Chapter 4: Let's get a divorce.
Alyia's POV
I hesitated, confused. "I'm sorry, who is this?"
"Looks like you've forgotten me—that's genuinely heartbreaking." A soft laugh. "It's Killian. Killian Valkari."
The name stopped me cold.
Valkari Group. The pharmaceutical powerhouse that had exploded onto the medical scene in recent years.
"We've met before," he continued in that unhurried way of his. "Two years ago at the National Biological Gene Competition. You won first place. When you left the stage, you were so nervous you nearly knocked over the podium."
Memory came flooding back.
Killian Valkari.
That competition had gathered America's brightest scientific minds, and Killian had been its undisputed star—a man with rare, distinguished bloodlines and genius that had every elite research institution fighting to recruit him. Now he commanded his own independent pharmaceutical empire.
"Killian?" I straightened instinctively, gripping my phone tighter. "I'm so sorry—my head's been scattered today. I didn't recognize your voice right away. How did you get my number? Is everything alright?"
"I've been trying to reach you for quite some time, Alyia."
His tone shifted, shedding its earlier warmth for focused directness. "I'm currently researching high-rank werewolf serum antibodies and transformation control mechanisms—it's our flagship project. But we've encountered a critical complication during trials."
I frowned slightly.
"That's classified research. Why are you telling me this?"
Killian's smile was audible through the phone.
"Because when the experiment failed, I went back through years of academic literature. I reread your award-winning thesis. Your theoretical framework and derivation formulas align perfectly with my current research direction."
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice carried undisguised admiration.
"I know you're Vice President at Sterling Group right now. But Alyia—corporate politics and tedious PR crises are wasting your brilliance. You belong in a laboratory, not at business dinners. Come work for me. Every bit of recognition and respect you deserve, I can provide."
I didn't answer immediately.
Before today, I would have refused without hesitation. Leaving Sterling had never been part of my plan.
Because Daniel was there.
But now...
I watched the taillights of his car disappear into the distance and felt something fundamental shift inside me.
For two years, I'd fought desperately to stand beside Daniel, struggled to become the person he needed.
But I'd forgotten something crucial.
Alyia Carter shouldn't exist only as Daniel Sterling's Luna.
She could simply be herself.
"When would you need me?"
Silence on the other end, as if he hadn't expected me to agree.
"You're willing?"
I smiled faintly. "I just need time to transition my responsibilities. One month—would that work?"
Killian didn't hesitate. "Absolutely. I'll wait."
After hanging up, I exhaled deeply, a long breath I felt I'd been holding for years.
For the first time in two years, breathing felt effortless.
I wiped away the moisture that had somehow gathered at the corners of my eyes and strode forward, walking in the opposite direction Daniel's car had gone.
Ten p.m. I returned to the house. The entryway was pitch black.
For two years, no matter how late I came home, this lifeless darkness greeted me—because the man who truly owned this place almost never spent the night here.
I smiled bitterly at my own foolishness. My phone screen suddenly lit up in my hand.
An Instagram notification.
Della posted an update.
My finger froze over the screen.
The photo showed a large bed with rumpled gray sheets. Daniel sat on the edge wearing a white dress shirt, exhaustion written across his features. His expression was stern, controlled—but those green eyes that usually blazed with predatory intensity now brimmed with worry and tenderness so profound it seemed to overflow. In his hand, he clutched a hospital report, gripping it as if it were something precious and fragile.
In the lower right corner of the frame, barely visible: a woman's pale, delicate ankle against the sheets.
The caption read simply:
【Having you here means everything.】
I stared at that photograph until my vision blurred, my finger trembling against the screen.
What a perfect picture they made.
The fragile white moonlight and her powerful Alpha, keeping vigil through the night, sheltering her from every storm.
Over these two years, I'd collapsed from stomach cramps countless times after months of surviving on four hours of sleep. I'd sat alone in empty hospital corridors at three in the morning, watching IV drips fall one agonizing drop at a time until dawn broke over the city.
When the pain became unbearable and I foolishly dialed his private number in desperate hope, I was always met with the same cold, mechanical voicemail.
I'd convinced myself he was simply incapable of warmth, that the Alpha King's emotional vocabulary contained no entry for tenderness or companionship.
Until this moment, when reality delivered a vicious slap across my face.
His gentleness existed. His careful attention, his willingness to sacrifice sleep for someone he loved—all of it was real, vivid, devastatingly present.
It just belonged entirely to another woman.
And that woman would never, could never be me—the burden the Moon Goddess had forced upon him through divine decree.
I stared at his focused profile in that photograph, studied the way he looked at her with everything I'd spent two years hoping to see directed at me. And slowly, the place in my chest that should have been tearing apart with agony went numb instead, as if my body had finally accepted what my mind had been denying.
I closed the app and laughed quietly, the sound hollow and broken.
Alyia, you pathetic fool. What you called devotion was nothing but a humiliating one-woman show, and you were the only one who didn't know it.
I shut my eyes and counted silently in the darkness:
Ninety-seventh time.
Soon, I won't love you anymore, Daniel. Soon this will finally be over.
Past midnight, I heard the lock click. I looked up from where I sat in the dark living room.
Daniel walked in, and he looked utterly exhausted—his black suit wrinkled, weariness carved into every line of his face. When he saw me still sitting there, he stopped short, genuine surprise flickering across his features.
"Alyia? Why are you still awake?"
Before today, hearing that question would have sent me scrambling to my feet, asking if he was tired, fetching water, bringing fresh clothes, doing anything to ease the burden he carried.
But now?
I simply looked at him, my expression neutral.
"Mm." Daniel's frown deepened, but he didn't press the issue. He moved closer, intending to set down his coat.
The moment he approached the sofa—the instant he came within a few feet of me—a complex, overwhelming scent hit me like a physical blow.
His usual crisp, woody fragrance, yes, the one I'd memorized years ago. But underneath it, sickeningly sweet and unmistakably strong, was another scent entirely.
Della's scent.
It clung to him like a brand, like ownership made manifest, announcing exactly where this man had spent his evening and whose arms had held him. The scent of her was woven into his clothes, his skin, impossible to miss for anyone with werewolf senses.
More than that—worse than that—his white dress shirt collar bore a faint reddish mark at the edge.
Subtle enough that a human might miss it. But I knew exactly what it was.
Della's favorite lipstick shade, the one she wore in every Instagram photo, now transferred onto my husband's skin.
Once, seeing such damning evidence, I would have lied to myself with desperate creativity. Maybe it was accidental contact. Maybe there's an innocent explanation. Maybe I'm reading too much into this.
But I was done lying to myself.
I was so tired of lying.
I released the breath I'd been holding and looked up at him, meeting those green eyes that had once saved me and now only brought pain.
"Daniel."My voice came out steady, calm, almost detached.
"If we get divorced, will you agree?"
