Chapter 8
Violet's POV:
I threw open the door to Dr. Evan Thorne’s office, expecting to find the golden-haired Beta behind his desk.
The room was empty.
The air smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and missed opportunities. I stood frozen in the doorway, my chest heaving. Beside me, Celeste looked around with wide, confused eyes.
"Luna?" she asked, rubbing the wrist I had grabbed a little too tightly. "Is everything okay?"
I stared at the vacant leather chair and cursed silently.
In my previous life, Daemon met Celeste first. Evan was dragged into the tragedy later, forced to watch his best friend destroy the world for her. My plan had been simple: force a meeting now. If Evan fell for Celeste’s "fated" charm before Daemon did, maybe—just maybe—the timeline would shift.
But fate wasn't making it easy.
I forced a smile, masking the frantic calculation in my mind. "I apologize, Celeste. I thought Dr. Thorne was in. I wanted to ask him to personally oversee Zane’s recovery. He’s the best specialist in the pack."
Celeste’s tension melted instantly. She beamed at me, a look of pure gratitude. "Oh! That is so kind of you, Violet. Really, you’ve already done so much with the VIP room. Zane is strong; he’ll be fine."
"It’s no trouble," I lied smoothly, backing out of the room.
I walked away with a heavy heart. I had missed the shot. But I wouldn't stop trying. I had to change the script before the curtain rose on our destruction.
Back at the Blackwood estate, I bypassed the main house and went straight to the backyard training grounds.
The afternoon sun beat down on the rubber mats, but I barely felt the heat. I wrapped my hands in tape and approached the heavy bag.
Thud.
My shin connected with the leather, sending a shockwave through my bone.
In my past life, I had been fragile. I was the sheltered Luna who averted her eyes from violence, the woman who believed love was enough to sustain a marriage. I had let my body wither away in grief and illness.
Thud.
Not this time.
I unleashed a flurry of strikes, sweat stinging my eyes. Every punch was a promise. I wasn't training to impress Daemon. I was building a vessel capable of surviving him. When the inevitable war came, I wouldn't be a casualty.
"Luna?"
I caught the swinging bag, breathing hard. Leo stood near the patio doors holding a stack of files.
"The agency sent over the profiles for the new household staff," Leo said, looking wary of my aggression.
I grabbed the folder, flipping it open while I downed water from my bottle. My eyes landed on the first resume.
Ruby Morrison.
The photo showed a warm, middle-aged woman with kind eyes. Celeste’s mother.
A dry, bitter laugh escaped my lips. The universe really had a twisted sense of humor.
"Is something wrong?" Leo asked nervously.
"No," I said, snapping the folder shut. "She’s perfect. Hire her immediately. Tell her to start dinner tonight."
An hour later, fresh from the shower, I felt electric. The intense workout had burned off the day’s frustration, replacing it with a buzzing high of endorphins.
"System," I commanded. "Play 'Independent'. Max volume."
A heavy, rhythmic bassline exploded from the hidden speakers, shaking the floorboards. The lyrics were aggressive, celebrating freedom and self-reliance. I swayed my hips to the beat, letting the empowering music amplify the thrill of my rebellion.
Suddenly, the music cut out.
I spun around. Daemon stood at the entrance, his hand on the wall panel. His suit jacket was gone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the ink on his forearms. His crimson eyes were narrow slits of annoyance.
"Is this a pack house or a frat house?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "I could hear that from the driveway."
I tossed my towel onto the pristine white sofa. "It’s my house too, Daemon."
"You are testing my patience, Violet," he warned, stepping into the room. His scent filled the space instantly. "First that display at the beach, then the stunt at the club, and now this? You’re acting like a child."
"If my existence is so loud," I said coldly, crossing my arms, "then reject me. Perform the ceremony. Remove the Mark. Then I can blast the roof off my own house without disturbing you."
Daemon’s jaw clenched. He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping inches from me. The mention of the Rejection Ceremony always triggered his possessive streak.
"Why are you so obsessed with removing the Mark?" he hissed, leaning down. "Is there someone else?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Is there a new male?" Daemon demanded, his eyes searching mine with suspicion. "Is that why you’re desperate to scrub my scent off? Are you trying to clear the way for a lover? Did you have someone waiting at that club?"
The audacity made me see red. He—the man with a mistress on a private island, the man destined to destroy everything for a college student—was accusing me?
"You think this is about another man?" I laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. "You think I want romance?"
"Then explain it," he challenged. "Unless you’re hiding something."
"You want to know why?"
I stepped back. I raised both hands to my head, splaying my fingers wide and curbing them upward like giant antlers.
"Do you see these, Daemon?" I asked, my voice dripping with venom.
He stared at me, genuinely confused. "What are you doing?"
I groaned, miming a heavy weight pressing down on my neck. I stumbled dramatically toward the dining room, pretending the invisible load was too much to bear.
"The horns you’ve put on my head are so big, Daemon, they’re about to punch through the ceiling," I smirked. "I can barely walk through a doorway. You have humiliated me for five years. The entire pack knows about your women. And you dare question my loyalty?"
"Violet—"
"I don't want another man," I cut him off. "I just want the heavy, shameful weight of you off my soul."
For a split second, shock flashed across his face. The crude gesture had landed.
"Dinner is served."
We both snapped our heads toward the kitchen. Ruby Morrison stood there, holding a platter, her face pale. She had heard everything.
Daemon’s mask slammed back into place. He straightened his cuffs, his expression turning to ice.
"I’ve lost my appetite," he muttered.
He turned on his heel and stormed out. The front door slammed shut a moment later, shaking the windows.
I ate alone.
Ruby hovered nearby, refilling my water. As she poured, I noticed the intricate embroidery on the cuffs of her blouse.
"That stitching is exquisite, Ruby," I said, gesturing with my fork. "Where did you buy that top?"
Ruby flushed, smoothing the fabric self-consciously. "Oh, I didn't buy it, Luna. I made it myself. Just something to pass the time."
"You made this?" I raised an eyebrow. "You have real talent. You should be running your own fashion label, not working as a housekeeper."
Ruby chuckled, a modest, weary sound, and shook her head. "You flatter me, Luna. But a business like that takes capital. A family like mine could never afford to start a company."
I watched her humble expression, a sharp pang of irony striking my chest. In my past life, that dream had come true. Daemon had poured millions into a high-end clothing brand for the Morrison family, sparing no expense just to see Celeste smile.
I took another sip of water, hiding a cynical, knowing smile behind the glass.
"Don't give up yet," I said lightly. "Who knows? Maybe a wealthy benefactor will show up one day and make that investment for you."
After dinner, I curled up on the sofa and idly unlocked my phone, planning to scroll through the evening headlines to disconnect.
The moment I opened the news app, the top trending topic glared back at me: Daemon Blackwood.
A photo posted ten minutes ago showed him at The Midnight Howl. He looked dark and dangerous, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle, surrounded by eager women.
I scrolled to the comments.
User123: "I don't know how she stands it. If my mate was out like that, I’d burn the club down."
PackWatcher: "She must really love the title more than her dignity. It’s embarrassing to watch her just take it."
BetaBabe: "Imagine letting your husband disrespect you like this publicly and doing nothing. What a doormat."
I let out a hollow laugh.
He warned me not to make a scene. He warned me about reputation. What did he do?
I tossed the phone aside, exhausted. I needed sleep.
Buzz. Buzz.
My phone vibrated violently against the leather.
It was Lily Price.
I answered, frowning. "Lily? It’s late, what’s—"
"Violet!" Lily’s voice shrieked through the speaker, breathless with panic. "Violet, you need to come. Now."
