The Dead Luna’s Resurrection-His Living Hell-

"Please, just answer the phone, Julian," Vivienne whispered, her voice cracking in the hollow silence of the dining hall.

The candles had burned down to stubs, wax bleeding across the lace tablecloth like slow, white tears. The five-course meal—his favorites, the ones she’d spent six hours perfecting—was a graveyard of cold fat and congealed sauces.

Chime.

The sound of a notification sliced through the quiet. Vivienne’s heart gave a pathetic, hopeful leap. Maybe it was an apology. Maybe the "emergency border meeting" was finally over.

She grabbed the phone. Her breath hitched.

It wasn't a text from her husband. It was an anonymous link to a private cloud folder.

Vivienne tapped it. Her vision blurred for a second, then snapped into agonizing focus. The photos were high-definition, professional-grade, and nauseating. There was Julian—her Alpha, her mate, the man who had promised her forever four years ago—pressed against a brick wall in a dark alley.

He wasn't fighting off an enemy. He was buried in the neck of Selina Voss, a seductive Omega from the rival Crescent Pack. Julian’s large hands were tangled in Selina’s hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. Even through the screen, Vivienne could see the dark, fresh bruising of a mark.

He was marking her.

A sharp, jagged pain exploded in Vivienne’s chest. Inside her, her wolf let out a long, mourning howl that felt like a physical blade carving through her ribs. The bond, that golden thread connecting her soul to Julian’s, didn't snap—it began to rot.

"Four years," she choked out, the words tasting like ash. "I gave you everything."

She looked down at her hands. They were trembling. She had spent four years playing the "Perfect Luna," the submissive shadow behind the powerful CEO of Silver Peak. She had dimmed her own light so he could shine, abandoned her own ambitions to manage his pack’s books and public image. And this was the dividend.

The front door heavy oak door groaned open.

Vivienne didn't move. She didn't wipe the single tear that tracked through her makeup. She sat like a statue as heavy footsteps echoed down the marble hallway.

Julian entered the room, loosening his silk tie. He looked every bit the powerful Alpha—broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, and radiating a casual arrogance that usually made Vivienne’s knees weak. Now, it just made her stomach turn.

As he got closer, the scent hit her. It wasn't just his usual expensive sandalwood. It was the cloying, sweet stench of Selina’s pheromones.

"Viv? Why are the lights out?" Julian asked, his voice smooth as honey. He didn't even look at the table. He walked over and tried to press a kiss to her forehead. "I'm so sorry, baby. The border meeting went south. The rogues are pushing the perimeter again."

Vivienne flinched away from his touch. It was instinctive. His skin felt like ice against hers.

Julian froze, his hand hanging in mid-air. His brow furrowed in a practiced mask of concern. "What’s this? You’re upset about the dinner? I told you, pack business comes first. You know the weight I carry."

"Pack business," Vivienne repeated. Her voice was terrifyingly flat. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Julian sighed, a sound of feigned exhaustion. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, velvet jewelry box. He tossed it onto the table. It landed next to a plate of cold lamb.

"Happy anniversary, Vivienne. It’s a five-carat diamond. I had it flown in from Antwerp."

He said it like he was checking a chore off a list. Buy the milk. Pay the electric bill. Buy the wife’s silence.

"I don't want it," she said.

Julian’s eyes darkened. The Alpha power in his blood began to simmer, a warning pressure filling the room. "Don't be difficult. I’ve had a long night. I’m going to shower, and when I come out, I expect you to have dropped this attitude."

He turned on his heel, heading for the stairs without waiting for a response. He was so confident in her weakness. He truly believed she was the same wolfless, low-status girl he’d plucked from obscurity to be his trophy.

As soon as his footsteps faded, Vivienne’s phone buzzed again. This time, it was a restricted number.

She answered on the first ring. "Is it ready?"

"The extraction team is on standby, 'Viper,'" a gravelly voice whispered. "The Black Rose Syndicate doesn't like to be kept waiting. You have until the full moon to disappear. After that, our protection ends."

"I don't need protection," Vivienne said, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the closed door of the master suite. "I need the keys to his offshore accounts."

"Already done. You were right—he’s been siphoning pack funds into the Voss family's shell companies for eighteen months. The paper trail is a mile long. You have enough to bury him, the pack, and his little Omega mistress."

"Good," Vivienne whispered. "Send the flight details to the encrypted drive."

She hung up and stood, her movements fluid and precise. The "Perfect Luna" facade cracked and fell away, revealing the woman underneath—a woman who had been the lead strategist for the most dangerous underground organization of rogue Alphas before Julian had ever met her. She had played the part of the doting wife so well that Julian had forgotten she was the one who built his empire. He thought he was the lion, but he’d forgotten she was the one who drew the maps.

Vivienne walked to the bookshelf in the corner of the dining room, pulled a specific volume of The Art of War, and tapped a hidden sensor. A small compartment clicked open.

Inside was a slim laptop and a set of divorce papers she’d drafted two years ago. She’d hoped she would never have to sign them. She’d hoped he would prove her cynical instincts wrong.

He hadn't.

Upstairs, the shower stopped. A few minutes later, Julian’s voice boomed from the landing.

"Vivienne! My head is killing me. Get up here and rub my shoulders. And bring me a scotch!"

The command was laced with the Alpha's "Voice"—a psychic push meant to compel her to obey. Usually, it made her heart race and her body move before she could think.

Tonight, she felt nothing but a dull throb of annoyance.

Vivienne picked up her laptop and a small duffel bag she’d kept hidden under the sideboard. She walked to the base of the stairs. Julian was standing there in a towel, looking down at her with an expectant, annoyed expression.

"Did you hear me?" he growled. "I said get up here."

Vivienne met his gaze. For the first time in four years, she didn't lower her eyes.

"No," she said.

Julian blinked. The shock on his face would have been funny if it weren't so pathetic. "What did you just say to me?"

"I said no, Julian. I’m tired. I’m going to the guest bedroom. Don't follow me."

She turned and walked toward the far wing of the house.

"Vivienne! Get back here!" Julian roared, his voice shaking the light fixtures. "You are my Luna! You know your place! You’re nothing without this pack! You’re a wolfless nobody I saved from the gutter!"

Vivienne didn't stop. She reached the guest suite, stepped inside, and turned the heavy brass lock.

Click.

The sound echoed in the hallway like a gunshot.

Julian slammed his fist against the door, the wood groaning under his strength. "Open this door! You’re being dramatic because of a late dinner? You’re acting like a child! Open it now or I’ll break it down!"

Vivienne sat on the edge of the bed and opened her laptop. The screen glowed in the dark room, reflecting in her cold, sharp eyes. She watched the progress bar as the files containing Julian's illegal diversions began uploading to a public server, set to release in forty-eight hours.

"Shhh," she whispered to the wolf inside her, the part of her she’d kept suppressed for so long. "The Perfect Luna is dead, girl. Let’s see how he likes the widow."