet steady despite the storm raging inside me. "I won't go to your grandfather, Ragnar. I won't beg him, and I won't ask him to stop this."

Ragnar stared at me for a long, quiet moment, searching my face for a trace of deceit. Finding none, his lip curled into a sneer.

"Good," he said flatly. "Because even if he tried, it wouldn't save you this time."

Without another word, he tucked the signed documents beneath his arm, turned on his heel, and strode out of the room. The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind him, leaving behind a silence so absolute it felt heavy enough to crush me.

The moment he was gone, the mask shattered. A ragged sob tore from my throat as I collapsed back against the pillows, clutching my stomach. My body trembled with violent, uncontrollable weeping. 

Three years of devotion, three years of silent sacrifice, flushed away like garbage. And beneath my hands, a tiny, fragile heartbeat remained—a child who would now grow up without a father, born from a mother who had just been cast out like a criminal.

I don't know how long I lay there, drowning in my grief, until the quiet latch of the door clicked once more.

I quickly wiped at my wet cheeks, expecting a nurse or a doctor. But the footsteps that entered were light, deliberate, and entirely unhurried.

"Look at you," a sweet, familiar voice cooed. "A total, pathetic mess."

I froze, lifting my head. Standing at the foot of my bed was Pamela.

My twin sister looked pristine. Her blonde hair was styled in soft waves, her porcelain skin untouched by a single scratch, and she wore a delicate silk dress that radiated elegance. 

There were no bandages, no neck braces, no signs of a woman who had just survived a terrifying car crash.

"Pamela?" I rasped, my throat raw. "You're... you're okay? You aren't hurt?"

Pamela let out a soft, melodic laugh that chilled me to the bone. She walked slowly to the side of my bed, her heels clicking softly against the linoleum floor. The warmth and sweetness she usually put on for the world—and for Ragnar—was entirely gone. In its place was a sharp, venomous smirk.

"Hurt?" She tilted her head, inspecting her manicured nails. "Oh, Camilla. Did you really think I’d let myself get hurt in that little display? I jumped clear before the car even hit the embankment."

I stared at her, shock momentarily paralyzing my pain. "What are you talking about?"

Pamela leaned down, placing both hands on the edge of my bed, pressing her face close to mine. Her blue eyes, identical to my own, burned with a terrifying malice.

"Why didn't you just die?" she hissed, her voice dropping into a harsh, bitter whisper. "Honestly, Camilla, it would have saved us all so much trouble if your head had just smashed against the steering wheel and put you out of your misery."

The air left my lungs. "Pamela... you... you tampered with the brakes?"

"Of course I did," she spat softly, straightening up and brushing an imaginary speck of dust off her shoulder. "I was sick of waiting. Three years I had to watch you play house with Ragnar. Three years of listening to him complain about how useless you were as a Luna, while I had to act like the supportive, innocent sister."

"He... he accused me of trying to kill you," I stammered, horror dawning over me. "He hit me, Pamela! He said I tried to murder you out of jealousy!"

Pamela threw her head back and laughed, a bright, cruel sound. "I know! Isn't it wonderful? I told him you lost your mind on the road, that you screamed at me about how much you hated me before you drove us off the cliff. He believed every single word. Why wouldn't he? He already hated you. He was just waiting for a reason to throw you away."

I stared at my twin sister, the person who shared my face, my blood, feeling a deep, sickening terror. "You manipulated him. You set me up."

"I took what was mine," Pamela corrected, her eyes flashing with pride. She stepped closer, reaching out to gently tug the delicate silver chain of the Luna pendant that still hung around my neck, before letting it snap heavily against my collarbone. "You were always the mistake, Camilla. Ragnar was meant to be mine from the beginning. You barged in, took my place, and wasted three years of his life."

"I loved him," I whispered, tears filling my eyes again, though this time born of betrayal. "I loved you both."

"Well, your love meant nothing," Pamela sneered, her lip curling in triumph. "Look at you now. Broken, abandoned, and cast out. Ragnar just gave me the good news in the hallway. The divorce is signed."

She leaned in close once more, her breath warm against my ear, dripping with pure arrogance.

"I won't just be taking your husband, Camilla," she whispered villainously. "In a few short weeks, I will be crowned Luna King Ragnar’s Queen. I will sit on the throne that you were too weak to hold. And you? You'll be nothing. A forgotten disgraced rogue."

She pulled back, flashing me a brilliant, beautiful smile that looked completely demonic.

"Get well soon, sister," Pamela cooed, turning on her heel. "I'd hate for you to miss the wedding.”