Konklave seleccion

His Discarded Luna, the Rival's Obsession

Lila

"No wolf. No family. Harmless. Useful. The second I am done with her, the Luna title is yours." Eira Crawford heard those words through her husband's office door. For four years, she had been Sebastian Vale's hidden mate. She managed his household, entertained his relatives, cleaned up his messes, and lived on the three thousand dollars he gave her each month like charity. Even buying a new coat required an explanation. But for his first love, he casually prepared three hundred thousand dollars in research funding. To Sebastian, Eira was nothing more than a wolfless Omega from an orphanage. A quiet, obedient wife with no pack, no power, and no value beyond being useful. He had never introduced her publicly as his Luna. His family treated her like a servant. His sweetheart mocked her as a woman who could only survive by clinging to an Alpha. So Eira stopped crying. She recorded the affair, filed for mate dissolution, and placed the divorce papers in front of Sebastian. Even then, he thought she was throwing a tantrum. He signed without hesitation, certain she would come crawling back once she realized no one else would want a discarded, wolfless Omega. He was wrong. The woman he left at home washing dishes was a Stanford-trained electrical engineer. The "useless" wife he ignored was the hidden chief engineer behind a national self-developed chip project. Her movements were classified. Her disappearance could alert the federal authorities. Her name, once revealed, was enough to shake the entire scientific community. And Sebastian knew nothing. After walking out of his house with nothing but her freedom, Eira crossed paths with Killian Sterling, the coldest and most powerful Alpha in the north. He did not know her name yet, but his wolf recognized something in her that everyone else had missed. Meanwhile, Sebastian finally realized that Eira was not bluffing. He searched the entire city like a madman. For the first time in four years, he publicly called her his wife. He demanded she return. He begged for another chance. But by then, Eira was no longer waiting in his house. She was seated at the Sterling Pack's dinner table, dressed with quiet confidence, while the most feared Alpha in North America stood beside her. In front of everyone, Killian Sterling placed his hand at her back and said coldly, "Eira is not anyone's discarded Omega." "She is my Luna."

Werewolf Love triangle Alpha Billionaires Hidden Identities Billionaire Ex-wife Kickass Heroine

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No.1

The sound was not a bang, but a steady, high-pitched whine. It was the sound of a heart monitor flatlining.

Skye Sterling could feel the cold seeping into her marrow, starting from her fingertips and clawing its way up toward her chest. The operating theater was blindingly white, a sterile purgatory where she was currently bleeding out. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the hemorrhaging caused by stress-induced organ failure, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her on the steel table.

She couldn't move her head, but her eyes, heavy with the weight of death, drifted to the phone held by the trembling nurse. The nurse had put it on speaker.

Mr. Kensington, the nurse's voice cracked, thick with panic. "Please, your wife... the surgery... she's critical. We need you to come."

There was a pause on the other end. A silence that stretched longer than Skye's remaining lifespan. Then, a giggle. It was a light, airy sound, like wind chimes in a summer breeze. Seraphina Miller.

Liam is in the shower, Seraphina's voice came through, sweet and poisonous. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low."

Skye wanted to scream, but her throat was full of fluid. She wanted to say she wasn't faking, that she was dying, that the stress of five years of neglect and three years of watching her husband parade his mistress around had finally broken her body.

Then, a deeper voice mumbled in the background. Liam.

Who is it? he asked, sounding bored.

Just the hospital again, Seraphina laughed. "She's probably having a panic attack because you didn't buy her a gift."

Hang up, Liam said. His voice was cold. Detached. "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning."

Click.

The line went dead. And a second later, so did Skye.

The darkness was absolute. It was not peaceful; it was heavy, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret. Regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance. Regret for letting the Sterling family name rot while she played the role of the submissive housewife. Regret for dying without ever having lived.

Then, the air rushed back in.

It hit her lungs like a sledgehammer. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. She clutched her chest, her fingers digging into the silk of her pajamas, expecting to feel the thick bandages, the surgical staples, the wetness of blood.

But there was nothing. Just smooth, unbroken skin.

Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Thump-thump-thump. Alive. She was alive.

Skye sat up, disoriented. The room smelled of lavender and expensive polish. The moonlight filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, illuminating the familiar contours of the master bedroom at Kensington Manor. But it was wrong. The furniture was arranged differently. The vase on the nightstand was the one she had broken in a fit of rage three years ago.

Her trembling hand reached out and grabbed the smartphone on the bedside table. She tapped the screen. The light blinded her for a second.

May 12th.

She blinked. The year... the year was five years ago.

The phone slipped from her fingers and landed on the duvet with a soft thud. The realization didn't come as a wave; it came as a physical blow to the stomach. She wasn't dead. She was back. She was back to the day of her first wedding anniversary. The day the humiliation truly began.

The door to the bedroom opened without a knock.

Skye stiffened. Her instincts, honed by years of walking on eggshells, screamed at her to lay back down, to be small, to be invisible.

A maid bustled in, carrying a garment bag. It was Mary, a woman who had been fired two years into Skye's marriage for stealing jewelry, but right now, she looked smug and employed.

You're awake, Mary said, not bothering to hide the disdain in her voice. She walked over to the bed and threw the garment bag down. "Mr. Kensington called. He said you are to be ready by seven. He sent this."

Skye stared at the bag. She remembered this day. She remembered the contents of that bag.

He said, Mary continued, checking her nails, "that he wants you to look modest. No flash. He doesn't want you drawing attention away from the charity work."

Skye slowly swung her legs over the edge of the bed. As her feet touched the cold, hard wood floor, her knees buckled beneath her. A wave of phantom weakness washed over her—a terrifying, visceral memory of the atrophy that had claimed her muscles in the final months of her previous life. She gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, waiting for the trembling to pass. Her brain expected frailty; it expected pain. Slowly, she tested her weight again. The strength was there, hidden beneath the shock. It was solid. It was real.

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