You Needed a Perfect Luna, So I Stopped Dying for You

The silver-embossed invitations for the Annual Pack Charity Gala had been sent six weeks ago.

For five consecutive years, I had organized every single detail of the event down to the floral centerpieces. I managed the five-course seasonal menu, handled the auction donors, and resolved the dozen territorial disputes that threatened to erupt whenever thirty high-ranking wolf families gathered in the same ballroom.

At two in the afternoon, four hours before the doors opened, I walked into Rowan’s office and dropped three thick manila envelopes on his desk.

They contained every untouched vendor contract, the unfinalized seating chart, and a blank emergency protocol sheet.

Cassia was already standing beside Rowan’s chair, holding a clipboard with an eager, triumphant gleam in her eyes.

"Don't worry about a thing, Selene," Cassia said, offering a patronizing smile as she picked up the folders. "Hosting a dinner isn't rocket science. Rowan needs an active partner right now, so I'm happy to step in and save the evening."

Rowan barely looked up from his computer screen. "Thank you, Cassia. Make sure the Northern Coalition delegates get the prime table by the stage."

"Consider it done," Cassia replied smoothly.

I didn't offer a single word of advice. I didn't warn her that the Northern delegates had a thirty-year blood feud with the Ironwood clan over hunting rights, or that placing them at adjacent tables was an invitation to a brawl. I didn't mention that the wine supplier refused to deliver without upfront cash, or that the head chef walked out if he wasn't personally greeted before service.

I turned around, walked back to my quarters, put on an oversized wool sweater, and made myself a pot of chamomile tea.

By six o'clock, the storm hit the Grand Ballroom.

I didn't have to be there to imagine it. Cassia had rearranged the seating chart based on social status rather than ancient pack treaties. Within thirty minutes of the opening toast, the head of the Ironwood faction threw a crystal wine glass across Table Four, accusing the Northern delegate of trespassing on his ancestral land.

The caterers refused to bring out the second course because the deposit check hadn't been signed. The sound system malfunctioned, screeching high-pitched feedback through the speeches because no one had checked the acoustic dampeners in the ceiling.

For five years, I had walked those floorboards like a ghost, intercepting angry councilmen before they spoke, redirecting feuding families to opposite ends of the terrace, and handling emergencies before Rowan even noticed a spark.

Tonight, Rowan had to put out every single fire with his own bare hands.

***

It was nearly midnight when the front door slammed downstairs.

Heavy, aggressive footsteps pounded up the stairs. The bedroom door flew open, rebounding against the wall with a loud crack.

Rowan stood in the doorway, his tie ripped loose and his collar open. His tailored tuxedo jacket was wrinkled, stained with red wine along the left lapel. His dark hair was a mess, and the golden Alpha aura around him was jagged, pulsing with pure exhaustion and fury.

"Are you satisfied?" he demanded, stepping into the room.

I stayed curled in the reading armchair by the window, a novel resting open in my lap. I slowly turned the page.

"About what?" I asked quietly.

"The gala was an absolute disaster!" Rowan shouted, throwing his cufflinks onto the vanity, where they clattered loudly. "The Ironwoods almost shifted right in the middle of the ballroom! Lord Gregory threatened to pull his financial backing for my election campaign because his table was seated next to his ex-wife's family! I had to spend four hours playing babysitter instead of securing votes!"

I looked at him, completely unbothered by his rage. "Sounds like a busy evening."

Rowan marched toward me, towering over the armchair, his fists clenched tight at his sides. "You knew. You knew those seating arrangements were a landmine. You left those vendor files blank on purpose just to watch Cassia fail!"

"I didn't leave them blank on purpose," I said, meeting his bloodshot eyes. "I stopped doing the work. There's a difference."

"You could have warned her!" Rowan's voice cracked with frustration. "You could have taken ten minutes to walk her through the family politics! Instead, you sat in this room all night while my reputation took a public beating!"

"Why was it my job to save you from consequences?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

Rowan recoiled slightly, as if struck. His jaw worked, trying to find words to counter the calm, icy tone in my voice.

"Because you're my wife," Rowan said, leaning down so his face was inches from mine. "Because you are the Luna of this pack! These duties belong to you. Running the estate, managing the allies, supporting my campaign—that is what you swore to do when you took the mark!"

"No," I replied, closing the book with a quiet snap. "I swore to stand beside a partner. I never agreed to be an invisible shield that absorbs all your damage while you take all the credit."

"I have carried this territory on my back for six years!" Rowan yelled, throwing his hands in the air. "I don't need a lecture on sacrifice from someone who refuses to lift a finger during the most critical week of my career!"

"Then find a woman who wants the job."

Rowan froze.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The words weren't loud, but they carried the weight of an executioner's blade.

Rowan stared at me, his chest heaving under his ruined shirt. He opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway interrupted him.

Cassia appeared in the open doorway.

Her elegant evening gown was rumpled, her makeup smudged from hours of stress. She was holding a stack of apology letters and unaddressed complaints from the evening's guests.

"Rowan..." Cassia whispered, her voice fragile. "The Ironwood elder is on line two. He wants an official statement."

Rowan turned his head toward the door.

He looked at Cassia. Then, for one agonizing, unbroken second, his gaze lingered on her face—calculating, assessing, weighing the possibilities of what a new, compliant partner might look like in front of the council.

It lasted only a single heartbeat. But that split-second hesitation went straight through my ribs like a frozen dagger.

He didn't defend our marriage. He didn't tell her to leave. He actually considered it.

The last microscopic ember of hope I didn't even know I was harboring inside my chest turned to gray ash.

I stood up from the armchair.

I didn't scream. I didn't throw anything. I didn't demand an explanation for the way he looked at the woman standing in our doorway.

Instead, I reached down to the waistband of my trousers.

I unhooked the heavy silver key ring that had hung at my side for five years. It held the keys to the packhouse archives, the master medicine stores, the temple vaults, and the Luna’s private administrative chambers.

I walked past Rowan, stepped up to the mahogany desk, and set the heavy ring down on the polished wood.

The metal struck the surface with a cold, hollow ring.

Cassia’s eyes widened as she recognized the keys. Rowan stared at the silver ring on the desk, his expression suddenly tightening with an unreadable panic.

"Selene," Rowan said, taking a step toward me, his voice dropping into a tense rasp. "What are you doing?"

I turned to face him, my posture straight, my eyes completely clear of the tears I had cried for years in the dark.

"You wanted a perfect Luna," I said, holding his gaze until he looked away. "You never asked whether your wife survived becoming one."