Tristan, ever the master manipulator, posted a picture of his computer. [Handling pack matters, as usual.] Then came the twisting of the knife: [Ember, you don’t need to throw a tantrum just because I didn’t buy you that dress. And I never brought up the fact that you used my credit card to party with your male friends.]
My mother jumped in immediately, her scolding sharp and public. [You ungrateful child! Tristan has done everything for you. Apologize now. Don’t ruin this. You’ll regret it.]
I didn’t bother replying. Just sighed and exited the chat, tossing my phone aside. What did I expect? They always believed Tristan. He was their Alpha. Their golden boy. And me? I was the girl who never lived up to anyone’s expectations.
I leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling. My mother’s words echoed in my head, her disappointment cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. She hadn’t always been this way. Once, she was kind. Gentle. But after my father’s death, that version of her disappeared.
I’d clung to Tristan because he felt like an escape. A safe place. But I’d been wrong.
His warmth, his kindness—all of it was reserved for Selene. For me, there was only indifference. Cold remarks designed to wound. He was a master at making me lose control, watching as I unraveled in front of others. And every time, he played the hero, offering his forgiveness while painting me as the problem.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, forcing back the tears. Not this time. I wouldn’t let him break me again.
An hour later, Tristan came home. I was scrolling at my phone and he was standing, looking at me, while holding a wilted bouquet of roses.
“Really?” I said flatly, eyeing the flowers disgustedly.
He rolled his eyes. “Still sulking? I got you the damn flowers, Ember. What more do you want?” He shoved them at me, the petals damp and drooping. “You’ve always wanted this, right? Stop acting like a child.”
I took the bouquet, staring at it. Once, I would’ve been thrilled. I used to envy the girls who walked down the street, holding fresh flowers from their mates. I’d told Tristan that once, but he’d laughed it off.
“If I’d known you were this vain,” he said now, his voice sharp, “I wouldn’t have wasted my time. You’re a wolfless Omega, Ember. Be grateful Moon Goddess chose you at all to be my mate.”
I felt something crack inside me. He always knew where to hit, how to twist the knife just right.