CELESTRIA POV
The smell hits me first.
Perfume. Cheap, flowery perfume that definitely isn't mine. It's all over my husband's side of the bed—the side he didn't sleep in last night.
Again.
I sit up slowly, my platinum hair falling around my shoulders like a curtain. The sheets are cold where Dorian should have been. Where he hasn't been for the past three months. Not that I'm counting or anything.
Who am I kidding? Of course I'm counting.
Six years. That's how long I've been Luna of the Quillan Pack. Six years of smiling at pack meetings while everyone whispers behind my back. Six years of pretending I don't notice the lipstick stains on his collar or the way he comes home smelling like other women.
Six years of being the perfect wife to a man who stopped loving me—if he ever did—the day after our mating ceremony.
My wolf whimpers inside my head. She's tired too. Tired of being ignored by our mate. Tired of the bond that's supposed to mean everything but feels like a chain around our neck.
I swing my legs out of bed and catch my reflection in the full-length mirror across the room. Violet eyes stare back at me—unusual for a werewolf. My mom said they were special. Dorian's mother said they were weird. That should have been my first warning sign.
My hands shake as I reach for my makeup bag. Foundation to cover the dark circles. Concealer for the shadows under my eyes. Blush to fake the healthy glow I haven't felt in years. Mascara to make myself look alive.
This is my real morning routine now. Not a shower or breakfast. But painting on a face that says "I'm fine" when I'm drowning.
I remember when I didn't need makeup. When I was twenty and stupid enough to believe the Moon Goddess wouldn't match me with someone who'd break me into pieces.
"You're mine now, Celestria," Dorian had whispered on our mating night, his lips against my neck. "Forever."
Forever turned out to be about six months before the first affair.
I found the texts on his phone. Some girl named Clarissa. Then it was Morgan. Then Petra. Then I stopped learning their names because what was the point?
When I confronted him, he'd laughed. Actually laughed.
"What did you expect? You're a healer's daughter. No Alpha blood. No political connections. I mated you because the Goddess chose you, but that doesn't mean I have to be faithful to someone so... ordinary."
Ordinary. That word still burns.
But I stayed. I planned the pack events. I managed the finances. I made myself so useful that divorcing me would be inconvenient. Because leaving means losing my pack, my home, my entire identity.
So instead, I became the best Luna I could be. Perfect at everything except keeping my husband interested.
I finish my makeup and head downstairs, my bare feet silent on the marble floors of our massive packhouse. It's too big for two people. Dorian wanted it that way—fifteen bedrooms, ten bathrooms, a house that screams "I have money and power."
A house that echoes with loneliness.
The dining room doors are open. I can hear silverware clinking against plates. My stomach twists into knots, but I force myself to keep walking.
Dorian sits at the head of the long table, scrolling through his phone with one hand while shoveling eggs into his mouth with the other. He doesn't look up when I enter.
He never does anymore.
But I look at him. I can't help it.
Blonde hair perfectly styled even at seven in the morning. Sharp jaw. Broad shoulders. He's wearing a white button-up shirt that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.
And there, right on the side of his neck, are three dark purple hickeys.
My heart clenches. Not because I'm surprised. But because he's not even trying to hide them anymore.
I walk to my usual seat—ten feet down from him because goddess forbid we sit close like actual mates—and pour myself coffee from the silver pot waiting there. My hands tremble so badly that the cup rattles against the saucer.
The sound finally makes Dorian glance up.
"Morning," he grunts, already looking back at his phone.
That's it. No "how did you sleep?" No "you look nice." Nothing.
I wrap both hands around my coffee cup to stop the shaking. "Morning."
Silence stretches between us like a canyon. I can hear the kitchen staff moving around beyond the doors. Can hear birds singing outside the windows. Can hear everything except my husband's voice saying anything that matters.
My wolf paces restlessly in my mind. She wants to snarl at him. Wants to demand respect. But I've trained her to be quiet, just like I've trained myself.
"I have meetings all day," Dorian says suddenly, still not looking at me. "Don't wait up tonight."
Translation: He'll be with whoever gave him those hickeys.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Oh, and Celestria?" Now he looks at me. Really looks at me for the first time in weeks. There's something in his eyes I can't quite read. Something that makes my skin prickle with warning.
"Yes?"
He sets down his phone. Leans back in his chair. A slow smile spreads across his face—the kind of smile that used to make my heart race but now just makes my stomach hurt.
"I've been thinking about our arrangement."
Arrangement. That's what he calls our marriage now.
"What about it?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"I think we should open it up." He says it casually, like he's suggesting we change dinner plans. "You know—see other people. Both of us. Make it official."
The coffee cup slips from my fingers.
It shatters against the table, hot liquid spreading across the white tablecloth like blood. But I barely notice because my brain is screaming one thing over and over:
He wants an open marriage.
"Think about it," Dorian continues, standing up and straightening his shirt—right over those hickeys that mock me. "You're always so tense, Celestria. Maybe sleeping with someone else would loosen you up. Help you relax."
He walks past me toward the door. Pauses. Leans down so his mouth is next to my ear.
"After all," he whispers, "I've been doing it for years. Only fair you get a turn, right?"
Then he's gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
I sit frozen at the table, coffee dripping onto my lap, my heart hammering so hard I think it might break through my ribs.
An open marriage.
He's giving me permission to cheat because he's been cheating all along.
Something inside me cracks. Not my heart—that broke years ago. Something deeper. Something that's been holding me together with tape and lies and fake smiles.
My wolf snarls, and for the first time in six years, I don't quiet her.
The dining room door opens again. For one stupid second, I think Dorian came back. That he realized what he just said was horrible and wants to apologize.
But it's not Dorian.
It's Senna Carveth. His mistress. The she-wolf he's been sleeping with for the past two years.
She's wearing one of Dorian's shirts.
In my house.
At my breakfast table.
And she's smiling at me like she just won.