Torn Bond: The Alpha's Late Regret

Clarabelle POV:

The moment I returned to my room, I didn’t turn on the lights.

Compared to Gasper’s master suite, which was saturated with his commanding Alpha aura and decorated in dark, opulent luxury, my room felt like a suite in a five-star hotel—tasteful, immaculate, but hollow and devoid of any warmth that made a home.

In the pale moonlight streaming through the window, I dragged my ruined left leg across the floor to my desk and opened my laptop. The cold glow of the screen illuminated my bloodless face. The tears had dried, leaving behind a stillness as sharp and brittle as winter frost.

I clicked on the flagged email I had opened hundreds of times over the past months. The sender was the Lycaeum of Neutral Knowledge—an ancient, sovereign academy nestled in the neutral borderlands, entirely beyond the jurisdiction of any werewolf pack or Alpha.

"Dear Ms. Rhodes: We are pleased to inform you of your conditional acceptance into our Master's Program in Ancient Runes and Advanced Herbalism..."

The gilded digital font shimmered softly before my eyes.

Looking at it, a phantom image of my former self flickered in the glass—the fearless girl from five years ago who had been favored to become an elite pack warrior.

I admitted it to myself: back during our academy days, long before the tragedy, I had harbored a silent, secret crush on him. He was the golden heir, the aloof prodigy at the top of every combat and tactical ranking, revered by instructors and peers alike. I was just a quiet recruit specializing in herbalism and runes—fields often dismissed by arrogant young wolves as secondary, almost trivial compared to raw brute force. Though I was pretty enough, pretty she-wolves were a dime a dozen. In a pack where battlefield dominance was everything, my quiet talents went largely unnoticed, and some even looked down on them.

It had been a solitary, one-sided infatuation, safely buried in the dark, and I had never dreamed of the day I might actually stand beside him as an equal.

Then came that bloody night. A single rogue crossbow, meant for Gasper, drove a liquid-silver bolt through my left knee and ripped away every shred of my warrior future.

For five years, Gasper married me to repay a blood debt. He showered me with unlimited wealth, luxurious privileges, and hollow status, yet withheld even a single drop of genuine warmth or affection. He gave me everything a Luna could want, except the one thing I had once naively prayed for: his heart.

At the very bottom of the letter, a highlighted reminder stared back at me: "To secure your placement, a non-refundable enrollment deposit of $5,000 is required within 48 hours."

The black card linked to Gasper’s account held enough fortune to buy an entire estate, but I refused to spend a single cent of his money to buy my freedom.

Instead, I logged into a private offshore account registered under my maiden name. This five thousand dollars wasn't Gasper’s. It was money I had quietly earned over five years, locking myself in the archives, translating dusty herbal grimoires, and anonymously selling specialized healing salves on the neutral black market.

Without hesitation, I entered the amount and clicked Confirm Transfer.

When the screen flashed with a green notification—[Transaction Successful]—a long, shuddering breath escaped my chest.

The countdown to ending this suffocating, five-year sham of a marriage had finally begun. I was no longer the discarded Luna waiting in the shadows for scraps of attention. I was Clarabelle Rhodes.

I picked up my phone, intending only to silence my usual dawn training alarm, when a notification from the pack network's social feed popped up on my lock screen.

The algorithm was as cruel as a poisoned blade.

The account handle read: Becky_B.

The timestamp showed it was posted last night—mere hours before Gasper had locked himself in his suite and broken down.

The video began with booming bass and rowdy cheers, followed by the familiar voices of several young pack warriors shouting over their glasses: "One, two, three—to Becky! Welcome home!"

The camera panned across the VIP lounge, centering on a tall, striking figure.

Gasper.

The man who was perpetually stoic, whose emotions remained as cold as stone, and whose very touch felt like sub-zero ice whenever he was near me, was leaning back with a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. His face was flushed with a rare, intoxicating buzz. His lips curled into a broad, radiant smile as he toasted the camera with a heat I had never once witnessed in five years: "Welcome home, Becky."

He had broken his strict rule against drinking.

He could laugh like that. He could look at someone with such vibrant, untamed adoration.

He wasn't incapable of love; he simply refused to waste a single ounce of it on me. And just hours after that toast, when primal Heat took hold of him in the dark, the name torn from his throat had belonged to her all along.

I stared at the screen until my eyes burned with unshed tears, then closed the app and snapped the laptop shut.

I didn't sleep that night.

At daybreak, the sound of muffled movement came from down the hall. Through the door, I heard Gasper’s deep, clipped voice instructing the head housekeeper: "I have meetings with pack elders tonight. Tell the Luna not to wait up for dinner."

Every morning for the past five years, I had forced myself up through the throbbing ache in my leg to lay out his pressed shirts, tailored suits, and cufflinks.

Today, I pulled the duvet over my shoulders and remained facing the wall, unmoving.

His footsteps paused outside my door for a beat—likely noting the empty valet stand in his dressing room—before he turned on his heel and walked away.

At eight o'clock, a soft knock sounded at my door.

"Luna, are you awake?" Martha stepped inside carrying a glass of warm oat milk, her face lined with worry. "About last night... are you alright? The Alpha seemed in a foul mood this morning."

"I'm fine, Martha. Thank you." I sat up and took the glass, keeping my expression entirely neutral.

"What should the kitchen prepare for dinner tonight?" she asked hesitantly.

"Whatever the Alpha prefers—"

The habitual response, drilled into me over five long years, caught in my throat like a shard of glass. I cut myself off and let out a faint, dry breath.

"Prepare whatever you like," I said calmly. "Don't bother taking my preferences into account, and don't wait for him either."

Martha blinked, looking unsettled by my sudden detachment.

"Also," I added, taking a slow sip of the milk, "I will be going out this evening."

"Going out?" Martha’s gaze dropped instantly to my scarred left leg, panic flaring in her eyes. "Alone? But the Alpha commanded that you never leave the estate without an escort..."

"There is no need to disturb him," I replied smoothly, a faint, polite smile touching my lips. "I'm simply meeting an old friend. Don't distract him from his duties."

Tonight at eight o'clock, in private suite 7 of the Blackwood Grill, an examiner from the Lycaeum was waiting to conduct my final evaluation in ancient runes and potion brewing.

It was the final gate I needed to pass before walking out of this gilded cage for good.