The moment Riana stepped off the plane onto the rain-slicked tarmac of Ambrose City’s airport, she let herself hope—just for a moment—that her husband might be there to greet her.
‘CRACK’
As her designer’s heels sank into the ground, they broke. She looked up at the sky and sighed, “Really?”
Fate was unkind to her lately, but Riana was not going to give up hoping. Walking towards her car, with her hair frizzing in the humidity, she clutched her designer carry-on bag like a needy pet.
Inside her bag, her phone buzzed relentlessly with birthday wishes—pack members, distant cousins, colleagues, friends—all except the one that mattered.
Wesley Winters.
Alpha of the Winters Pack. Her husband of seven years.
The familiar ache settled deeper into her chest. Another to let her know better—their marriage had never been forged for love.
Just a match made for the Pack’s benefit. No love. No luck. Quite the opposite of a sweet fairytale story.
Yet here she was, dragging her designer carry-on through the downpour like some hopeful fool. And it all began eight years ago.
Seated in the back seat of a luxurious car, that fateful night eight years ago came back to her mind again.
Eight years earlier, the scent of wolfsbane incense and spiced mead hung heavy in the Regalia Pack's moonlit gardens. Eighteen-year-old Riana, dressed in her grandmother's ivory lace dress, had slipped away from the Ceremony - the one place her father's new wife couldn't glare daggers at her for "tarnishing the family name."
That's when she saw him - Wesley Winters, leaning against the obsidian fountain, moonlight glinting off the whiskey in his tumbler. The most powerful unmated Alpha in three territories.
Handsome was an understatement. But a Prince Charming? Nothing close.
"You look like someone poured ice water down your gown," he'd remarked, those glacier-blue eyes scanning her trembling hands.
“None of your concerns.”
He smirked and offered her a drink.
"Just avoiding my stepmother's cronies," Riana admitted, accepting the drink he offered. The whiskey burned, but not half as much as the way his thumb brushed hers when taking the glass back.
What happened next was a blur of stolen kisses behind the ancestral oaks, his growl of "You smell like storm clouds and vanilla," the way her dress pooled like moonlight on the grass—
Riana's grip tightened on her phone as her mind snapped back to the present time. She could still hear Wesley's accusation the morning after:
"You planned this. You Regalias always scheme."
As if she'd orchestrated her own ruin. As if she'd wanted to become the stain of the family.
The pregnancy test had been the final nail. She'd sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor of her childhood home, whispering to the tiny cluster of cells growing inside her:
It was a memory of mixed emotions that she could never forget.
"However you came to be, I'll love you enough for both of us."
Willa. Her miracle. The only good thing to come from that unforgettable night.
Riana allowed herself a small smile, remembering her daughter's excitement last month: "Daddy promised we'd celebrate your birthday together this year!"
Even after everything, the child still believed in her parents' fragile truce.
Her thumb hovered over Wesley's contact - still saved as "Beastly" in her phone after all these years. For Willa, she could endure one more civil conversation. For Willa, she'd pretend they were still the picture-perfect family the Pack expected.
The call connected.
"Hello?" A sultry female voice answered. Not Wesley.
Riana's blood turned to ice. In her mind, she was already imagining a scene of punching the other woman’s face, repeatedly.
Taking one deep breath to calm her anxiety, she finally spoke.
“Delilah.” Riana didn’t need to ask. The voice alone was enough to make her claws extend, piercing through her manicured fingertips.
Her half-sister. The daughter of the woman who’d shattered her family—her mother’s life.
If her marriage to Wesley was a tragedy since the beginning, then Delilah's dramatic claim of being Wesley's fated mate at their wedding reception had been the final act.
The Regalia elders had shipped the girl off to Switzerland that very night, but the damage was done - Wesley now had permanent proof that Riana was the villain in his love story.
A rather beautiful villain, she thought with a smile.
“Oh, Riana,” her half-sister crooned, saccharine-sweet. “How are—”
“Put Wesley on.” Her voice was ice.
“Mm, he’s… occupied. In the shower.” A deliberate pause that was meant to mock Riana. “We just finished hot yoga. He’s all… slippery.”
Riana's vision tinged red. She'd known this marriage was political. Known Wesley resented her. But seven years of loyalty. A daughter. How dare he—
"Don't be cross, sister." Delilah’s pretentious, sweet voice was poison for Riana to hear. "Seven years watching my mate shackled to a woman he despises? You can't imagine what we'll be making up for tonight."
“Anyway, I’ll tell him you called.”
Click.
Silence.
Riana's grip shattered her phone screen, glass biting into her palm. Blood welled - the perfect metaphor for this farce of a marriage.
"You were never my sister," she hissed at the broken device, whispering to herself. "Just like your mother was never his Luna."
Riana would never forget the last scene for her mother: her mother's vacant eyes staring at the ceiling, the ceremonial dagger still clutched in her lifeless hand. The Regalia elders had called it "noble sacrifice."
Riana knew better. It was murder by a thousand cuts - every whispered insult, every public slight, every time Father brought his mistress to pack gatherings instead of his lawful wife.
Wiping away a single traitorous tear, Riana raised her head, not wanting to show signs of weakness to his Wolf Pack. The Winters' mansion loomed ahead. Somewhere inside, her daughter waited.
That was all that mattered now.
The grand foyer swallowed Riana whole as she stepped inside, the silence pressing against her like a physical weight.
Flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the marble floors, amplifying the hollow ache in her chest. Disappointment. An old, familiar friend. She shoved it down—just like always.
Until this moment, she hadn’t realized—not even her own daughter had messaged her.
Was she planning a surprise?
She pursed her lips into a smile.
Her six-inch Louboutins—diamonds glinting like frost—lay discarded at the entrance. Barefoot, she padded through the cavernous halls, the cold marble biting into her skin.
Then, a familiar presence.
“Good evening, Madam Luna.” Mrs. Leah, the omega housekeeper who’d been taking care of her for years, stood with quiet sympathy. “Shall I bring you supper? Tea?”
Riana forced a smile. "Where’s Willa?"
A hesitation. "She’s asleep." Then, softer: "Happy birthday, Madam."
Riana nodded with a thankful smile. Well, at least someone remembered her birthday.
Upstairs, a sliver of light bled from beneath Willa’s door. Still awake? Riana’s pulse jumped. Maybe—just maybe—her daughter had waited up for her.
She eased the door open.
Willa hunched over her desk, golden curls spilling over her shoulders, fingers deftly threading beads onto a delicate string. The sight sent a fragile hope fluttering through Riana’s ribs.
A gift. For me. What else could it be?
"Willa, sweetheart."
Her daughter startled, whirling with wide gray eyes—then scowled. "Mom! You can’t just barge in! Aunt Delilah always knocks!"
Riana froze.
Delilah. In her home. Around her child. ‘What??’ she thought with a smile of confusion still plastered on her lips.
A month away on Pack business, and already, her daughter’s world had shifted. The room smelled of crayons and bubblegum, fairy lights twinkling like stolen stars. This was her child, the one person who made her sacrifices mean something—
Willa scrambled to gather scattered beads. Riana knelt, fingers brushing a stray pearl. "Let me help."
"No! It has to be perfect." Willa clutched a shimmering bead, her face alight with devotion. "It’s for Aunt Delilah. Dad says she deserves the best birthday surprise."
The words struck like a silver blade. Her breath vanished.
Her own birthday. Forgotten.
By her husband. By her daughter.
By the two souls she’d bled for, endured a hollow marriage for.
She stood there, invisible in her own home, watching her child lavish love on the woman who’d never soothed her nightmares, never braided her hair while humming ancient lullabies.
Her claws pricked at her palms.
"Willa." Her voice was too quiet, too raw. "Do you know what today is?"
