Replaced By A Fake: The True Luna's Revenge

The sound of my bone snapping echoed through the bathroom like a gunshot.

Austen didn't even blink as he broke my hand for the ninety-sixth time.

His reason? I was in the shower and missed a call from Joyce, the woman he believes saved his life fifteen years ago.

But the nightmare didn't end there. When Joyce cut her own arm with glass and framed me for poisoning her, Austen didn't check the evidence.

He dragged me to the damp basement and picked up a mechanical drill coated in pure silver.

"This hand threw the vase," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

He drilled a hole straight through my palm.

He gave Joyce the precious healing serum for a tiny scratch, while leaving me with permanent nerve damage, claiming my pain was the only way to pay his life debt to her.

He calls this justice. He calls me the villain.

But he is a blind, arrogant fool.

He doesn't know that fifteen years ago, it was me who crawled into that burning car. It was my White Wolf blood that healed him. Joyce just stole the credit when I passed out.

Looking at the smoking hole in my hand, the last ember of love finally died.

I opened my secure server and messaged his sworn enemy, Alpha Dalton.

"I have the fortress blueprints. The price is extraction."

Tonight, his submissive wife dies, and the Architect goes rogue.

Chapter 1

Alana POV:

The sound of bone surrendering to force was louder than I expected. It cracked through the silence of the master bathroom like a gunshot—a wet, sickening snap.

I fell to my knees, clutching my left hand. The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike driving straight into my nervous system. It wasn't just physical; it was the crushing weight of his Alpha aura, a gravitational force designed to make every instinct in my body scream submit.

"You didn't answer her call, Alana," Austen said.

His voice was flat, clinical. He stood over me, adjusting his cufflinks, looking at me not as his wife, but as an inconvenience on his schedule.

"I... I was in the shower," I gasped, sweat stinging my eyes as my body tried to knit the shattered metacarpals back together. But I was weak. My healing was sluggish, suppressed by years of stress.

"Joyce needed her medication. Because you were 'in the shower,' she had a panic attack. She could have died."

He stepped over me and walked out. He didn't look back.

I curled into a ball on the cold floor. My phone buzzed. Joyce.

It was a selfie. She was holding a glass of champagne, and on her finger sat a ring made of moonstone—a relic supposed to amplify healing. The Blood Moon Pack heirloom. My birthright.

Look at how it glows, Alana, the text read. My skin feels so soft. Does your hand hurt? Don't worry, Austen is coming to comfort me now.

A sob caught in my throat. I wanted to scream,