Chapter 3

While waiting at the airport, I opened the exclusive social platform of the Silvermoon Clan Alliance and swiped through Amy’s homepage.

Her latest post was a group photo. She was nestled in Alpha Roger’s arms, with the neon lights of the clan alliance celebration glowing in the background. The caption read: “A short getaway.”

In the photo, the fake charm bracelet on Amy’s wrist hung crookedly. The gems shimmered with a cheap white light under the flash — a counterfeit of the spiritual rune brooch my mother had left behind.

I stared at their tightly clasped hands, memories of the bond ceremony from two years ago flooding my mind.

Back then, Alpha Roger had knelt on one knee, sliding a ring engraved with our names onto my wrist, vowing to bind our fates for life.

But now, it was clear he never truly cared about me. What he coveted was that so-called “fortune-bringing destiny” — a spiritual protection inherited through the family bloodline, embodied in my mother’s brooch.

My phone vibrated, pushing a news alert: Several guests at a recent Silvermoon Clan high-level banquet had exhibited spiritual allergy symptoms.

I raised an eyebrow and smiled faintly before closing the app. The backlash from the fake brooch was happening faster and fiercer than I had anticipated.

The plane landed in the new city. A black Wolfhound sedan waited quietly on the tarmac, its doors embossed with the Silvermoon Clan Alliance emblem — a silver crescent moon intertwined with a wolf’s claw, a symbol of authority.

The driver wore white wolfskin gloves, moving with precision and formality.

“Selina, the alliance headquarters’ security level is Class A. Your dormitory is arranged in the core territory, adjacent to the Alpha Council Hall,” the driver said calmly. “Orientation begins at 9 a.m. tomorrow, requiring spiritual identity verification.”

Outside the window, the streets were laid out as if mapped by wolf bloodline runes. Guards clad in silver-blue uniforms carried silver curved daggers and spiritual sensors that emitted faint glows.

This kind of protection, something I had never experienced in my past life, brought a rare sense of reassurance to my heart.

The onboarding process was surprisingly straightforward. The warrior who handed me my ID card emphasized, “Your clearance grants you access to the Level 3 restricted laboratory and the ancient clan archives. Even some Betas rarely receive such privileges.”

I held the card, its cold metal conveying weighty responsibility and high expectations.

My dorm was a single suite, with ancient trees and spiritual springs surrounding the headquarters visible from the window.

I fell into a deep sleep that first night — until a shrill ring jolted me awake at three a.m.

“Selina! Come to the pack hospital immediately!” Alpha Roger’s voice was laced with anger and panic on the phone, with Amy’s sobs in the background. “We had a car accident. It’s urgent!”

Rubbing my sleepy eyes, my fingers chilled as I replied, “I’m already in the southern territory, having just started at the Silvermoon Clan Alliance.”

Silence lingered for two seconds, then his furious shout exploded, “Don’t lie to me! We met just yesterday — where did you get a job? Selina, don’t lose your temper! Amy needed five stitches. You have to come!”

“I’m not angry,” I said, staring at the moonlight spilling through the window crack. “What you should care about is her, not me.”

“What do you mean?” His tone grew frantic.

“Breaking the bond.” I touched the silver ring on my bedside table — the one I had deliberately taken out when packing last night.

“Two years ago, the bond you begged for, I broke it myself.”

I, Selina, reject you, Roger, as my mate.

Before he could retort, I hung up and shoved the ring into the deepest drawer.

In my past life, wearing that ring on my dying day, I watched him protect Amy, saying, “She needs me more than you do.”

My phone rang three times; I simply powered it off. When I opened my eyes again, dawn had already broken.

Three weeks into the job, I gained the favor of my Beta supervisor and was assigned to an important ancient manuscript restoration project.

On Friday evening, heading to the cafeteria, my phone pinged a notification: Amy posted half an hour ago — lying sideways on her bed, forehead bandaged, pale and haggard. The fake brooch with the broken chain lay beside her pillow.

The caption read: “It hurts, but thank you, Roger, for protecting me. Hope Selina doesn’t overthink things — we’re just friends.”

Comments flooded in. Friend Lily wrote, “Amy, are you okay? Roger is really good to you!”

Alpha Roger replied, “Taking care of her is my duty. Rest well.”

Carrying my tray by the window, I watched the post get liked and pinned by him. My stomach churned.

In my past life, when I was hospitalized, his phone calls always claimed “busy with work.” Now, he played the role on social media, subtly implying I was an unreasonable former Luna.

My phone buzzed. It was Alpha Roger calling.

I swiped open the call. He sounded impatient, “You saw Amy’s post, right? She spoke up for you. Why are you still awkward? Hurry back and apologize to her — it’s time to move on.”

“Apologize?” I stifled a laugh. “You know exactly who should apologize.”

“Selina!” His voice rose. “Are you really going to be this stubborn? Amy gave you a way out with her post. Don’t be shameless!”

I hung up and blocked his number.

The steak on my tray hadn’t cooled yet. As I stabbed my fork in, I remembered how in my past life Amy always did this — stealing everything from me while playing innocent, and Alpha Roger always believed her.

After dinner, the lab stayed lit late into the night. I stared at the screen, fingertips brushing the cold desktop.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Maybe he changed numbers. I ignored it.

Back in my dorm, I deleted the social apps. Moonlight spilled over the empty bedside table where the silver ring once lay — now only the clean wood grain remained.

Some people, some things, should be erased from life completely — just like uninstalling an app.