Chapter 2

Jocelyn's POV

Without hearing the voice, I knew it was Sylvie.

Ever since my mother-in-law passed, Alistair had heavily favored this "pitiful" orphan.

"Don't cry," Alistair coaxed softly—a tone I hadn't heard in five years. "I promise, when Jocelyn drops this tantrum and comes crawling back, I'll make her apologize to you in front of everyone."

He paused, a flicker of cruelty in his eyes.

"She will swallow every rumor she spread about you seducing me. Even if I have to snap her wrists, I won't let her bully you again."

My soul viciously recoiled.

He had no idea. The fragile, innocent Sylvie was the one who walked out of his bathroom wearing his shirt right in front of me, only to turn around and cry foul to him.

This was my husband.

For a woman full of lies, he allowed my five years of devotion to be trampled into the mud, and now he was threatening to break my hands.

"The boutique opens Thursday night? Alright, I'll be there," Alistair curled his lips into a smile. "You prepared a surprise for me? I'll be waiting."

Don't go!

I screamed at him desperately, reaching out to grab his shoulder, but my hand phased right through him.

As a wandering ghost, I could touch nothing.

Hanging up, the gentle mask vanished, and Alistair returned to his cold, commanding Alpha persona.

Eamon glared at him from a few steps away. "Alistair! Jocelyn still hasn't contacted anyone! She isn't answering texts and hasn't shown up at her shop once! This isn't just a tantrum!"

Alistair sneered, his eyes filled with contempt.

"If you're so obsessed with her, you can have her when she's done acting. I've had enough of that filthy woman anyway."

Eamon went rigid, his fists clenched so tight his veins bulged. But gritting his teeth, he swallowed his rage.

Two hours later, over at the pack's medical center morgue.

Alistair, wearing medical gloves, stood before the stainless-steel autopsy table. I hovered right beside him. His brows were deeply knitted—a severe look he reserved only for the direst pack crises.

His gaze moved upward inch by inch. Past the charred wrists, past the rotting collarbones, finally stopping at the side of my neck.

Just one inch higher, behind my left ear, were four tattooed letters: Alis.

He tattooed it himself during our first year of marriage, smiling as he kissed my ear, calling it his exclusive mark.

Right then, Darius pushed the door open, handing him a ringing phone.

"Alpha, it's Jessa from Luna's tattoo parlor."

Alistair's frown deepened into a knot, but he pressed speakerphone.

"Alpha! Luna... Jocelyn hasn't been to the shop for days! The grand reopening is in three days. She would never disappear like this. Something must have happened!" Jessa's panicked sobs echoed through the room.

But my husband of five years only let out a dismissive sneer.

"Is this her new trick?" His voice was bone-chilling. "Tell that dramatic lunatic to know when to quit."

"Alpha, she wouldn't—"

"She values that garbage shop more than her life. Come opening day, she'll roll right back out. Stop bothering me with this trash."

He hung up mercilessly.

Just hearing my name made him so irritated he couldn't stand being in the room another second. He ripped off his gloves, tossed them in the bin, and stormed toward the door without giving the corpse another look.

He never looked that one inch higher. He never saw the mark.

Out in the cold corridor, heavy with the stench of bleach, a young, low-ranking Omega stumbled up to Alistair and fell to his knees.

"Alpha, please help me! My wife is missing! It's been 24 hours, her phone is off, and I've looked everywhere!"

The man pounded the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

Alistair instantly shifted into the composed, protective leader. He bent down and gripped the man's shoulders firmly.

I drifted mid-air, stunned.

Watching this ironic scene, my non-existent soul felt as if it were being carved open with a silver knife, bringing me close to fading entirely.

Another man's wife goes missing for 24 hours, and the husband is frantic, earning the Alpha's full support.

I had been missing for seven days.

And my beloved husband solely dragged my name through the mud, insisting I was playing games.

I finally understood.

What truly shattered me wasn't the silver chains or the physical agony in that dark cabin.

It was Alistair's extinguished love, his biting indifference, and his blind prejudice.