Chapter 4

• Rosalina's POV
• I step out of the cab and stare at the villa. This was supposed to be our sanctuary, a wedding gift from Old Mr. Harrisford, but now it feels like a hollow monument to a lie. Every stone and shutter mock me. I still wear the silk gown, the hem heavy with the grime of the city, as I push through the front doors.
• ​The housekeeper freezes, her eyes widening as she takes in my disheveled state. "Mrs. Harrisford? You're back so soon?!"
• ​I flinch at the title. "Don't call me that," I say, my voice cold and final.
• I go straight upstairs, my wedding gown heavy and mocking with every step. This house feels like a hollow museum dedicated to a life that was never truly mine.
• ​I haven't lived here long, but as I enter my room, I realize how little of "me" there actually is in this space. I never truly settled in; I was always waiting for Jordan to make me feel welcome, to tell me which drawers were mine or where I should hang my coats. As it turns out, all my belongings fit neatly into a single suitcase. It’s a pathetic realization. Five years of love packed into one piece of luggage.
• ​As I pass Jordan’s study, my feet drag to a halt. The door is slightly ajar. On his desk, his tablet rests, its dark screen reflecting the dim afternoon light.
• ​A memory hits me, sharp and bitter. A few months ago, I had reached for that tablet to look up a recipe. Jordan had snapped at me with a ferocity that left me reeling for days. At the time, I told myself he was just stressed, that he was a private person who valued his space. But today, I saw Minerva. I saw her casually scrolling through his phone as if she owned his digital soul.
• ​The hypocrisy is a physical weight in my chest.
• ​I step into the study. The air smells like him—sandalwood and expensive leather. I tap the screen. A password prompt appears. My heart hammers against my ribs.
• ​I type in his birthday. Incorrect. I take a shaky breath and type in my own birthday. Incorrect. I should feel relieved, but I don't. I feel a growing sense of dread. I recall a detail I once heard about Minerva. She was born in the deep autumn, her name a tribute to the changing season. I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and check her social media. September 23rd.
• ​I type in 0923.
• ​The screen unlocks instantly, the home screen flickering to life.
• ​My stomach turns. The tablet is nearly empty—no social media apps, no work files, no games. It’s a dedicated storage device. I follow a sickening instinct and tap the photo gallery icon.
• ​The warmth drains from my limbs, leaving me cold and hollowed out.
• ​There are 3,344 photos. I scroll, and scroll, and scroll. Every single image features Minerva. There are candid shots of her sleeping in a sunlit chair; pictures of her laughing with a glass of wine in her hand; selfies of the two of them where his face is pressed against hers.
• ​In five years, Jordan always claimed he hated being photographed. He told me it was "distracting" and "unbecoming of an Alpha." Our only photo together is the stiff, formal portrait the pack required for the engagement announcement. We look like strangers standing in the same room.
• ​But here? In these thousands of pictures, his smile is open and radiant. He looks truly alive. He looks like a man who is deeply, desperately in love.
• ​I shut the tablet with a sharp click. The silence of the room feels like it’s screaming at me. I leave the study exactly as I found it, though the world I thought I knew has been leveled to the ground.
• ​Downstairs, I drag my suitcase across the marble foyer. The housekeeper, Lucy, looks up from her dusting, her eyes wide with confusion as she takes in my disheveled bridal gown and my luggage.
• ​"Mrs. Harrisford? You just arrived! Are you heading out on another trip already?"
• ​She knows I’m a lawyer, that I often travel for cases. She’s looking for a logical explanation for why a bride is fleeing her home on her wedding day.
• ​I pause at the door, the weight of the suitcase heavy in my hand. "Yeah," I say, my voice sounding like it belongs to someone else. "A long one."
• ​I walk out, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind me.
• ​Jordan’s POV
• ​I don't return to the villa until the following afternoon. The party for Minerva ran late into the night, and I ended up staying at the hotel to ensure she was settled and comfortable. It was the least I could do after the scene Rosalina caused.
• ​Walking through the front door, I check my phone. Still nothing. A whole day and night have passed, and she hasn't sent a single message. No apology, no explanation, not even a petulant "where are you?"
• ​She’s really getting bold. She thinks that by playing the victim and throwing a tantrum at the hotel, she can make me chase her.
• ​"Did Rosalina come back yesterday?" I ask Lucy as I toss my keys onto the side table.
• ​Lucy looks up, her expression a mix of hesitation and worry. "Sir, I believe she went away on a trip. She packed a bag and left shortly after she arrived. She didn't mention when she’d return."
• ​A trip. I feel a flicker of annoyance, but I push it down. She’s sulking. She’s gone to some spa or a friend's house to wait for me to beg her to come home. It’s a tired routine. She doesn't realize that we are already bound by the pack’s eyes and the Moon Goddess's approval. The ceremony was just a formality to appease the elders.
• ​As for her dramatic declaration about breaking the engagement—I haven't taken it seriously for a second. Where would she go? What would she do without the protection of the Harrisford name? She’s an orphan who worked her way up, but she knows her place. She won't actually leave.
• ​"Alright," I mutter.
• ​I head upstairs to change. I don't go into the master bedroom. We had decided to wait until after the wedding night to move in there, so I continue using my guest suite. If I had bothered to look inside that room, I might have noticed the stark, empty space on the wall where our engagement portrait used to hang. I might have noticed that every trace of her presence had been scrubbed clean.
• ​I’ve barely sat down at my desk when my phone vibrates. It’s my grandfather, Bryce.
• ​"Jordan," his voice booms, sharp and demanding. "Did you and Rena get your marriage certificate? I haven't seen any updates in the family group, and the pack council is asking questions about the delay."
• ​I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache begin to throb. "Grandpa, something came up that day. We didn't manage to go, and I forgot to update you. We’ll take care of it after your birthday banquet."
• ​There’s a long pause on the other end. "The sooner, the better, Jordan. It will put my mind at ease to see you two finalized. Also... I heard Minerva is back."
• ​I stiffen. I never knew the full story of why Minerva left five years ago. I only knew that Grandpa had tried to arrange a marriage for her that she hated, and then she was gone. My relationship with my family was strained for a long time after that. It only smoothed over when I agreed to get engaged to Rosalina—the stable, "appropriate" choice.
• ​"So it seems," I reply, my tone carefully neutral.
• ​"Good," Bryce says, seemingly reassured by my lack of emotion. "Since she’s returned, she should come home. But Jordan, regardless of who comes back, I want you and Rosalina to finalize your marriage soon. Do you understand me?"
• ​His voice carries the weight of an Alpha's command.
• ​"I understand," I say, my gaze turning cold.
• ​After I end the call, I stare at the screen. Tomorrow is Bryce’s birthday banquet—the biggest event of the season for our pack. It’s a requirement that the Alpha and his future Luna appear together, united and strong.
• ​I open my chat with Rosalina. The last message is still the one from yesterday—the one I sent when I was standing her up at the city hall. I tap out a quick, commanding text:
• [​Are you back from your trip? Grandpa's birthday banquet is tomorrow. Make sure you’re ready by six.]