
My husband's new mistress sent me a photo. In the photo, my husband was sleeping soundly. The black rose tattooed over his heart for me was now being strangled by a menacing snake. She even added a provocative caption: "Donna, Julian is exhausted. Tonight, he's mine." I stared at the snake for three seconds, then I smiled. I calmly screenshotted the photo and the chat log, then sent them both to the family's elite inner circle network. My caption read: "Congratulations to Miss Cassia on securing her new position." After hitting send, I shut off my phone. Two days later, I turned it back on. Hundreds of missed encrypted calls and countless messages flooded in, nearly crashing the device.

At midnight on our bonding ceremony anniversary, a photo came through my mind-link. My fated mate, Ricardo, was sleeping with his Beta in our sacred grove. On his bare chest, next to our sacred mate mark, was the unmistakable trace of another woman’s energy. The photo's caption read: The first true bloom of my life. Thank you, my Alpha. And the reply beneath it stopped my heart: You were my first, too. — The reply was unmistakably his. My world froze. I drew sacred water from the Moon Goddess Spring and scrubbed the tainted mark, scrubbing until my skin broke and bled. I agreed to the inter-pack alliance I had always resisted.

When Ayden Baldwin ignored me, who was stuck in an elevator, freaking out from claustrophobia, just so he could deliver cold medicine to his assistant, I filed for divorce. Ayden signed his name without hesitation and smiled at his friend. "She's just throwing a tantrum. Her parents are gone. I'm all that she's left. She won't leave me. "Besides, isn't there a thirty-day cooling-off period? If she regrets it, I'll be the bigger person and take her back." The next day, he posted a lovey-dovey pic with his assistant, captioned: "Capturing every shy moment of yours." Counting the days, I packed up my belongings and made a phone call. "Uncle, please book me a ticket to Burville."