Chapter 4: Masquerade of Motives

As I emerged from the bathroom, Damian had already ended his call with Isabelle, slinking back into the bedroom. Whether he’d overheard my phone conversation or caught the stifled moans I couldn’t quite suppress in the bathroom, I didn’t care. To me, he was no different from a slab of meat—tainted goods, discarded by my former friend.

But Damian clearly didn’t share my indifference. His eyes narrowed, raking over me with a sneer curling his lips. “Who were you talking to?”

“Not just you get to keep lovers.” His question didn’t faze me. I sauntered to the vanity, patting serums onto my face with deliberate nonchalance. Still sticky from the rush of ecstasy, I’d scrubbed myself clean in the shower.

“You, my *wife*, dared to take a lover?” His voice rose, thick with incredulity, brows knitting in outrage.

A laugh tugged at my lips—his hypocrisy was almost comical. Had a single year erased his memory of abandoning me, his bride, for my best friend at our own wedding? Mirroring his tone, I fired back, “And you, my *husband*, fled our wedding with another woman. Shall I remind you who committed the graver, more shameless sin?”

Fury ignited in his eyes. With a snarl, he hurled his phone to the floor, the crack echoing as his boots stomped the priceless rug. He paced, a caged beast, until a sudden realization halted him.

Damian’s vanity was unshakable—he was certain no male in the pack could rival his chiseled looks. And his parents, Victor and Margaret, adored him above all. No matter how much they doted on me, he was their blood. They’d never tolerate me carrying on an affair under their roof.

Smirking, he convinced himself I’d staged the call to provoke him, jealous of his conversation with Isabelle. A petty performance to snatch his attention.

Pathetic acting, he thought.

A mocking grin spread across his face. After a long, smug stare, he hummed a tune and strutted to the bathroom to shower, dripping with self-satisfaction.

I rolled my eyes, refusing to engage with this delusional, philandering “husband” whose mind seemed as unhinged as his morals. My focus shifted to a far more pressing matter: an invitation that had just arrived from my assistant.

Clara Grey’s birthday gala. Lucas Grey’s mother.

Mere hours after I’d tasked my assistant with digging into Lucas, she’d delivered astonishing news. Tomorrow was Clara’s birthday, and for the first time, every major family across the nation’s packs had received an invitation to her celebration. My inbox held one too.

This was unprecedented. Our Wolf King, Gabriel, and his Luna, Clara, shunned extravagance. Their birthdays had never warranted lavish affairs. Was Clara using the occasion to parade Lucas, the presumed heir, as marriageable royalty?

Whatever her motive, this was my golden ticket.

I could leverage the gala to present Clara with a thoughtful gift, charm her, and perhaps earn a moment with Lucas. A few well-placed words could unlock clues about the Moon Trial’s relic.

Plan set, I hit the bedside switch, plunging the bedroom—and the bathroom—into darkness.

The shower’s rush halted abruptly. Damian, dripping with soap suds and clad only in a towel, burst out, barking, “What the hell? Power outage?”

“I’m going to bed,” I said coolly.

“I’m still showering!” he roared, but after a few steadying breaths, he sneered, “Fine, I won’t waste my time on a desperate woman begging for my attention. Where do I sleep? I’m not sharing your bed.”

I yanked a pillow from the bed and flung it into the void toward his voice.

Sleep wherever. Just not near me.

*

Come morning, I found Damian curled on the floor by the bedroom door, a pitiful heap. He’d clearly slept poorly—dark circles shadowed his eyes as I threw open the curtains, sunlight flooding the room. He jolted awake, grumbling incessantly, but I ignored him, leaving his complaints behind as I dressed and headed to the office.

My assistant had sent my schedule, packed with critical decisions, but she’d thoughtfully cleared the late afternoon for Clara’s gala. The royal castle was a trek from our pack’s territory, requiring time for my private jet’s journey.

Before boarding, I secured Clara’s gift.

As the jet sliced through the clouds, my stylist dusted my face with makeup, and I slipped into a gown tailored for the occasion. By the time I followed the usher through the castle’s towering doors, I was a vision of poised perfection.

Even with my family’s wealth and the fortune I commanded, the royal castle’s grandeur stopped me cold. Every detail screamed unimaginable riches. The carpet guiding guests was a Persian masterpiece—woven from wool, cotton, silk, gold, and silver threads, its vibrant hues and intricate patterns a marvel. At $500,000 per square meter, this endless ribbon of opulence was a fortune underfoot. Flanking the path, antique-laden walls showcased treasures beyond monetary value.

This was merely a glimpse of the castle’s first floor. The royal pack’s wealth was unfathomable.

At the red carpet’s end, a crowd buzzed. Clara stood at its heart, radiant in understated elegance, laughing with guests as a gift-laden table towered behind her.

I was grateful my gift wasn’t some gaudy trinket. As the Wolf King’s Luna, Clara had seen every rare jewel and antique imaginable. Ordinary baubles wouldn’t impress her.

Those foolish enough to flaunt their gifts’ price tags would only amuse me.

Nearby, Damian, arm around Isabelle, approached Clara, both beaming as they chatted. Isabelle opened a velvet box, presenting their offering.

Onlookers recognized me, their teasing gazes darting between me and the couple. Some parted the crowd, whether to let me witness Damian and Isabelle’s betrayal up close or to egg me into a public spat.

Their eagerness for drama didn’t rile me. I was almost grateful.

Their cleared path gave me a perfect view.

And if my eyes didn’t deceive me, Isabelle’s gown was one I’d once worn, plucked straight from my own wardrobe.