Rejecting the Alpha’s False Bond

On the day of our tenth anniversary as mates, I hid in Armando’s studio, planning a surprise. To my dismay, a young Delta from our pack, Araceli Griffin, had joined him as his model. Watching her gradually undress, I saw a spark in his eyes that I hadn’t seen in years. "Exquisite, truly breathtaking," he exclaimed, his voice carrying the weight of an Alpha’s authority. "In ten years, I haven’t seen such beauty." He couldn’t resist striding over to kiss her. I clenched my fists until my nails pressed painfully into my palms, staying silent. After a decade of trailing behind him, I suddenly felt an overwhelming exhaustion, as if the weight of the Silver Moon Pack’s expectations was crushing me.

Opening the safe, I found a portrait of myself, elegantly framed. Armando had painted it the year I became Luna. For ten years, I cherished it, admiring it daily, fearing someone might steal it, so I kept it locked away. But now, I no longer wanted it. I ripped apart the frame and tore the canvas, tears falling uncontrollably down my cheeks. I stuffed the pieces into the trash and headed downstairs just as Armando returned, holding a spiced honey cake.

"A student needed my advice on a painting, so I’m back a little later," he explained, just as he always did. "Hope you haven’t been waiting too long." In the past, I would have believed him without hesitation and helped him with his coat. But now, I remained motionless, sitting on the couch with a book, and responded flatly, "Hmm."

"What’s wrong?" He placed the cake on the coffee table, his Alpha tone already edged with irritation.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Then why aren’t you helping me with my coat?"

I looked up at him. His features were sharp, his broad shoulders and muscular frame commanding respect. His gold-framed glasses perched on his prominent nose, giving him a refined and dignified appearance. He was the Alpha of the Silver Moon Pack, a respected artist, and the man I’d been bound to for ten years—my mate. I thought I might confront him when he got home, perhaps have a heated argument. But now, I felt too worn out to say anything.

Today marked our tenth anniversary as mates. An hour ago, I had worn a Victorian-style dress and had my hair styled at the salon. Armando loved painting, loved the arts, and as his Luna visiting his studio for the first time, I didn’t want to embarrass him. After getting my hair done, I took a watch to Armando’s studio, intending to surprise him. I found his workspace and waited inside. There were many paintings of all sorts. I couldn’t understand art, but as long as it was painted by Armando, I found it beautiful.

I walked to the lectern, where a messy stack of sketches lay. They depicted various female bodies, none with faces. On one of the sketches, a line read: "Why, why can’t I find perfection?" I