Aria's pov

The jewelry store smelled of money and power.

Gold and glass glittered under the lights, showing quiet luxury. It was a place where people traded secrets as easily as they used their credit cards.

I'd been coming here for three months now, stopping by the same counter every day. Of course, my purpose wasn't just shopping.

I was looking for someone.

"Miss Graves, you've looked at so many pieces already. Haven't you found anything to your liking?"

"Miss Graves?"

My wolf, Lily, nudged me back to reality. Most pack members knew me as Luna Green, but for the sake of this little act, I had registered in the VIP directory under my former last name.

I blinked, pointing at a simple diamond necklace on display.

"I'll take this one. Please wrap it up."

The saleswoman released a subtle sigh of relief. "Of course. It would be my honor."

She still called me MISS, even though she knew I was married. My name on their records had never changed, and I didn't bother to correct her.

"Your husband must really adore you," another customer whispered with envy. "Buying jewelry like it's candy."

"He must think you're his whole world!" her friend added.

I smiled the way women smile when they no longer have the energy to explain the ruins under the silk.

Then I looked at the young clerk behind the counter.

Belinda White.

She moved carefully, almost delicately, her slim fingers wrapping the necklace with a neatness that might have looked charming if I had not spent the last three months teaching myself to hate the sight of her. At first glance, there was nothing extraordinary about her. She was not dazzling. She was not intimidating. She was the sort of girl a room forgot the moment she left it—until, somehow, she became the one thing a man could not forget.

And her hands.

That was what I noticed every single time.

Soft, pale, unmarked hands, the kind that had never scrubbed blood from stone floors after pack training, never kneaded dough for fifty guests because a Luna's table had to be perfect, never cracked from cold or split from labor. Hands that had not earned anything, and yet had still managed to curl around what was mine.

I glanced down at my own fingers, at the faint roughness still there beneath careful grooming, at the hands that had worked, bled, carried, steadied, served. I had not been born Stephen's Luna. I had fought my way into that role, and then I had fought even harder to remain worthy of it.

Belinda was human. She knew nothing of wolves, of mate bonds, of the Moon Goddess, of the quiet weight that came with standing beside an Alpha and pretending strength even when your bones ached from holding up his world. Stephen had hidden everything from her—his wolf, his rank, his responsibilities, the truth of who he really was.

And yet she had still taken from me.

That was what lodged deepest under my skin—not her youth, not even her prettiness, but the ease of her existence. I had poured seven years of blood, patience, pride, and obedience into becoming the perfect Luna, while she had done absolutely nothing except exist beautifully in the right place at the right time, and somehow that had been enough to make my mate forget his vows.

"Miss Graves?" Belinda's voice pulled me back. Her brow furrowed. "Is there something else I can help you with?"

I slipped the ring from my finger and placed it on the counter. "Melt this down."

The clerk froze. "But this is your wedding ring. It even has an inscription..."

"A & S."

Stephen had carved those letters himself. I remembered the warmth of his hands that day, the trembling sincerity in his voice, the way he had kissed my knuckles as though he were sealing a sacred promise rather than engraving a lie into gold.

Belinda swallowed. "Are you sure you want to destroy it?"

I stared at the two letters as if they were an expired contract.

"Melt it." My voice stayed steady. "Absolutely."

By the time I reached home, the sun had already dipped behind the mountain ridge.

I had just stepped inside when Stephen rushed to me. We bumped into each other, and I almost fell, but his familiar hand caught my waist.

That same hand once made me feel safe, but now it made my skin crawl.

"Where have you been? Why did you take so long?" His voice sounded worried, but there was a trace of blame in it.

Sweat shone on his forehead under the warm light of the hallway.

That voice used to calm me, but now it only made me tense.

He was still acting like the perfect mate, pretending nothing had changed.

"Luna Aria, we were worried sick," Emma, the housekeeper, hurried to explain. "We almost called the police."

Stephen's Beta, Enzo, exhaled in relief, murmuring into his phone.

"Officer Walter? Mrs. Green just got home. Thanks for checking in."

So they had actually called.

I did laugh then, though only inside my head, because by now I knew my husband too well to mistake panic for devotion. He was not afraid that I had been hurt. He was afraid that I had gone missing long enough for people to ask questions, and if people asked questions, then gossip would start, and if gossip started, the perfect image he wore like ceremonial armor might begin to crack.

Stephen brushed his fingers over my cheek, his palm warm and smelling faintly of sandalwood, a scent I had once associated with safety and sleep.

Now it felt like smoke in my lungs.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" he murmured. "I thought something happened."

I could almost see that same hand around another woman's wrist. Tangled in another woman's hair. Resting, possessive and intimate, against the soft human skin he thought I would never discover.

Bile rose in my throat.

I stepped back. "I needed air. My phone died."

He frowned at once, took off his jacket, and draped it around my shoulders before I could refuse. "Don't catch a chill."

His voice was gentle. His movements were careful. His concern was impeccably timed.

That was what made it revolting.

He still remembered I hated the cold, even while being the reason I had begun to feel frozen from the inside out.

I walked farther into the house without thanking him. He followed immediately.

"Emma," he said over his shoulder, "bring hot apple cider. And Aria's favorites."

Once we were alone in the living room, he lowered his voice, as though we were about to share something intimate.

"I'm sorry for how I sounded earlier. I was worried about you."

"I'm fine."

His eyes stayed on me, too perceptive, too calm. "You haven't seemed happy lately. Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

He moved closer, the distance closing with the confidence of a man who had never imagined being denied. "Aria, we've been together for seven years. I know you. I can read you. Whatever it is, tell me, and I'll fix it."

Fix it.

As though betrayal were a scheduling conflict. As though marriage could be patched with the same smooth hands that had torn it open.

I looked at him. Stephen had always known how to sound sincere. It was one of his most dangerous gifts. He could make devotion sound like authority, make promises feel like protection, make a cage seem so soft and beautiful that by the time you realized you were trapped, you had already begun to thank him for the walls.

"It's nothing," I said dismissively.

Still concerned, he made a call. "Cancel my meetings. I'm taking the week off. My Luna needs me."

I laughed softly, a short, cutting sound that hung in the air like broken glass.

"I should be smiling, having such an attentive mate."

He looked relieved, thinking I was thankful.

He didn't notice my fingers shaking, not from emotion but from anger I was trying to hide.

"What about you?" I asked. "Anything you want to tell me?"

He leaned down to kiss me. "Seven years together. It's time we..."

His phone buzzed before he could finish. The light from the screen cut through the room.

For a second, I saw a soft look in his eyes, but it wasn't for me.

"I need to take this call, Aria," he said with a smile as he walked away.

A few minutes later, I went to the garage and started the car.

The dashboard screen lit up, and I saw that his WhatsApp account was still logged in.

A name appeared on the screen. It was Belinda White.

"That rich lady came in again today! I love her!" the message read.

Stephen: You sound excited.

Belinda: Of course! I wish that wealthy woman would visit our store every day! She's my favorite customer!

Stephen: I used to stop by your store every day too. Didn't I earn the same treatment?

Belinda: You're different. She's my VIP client!

Stephen: And what am I then?

Belinda: Hmm... remind me of your name again? Anyway, no one's stopping me from becoming a successful career woman!

Stephen: So I'm disposable?

Belinda: Haha! You know what? Let's talk on the phone. That rich lady tried on ten necklaces today, and my hands are so tired.

Stephen: Alright.

My grip tightened slowly around the steering wheel.

The garage was silent except for the low hum of the engine.

I opened my contacts and called a number I had saved precisely for this moment.

The line connected almost at once.

"K Investigations."

My voice, when it came, was colder than I had expected, colder even than the part of me that had stood in the jewelry store and watched my wedding ring become scrap metal.

"I want everything on Belinda White by tonight—family, history, debts, habits, relationships. And keep watching Stephen Green. I want every movement recorded. Every meeting. Every lie."

A brief pause.

Then: "Understood."

I ended the call and leaned back against the seat, closing my eyes for just a moment. Lily was silent inside me, not soothed, not healed, but waiting. So was I.

When I opened my eyes again, I was smiling.

Not because I was no longer hurt.

Because now I knew exactly where to begin.

"Hide all you want, Stephen," I whispered into the dark. "Let's see how long you can stay hidden."