The White Wolf He Rejected For A Mistress

Caroline POV:

Six hours. That was how long it took for the doctors to stabilize my vitals and extract the largest shards of silver from my leg. The pain was a dull, throbbing roar, like a beast trapped under my skin.

I signed the discharge papers with a shaking hand. The doctors protested, citing infection risks and the severity of the fractures, but I refused to stay. I couldn't breathe in that room.

I took a cab back to the penthouse. It was midnight. The city below was a grid of uncaring lights.

When I entered the apartment, the smell of whiskey hit me. It was a sharp, biting scent that overpowered the usual cedarwood aroma of the home.

Blake was in his study. The door was ajar. He was slumped in his leather armchair, a half-empty bottle of amber liquid on the desk. His tie was undone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked wrecked, but not for me.

I stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on my crutches, gritting my teeth against the fire in my shattered leg.

He looked up, his eyes glassy and unfocused. For a moment, his face softened.

"Ariana?" he slurred.

The name was a slap. He was looking right at me, his wife of five years, and he saw the ghost of his past.

"No, Blake," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "It's Caroline."

He blinked, and the softness vanished, replaced by a weary irritation. "Oh. You."

He took a heavy swig from the glass. "I thought you were staying at the hospital."

"I came to get some papers," I said. I walked over to the safe. My movements were slow, agonizing. He didn't offer to help. He didn't even stand up.

"Why do you bother?" he muttered, swirling the liquid in his glass. "You're always so busy. So functional. Like a machine."

I ignored him, spinning the dial of the safe.

"You know," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried more weight than a shout. "Sometimes I look at these five years... and I think, what a waste."

My hand froze on the dial.

"A waste?" I repeated.

"I'm just waiting, Caroline," he said, staring into his drink. "Waiting for her to heal. Waiting for the mistake to be corrected. We're just... placeholders. You and me."

The air in the room seemed to freeze. My wolf, or the echo of where she used to be, didn't even growl. She was too tired. She was already dead.

I finished opening the safe. I took out the thick envelope containing the magical binding contracts and my personal assets.

I turned to look at him one last time. He had passed out, his head lolling back against the leather.

I went to the bedroom. I pulled the black ledger from my bag. I sat on the edge of the bed, the leather cover cold under my fingers.

I opened it to the page where the number 10 was written.

He called our marriage a waste. He called me a placeholder.

I wrote the number down.

-5.

Then, I remembered the hospital room. When he left me to go comfort her because she wouldn't take a sedative. I hadn't recorded that yet.

-5.

I did the math.

Total: 0.

I stared at the zero. It wasn't a scary number. It was a circle. A completion. It was the shape of a moon that had finally gone dark.

I picked up my phone. I dialed the number for the extraction team.

"Initiate Protocol Omega," I said. "I want the divorce papers filed at dawn. I'm leaving tomorrow."

I looked at the ledger one last time. I didn't close it. I left it on the nightstand, open to that final, damning page.

I had given him every chance. I had given him a hundred points of grace. He had spent them all.