Chapter 1: Signed and Sealed

The pen in my hand trembled slightly. Not enough to make anyone notice—except me. I’d practiced this signature so many times. On scrap paper. On old receipts. On the backs of napkins in coffee shops where I tried to pretend I was just another Omega reading a book, not a Luna about to detonate her entire life.

“Elara?” my lawyer’s voice nudged gently.

I blinked and looked up. Across the long walnut conference table, Mr. Harrington gave me a soft smile—the kind people reserve for delicate things, like porcelain and bad news. Next to him sat his assistant, who had been carefully organizing every legal paper with unnerving efficiency.

“Yes,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m ready.”

I leaned forward and signed the divorce agreement. Once, twice, three times. Full legal name. Elara Sloane-Black. My hand hovered over the last page for a beat too long.

This was it. The end of Elara Black.

“Done,” I said, pushing the document forward before I could hesitate.

Mr. Harrington took the papers gently and slid them into a folder. “Once Cyrus signs his copy, the mandatory ninety-day review will begin. You'll still be married, but the court will consider you legally separated.”

Ninety days. I could live ninety more days like this. I had already survived three years in a gold cage.

The elevator ride down from the 14th floor felt both too slow and too fast. I clutched my bag with both hands, avoiding eye contact with the mirror-like doors. My scent was neutral today, carefully balanced with suppression patches. No sign of nervousness. No sign of heat. No sign of me.

“Elara,” Mr. Harrington said as we stepped out onto the ground floor, “You understand what this could mean socially? There will be fallout. Especially with the media.”

“I know,” I replied.

“And Cyrus hasn’t—well—he hasn’t contested yet, but that could change. Especially with your position in the Foundation.”

“He won't contest,” I said quickly. “He doesn’t care.”

I meant it. Cyrus Black didn’t fight for things he believed were already his. And I was a thing. A fixture. Not a person with thoughts or feelings. Not a wife, not a mate. Just a Luna in name and in headline photos.

Still, I felt the heat of nerves creeping up my neck. I wasn’t scared of being alone. I was scared of what freedom might actually look like. When you’ve been someone's perfect Omega for years, you forget what you actually want.

Outside the building, the sunlight nearly blinded me. I hadn’t expected it to be this bright. I stepped onto the pavement, inhaling the city air like I’d just surfaced from underwater. My car waited at the curb, driver door open.

“Elara!” a voice snapped behind me.

I froze.

That voice. That voice I’d heard every morning like a habit. That cool, unhurried tone with just a hint of annoyance.

I turned slowly. Cyrus stood under the glass awning, hands in his suit pockets, his eyes unreadable as ever. His Alpha scent—always muted, always so tightly controlled—brushed against mine like a warning.

“I was hoping we could talk,” he said, walking toward me.

I held my bag tighter.

“We don’t have anything left to discuss, Cyrus.”

He stopped a few feet away, scanning my face like I was an unsolvable riddle. He wore the same navy suit I’d picked out for him last year, the one that matched his eyes a little too perfectly. Funny how I remembered that—and not the last time he kissed me.

“I assume you've signed,” he said.

“You assume right.”

Silence stretched between us.

“You're doing this for attention,” he finally said.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve always had a flair for dramatic timing. Filing while I’m in the middle of the Devonshire deal? Media will eat this alive.”

I almost laughed. The ridiculousness of it. The way he turned everything into strategy, into optics.

“You honestly think this is about your precious deal?” I asked.

“It’s not?” he challenged.

“No, Cyrus. It’s about the fact that I don’t want to be married to someone who treats me like a signed contract and nothing more.”

His jaw twitched.

“You have everything,” he said. “A title. Wealth. Security.”

I stepped forward, dropping my voice.

“I never had you. Not once. And now I don’t want you.”

Cyrus stared at me, like that sentence had genuinely confused him. Like it didn’t compute. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

For the first time, I saw a flicker—just a flicker—of something real behind his eyes. Not anger. Not arrogance. But fear.

“Elara,” he said more quietly, “this isn’t how our story ends.”

“It is for me.”

I turned and slid into the backseat of my car, giving the driver a tiny nod. The door shut just as Cyrus reached the handle. We pulled away.

I didn’t look back.

---

My new apartment was nothing like the penthouse I’d shared with Cyrus. It was smaller, brighter, and had no scent suppressors built into the vents. I could actually smell the lavender soap I used this morning, and that made me feel strangely victorious.

I kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the couch.

Free. Kind of.

I wasn’t naive. Omegas who left high-status Alphas didn’t exactly get parades. My inbox already had three messages from social coordinators "politely regretting" future invitations. My mother hadn’t called. My old finishing school sent a formal notice revoking my role as guest speaker.

But none of that hurt as much as Cyrus pretending he didn’t understand.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

You should be careful where you live now. Not everyone will protect you.

I stared at it. The number wasn’t saved—but I knew exactly who it was. Cyrus never threatened directly. He insinuated. Always just enough to make you wonder if you were imagining it.

I blocked the number, threw the phone on the counter, and went to the kitchen.

It was stocked mostly with tea and emergency macarons. I wasn’t really eating meals lately. Not since I moved out. But I made a cup of jasmine tea and sat by the open window, trying to imagine what life might look like in ninety days.

Then there was a knock at the door.

I froze.

I wasn’t expecting anyone. Not food delivery. Not furniture.

Another knock, louder this time.

I padded to the door slowly and looked through the peephole.

And my heart stopped.

He stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a bottle of whiskey like it was a peace offering. Same crooked smirk I remembered from years ago, same messy hair like he never bothered to brush it unless cameras were involved.

“Hi, Elara,” Jaxon said.

“What are you doing here?” I said through the door.

“Figured you’d need a drink after today,” he said casually.

I stared at him, unsure what rattled me more—his timing, or the fact that I wasn’t entirely surprised.

He leaned in, his voice lower.

“And also... I just bought this building.”

What.