He Chose the Fake Luna, So I Destroyed His Pack

Chapter 3

The Alpha’s study was a sanctuary of quiet power, tucked away in the deepest corner of the packhouse’s executive wing. For three years, it had been Freya Vance’s domain. The heavy oak shelves were lined with ancient grimoires she had translated, and the massive mahogany desk was covered in the financial ledgers she had meticulously balanced to pull the Ironcrest Pack out of the crippling debt Julian’s father had left behind.

Now, the glow of her encrypted laptop screen illuminated her stoic face as she typed.

*Transfer complete.*

Another two million dollars smoothly vanished from the pack’s primary operational account, funneling through three untraceable offshore shells before landing in a ghost account only she could access. She didn't take the money for herself. She was simply putting it where Julian Cross could never reach it.

"Freya."

The heavy oak door swung open without a knock. Freya didn’t flinch. She simply minimized the financial routing window and calmly closed the laptop, letting the soft click echo in the quiet room.

Julian stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, looking every bit the pristine, untouchable Alpha he presented to the world. Tucked under his arm, looking small and delicate in a pale pink designer dress, was Maya Linwood.

Freya’s stepsister wore a triumphant little smile, though she quickly arranged her features into a mask of timid hesitation the moment Freya’s cold gaze landed on her.

"Alpha," Freya said, her voice completely devoid of inflection. She remained seated, her hands folded neatly over the closed laptop. "To what do I owe the interruption? I am in the middle of updating the southern border ward schematics."

Julian stepped into the room, his eyes darting around the space as if seeing it for the first time. "You can stop working on the wards for tonight. We need to talk about the living arrangements."

"Living arrangements," Freya repeated flatly.

"Yes," Maya chimed in, her voice breathless and sugar-sweet. She stepped out from under Julian’s arm, running a manicured hand over the spine of a priceless, centuries-old spellbook on the nearest shelf. "With the engagement officially announced, it’s only proper that I move into the Alpha’s suite. Julian insists that I be treated as his true Luna immediately."

Freya watched Maya’s fingers smudge the dust on the ancient leather. "Congratulations on the move. The Alpha’s suite is down the hall. This is my private study."

"Well, that’s the thing," Julian said, clearing his throat. He crossed his arms, puffing out his chest as if preparing for a physical confrontation. "Maya has an extensive wardrobe. The upcoming Luna ceremonies, the diplomatic dinners... she needs more space. The closets in the main suite aren't going to be enough."

Freya stared at him. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, for ten long seconds.

"You want to turn my study into a closet," Freya said. It wasn't a question.

"It’s not just a closet, Freya, it’s a dressing room," Maya corrected gently, though her eyes gleamed with malicious delight. "Julian said you wouldn't mind. You're always so accommodating. Besides, this room gets the best natural morning light, and I really need that for my makeup vanity. All these dusty old books and papers... they just make the room feel so heavy and dark. Don't you agree?"

"This room," Freya said, keeping her voice entirely level, "contains the strategic maps of our territory, the blood-pacts with our allied packs, and the elemental anchors that keep the rogue wolves from slaughtering our patrols."

"And you can manage all of that perfectly well from the guest wing," Julian interrupted, his tone hardening with Alpha command. "Or the lower floors. You don't need to be in the executive wing to do paperwork, Freya. Maya is the future Luna. Her needs come first now. I expect you to have your things cleared out by midnight."

Julian braced himself. He planted his feet, his jaw tight. He was waiting for the explosion. He was waiting for her to scream, to cry, to hurl a heavy glass paperweight at his head. He wanted her to demand answers. He wanted her to ask how he could throw away their secret mating bond for a walk-in closet. He wanted her jealousy, because her jealousy would prove she still worshipped him.

Instead, Freya simply stood up.

She picked up her laptop and slid it into her leather satchel.

"Understood," Freya said calmly.

Julian blinked, his rigid posture faltering. "Understood? That’s it?"

"Would you prefer I require it in writing, Alpha?" Freya asked, pulling open the top drawer of the desk and retrieving her personal journal. She dropped it into the bag.

"Freya," Julian stepped forward, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his handsome face. "Don't play this passive-aggressive game with me. I told you yesterday, this is about politics. Maya needs public protection. You are my secret weapon. The pack’s true power. Moving you to another room doesn't change what you are to me."

"It changes nothing," Freya agreed smoothly. She didn't look at him. She opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the small wooden box containing her mother’s carving tools—the only things that had survived the greenhouse fire Maya had set the night before. "I will move to the lower floors. The servant quarters at the end of the east hall are currently unoccupied, I believe. That should provide adequate distance."

"The servant quarters?" Maya gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "Oh, Freya, Julian didn't mean you had to live with the omegas. You can take one of the smaller guest rooms. We wouldn't want you to feel... degraded."

"The servant quarters are perfectly functional," Freya replied, zipping her satchel shut. "And they are close to the boiler room. It will keep me warm while I work."

Julian’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. His wolf was pacing aggressively beneath his skin, agitated by the sheer, impenetrable wall of ice Freya had suddenly erected. Where was the fire? Where was the fierce, brilliant woman who used to argue pack strategy with him until dawn?

"I don't want you in the servant quarters," Julian snapped. "Take the guest suite on the second floor."

"The guest suite is reserved for visiting dignitaries," Freya countered logically, stepping around the desk. "With your engagement, you will be receiving many envoys. It would be highly inappropriate for a pack member of no official rank to occupy a VIP suite. The servant quarters are the most efficient choice."

She stood in front of him, her posture perfect, her expression a blank, unreadable mask.

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty?" Julian demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Is that what this is? Playing the martyr so I’ll beg you to stay?"

"I am simply following your orders to vacate the executive wing, Alpha Julian," Freya said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the heavy brass master key that granted access to the study, the vault, and the Alpha’s private floors.

She held it out to him.

Julian stared at the key in her palm. The metal caught the dim light of the overhead chandelier. Taking that key meant severing her final tie to his side. He hesitated, a sudden, inexplicable knot of dread tightening in his stomach.

"Take it, Julian," Maya whispered, slipping her arm through his. "I can’t wait to call the decorators in the morning. We can put a beautiful velvet chaise lounge right where that ugly desk is."

Julian’s jaw ticked. He reached out and snatched the key from Freya’s palm. His fingers brushed hers for a fraction of a second, and a sharp, stinging sensation jolted through his wrist.

Freya didn't react. She simply adjusted the strap of her satchel on her shoulder. "I will have the rest of my books boxed and removed by midnight. Enjoy your dressing room, Maya."

Without waiting for a dismissal, Freya walked past them, her footsteps completely silent on the thick Persian rug. She didn't look back as she stepped out into the hallway and disappeared into the shadows.

Julian stood perfectly still in the center of the study. The air in the room suddenly felt incredibly thin, as if Freya had taken all the oxygen with her when she left.

"Finally," Maya sighed, spinning around in a circle. "It smells like old parchment and dried herbs in here. We’ll need to deep clean the carpets. Julian? Are you listening to me?"

Julian didn't answer. He was staring down at his left wrist.

He pulled back the cuff of his charcoal suit jacket, peeling away the crisp white fabric of his dress shirt. There, inked into his skin just over his pulse point, was the intricate crescent moon mark that designated a true mate bond. For three years, it had glowed with a faint, iridescent silver light—a constant, thrumming reminder of the immense magical power he was tied to.

Julian’s breath hitched in his throat.

The silver light was gone.

The mark hadn't vanished, but the metallic luster had completely faded. It was now a flat, dull, lifeless gray. It looked like a scar. It looked dead.

"Julian?" Maya asked, stepping closer, her brow furrowing in confusion. "What are you looking at?"

Quickly, violently, Julian snapped his cuff back down, hiding his wrist. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

"Nothing," Julian said, his voice unusually hoarse. He looked at the empty mahogany desk. "It’s nothing at all."