The Pregnant Luna He Chose To Ignore

I carried our child for eight months, yet to my husband, Alpha Damien, I was invisible.

When I placed the divorce agreement on his desk, he didn't even look up. He was too busy discussing nursery colors with Victoria, the woman who had taken my place in everything but title.

That night, agony ripped through me. I went into premature labor right in the hallway.

I grabbed Damien’s arm, begging him to save our child.

But he shook me off.

He turned his back on his bleeding wife to comfort Victoria, who was faking a panic attack about paint swatches.

"Get the best doctors for Victoria!" he bellowed, leaving me to be wheeled into a cold storage room by a terrified intern.

While he held her hand, I lay alone in the dark, my body failing.

I didn't just lose the baby that night. I found out why I had been so weak.

My blood was full of silver nitrate. Victoria had been poisoning me for months, and Damien had been too blind to notice.

I signed the divorce papers on my deathbed and vanished into the storm.

Three years later, I returned. Not as a rejected Luna, but as the owner of the empire that was buying him out.

Damien stood before me at the Alpha Summit, gaunt and broken, holding the deed to his entire territory.

"I signed it all over to you," he whispered, falling to his knees. "Please, Elena. I know the truth now. I’ll be your guard dog. Just let me make it right."

I looked down at the man who had let our child die.

"You can't buy me back, Damien," I said, stepping over him. "I'm not for sale anymore."

Chapter 1

Elena POV

My hand trembled-not from the weight of the paper, but from the sheer, crushing finality of what I was about to do.

I pushed the divorce agreement across the polished mahogany of Damien's desk. It made a dry, scraping sound, like a dead leaf skittering across cold pavement.

Eight months.

I had been carrying our child for eight months, my body swollen and aching, my ankles threatening to give out under the strain. Yet, standing here in the center of his office, I felt less significant than the dust motes dancing in the light.

"Just sign it, Damien," I whispered.

My voice didn't sound like my own. It lacked the pathetic, pleading tremor I had perfected over the last year. It was hollow. Empty.

Damien didn't look up. He was buried in a mountain of pack documents, his brow furrowed in that focused way that used to make my stomach flutter. Now, that same expression just made me feel cold.

He scribbled his signature on a budget report, flipping the page with a sharp snap of his wrist.

"Leave it there, Elena. I'm busy," he said, his voice flat.

He didn't ask what it was. He didn't notice the way I was gripping the edge of the desk just