Divorcing My Cheating Mate To Become The Lycan Queen

Cora POV:

The single candle flame flickered across the white tablecloth, untouched. The steaks were cold. The Cabernet was unopened. The second crystal glass sat empty, collecting dust.

Three years. Our third wedding anniversary. And Vance hadn't been home in thirty-one days.

I pressed my fingertips to my temple, reaching for the bond—that thin, silver thread of awareness that was supposed to connect mated wolves. Nothing. A flat, dead silence where his presence should have been. He'd blocked me. Again. Walled me out of his mind like I was spam he couldn't be bothered to delete.

I picked up my phone and dialed.

Ring. Ring. Voicemail.

I dialed again. And again. And again. Seven times. Twelve times. Sixteen.

My parents had wanted this. That was the only reason I was still trying. Before the mission that killed them, my father had gripped my hand and said, "Find someone, little wolf. Settle down. Let us see you safe before we go." So I had settled. I had married Vance Hayes. And for three years I had endured his coldness, his absences, his silence, because I had made them a promise.

But they were gone now. And today, finally, the military was releasing their remains to family. All I needed was for him to stand beside me. Just once.

The seventeenth call connected.

My heart leapt. "Vance, I need you to come with me tomorrow morning. It's my parents' ashes, they're finally being—"

"Jesus Christ, are you serious?" A woman's voice. Sharp. Irritated. Caroline Le. "Can you give him some space? He's at a private event. You call, call, call, like some desperate little barnacle glued to a man's hull. Do you have zero ability to function independently? Get a hobby. Get a job. Get a life that doesn't revolve around ringing his phone like a lost puppy."

Click. Dead air.

I stared at the screen. Checked the number. Checked it again. I hadn't misdialed.

Maybe he was in a meeting. Maybe his phone was in her hand by accident. Maybe.

I booked a single train ticket for the morning. Then I texted my lawyer: "Prepare divorce papers. Maximum favor. All clauses."

The next day, I collected my parents' ashes alone. The colonel saluted me. The cadets roared "Duty, Honor, Country!" I held the wooden urn to my chest and walked out into the afternoon sun, the white roses I'd bought trembling in my grip.

My phone buzzed. Instagram notification. Caroline Le had posted twenty minutes ago.

The location tag: a private beach club in the Hamptons. Forty minutes from where I stood.