Damien
“You want a what?”
The words left my mouth with a laugh—sharp, cold, echoing off the marble floors of our mansion like a gunshot. I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest, watching her unravel. “A divorce? Are you serious, Felicia?”
“Yes, I’m serious!” she shouted, her voice cracking. Tears streaked down her face, but I didn’t flinch. She always cried. This wasn’t new.
She turned to leave, but I stayed rooted. My smirk faded the second she disappeared from view. I sat forward, elbows on knees, staring at the empty spot she left like it could give me answers. “You’ve lost your damn mind, haven’t you?” I muttered.
“I said stop mocking me!” she snapped from across the room, stepping back in like she’d never left. Her fists were clenched, her chest rising and falling like she was barely holding it together. “I’m done, Damien. I can’t do this anymore!”
I looked up at her slowly, voice like venom. “Can’t do what, exactly? Live in this palace? Wear diamonds? Enjoy the perks of being my wife?” I stood. “Or is it because I’m not crawling after you like some whipped mutt?”
Her shoulders shook harder, but her voice—God, it didn’t break. “I’ve lived in this house, Damien, but I’ve never felt at home. I’ve been your wife, but never your partner. You use me like a name tag. Like a trophy that gets dusty in your shadow.”
I clenched my jaw. That one stung more than I let on. “So this is real,” I said finally. “You actually think walking out solves anything?”
“It’s a start,” she said, chin lifted like she wasn’t crying seconds ago.
“You’re unbelievable,” I hissed.
“I’m tired of being miserable, Damien!” she yelled. “I thought—maybe—if we had a child—”
My blood went cold. I stood so fast the chair screeched behind me.
“Don’t you dare.” My voice dropped low, lethal. “I don’t need a child from you, Felicia. I never have, and I never will.”
The silence after those words was deafening.
Her face went pale. She clutched the back of a chair like her legs might give out. “You… you don’t mean that.”
“Oh, but I do.” I laughed—dry and bitter. “You thought a baby would fix us? There was never an ‘us’ to begin with. And I sure as hell don’t want a child with a wolfless wolf like you.”
Her eyes dimmed, like I’d blown out the last flicker of light in her. Still, she straightened. “Then let me go. Sign the divorce papers.”
I blinked. “Papers? You brought them?”
She didn’t answer. Just stormed upstairs like a woman on a mission. I stayed still, the air around me crackling with tension.
Minutes passed before she came back—papers in hand. She shoved them at me like they were a loaded weapon.
“How long have you been planning this?” I asked, eyes narrowing.
“That doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “Just sign.”
I took them slowly, flipping through page after page like she was handing me her goodbye in ink and legal terms. “You’ve really thought this through.” My gaze flicked up to hers. “But you forgot one thing.”
“What?”
I stepped closer, voice deadly quiet. “Once I sign this, that’s it. No second chances. No crawling back. No regrets. You sure you want that?”
“I’m sure,” she whispered, but her hand trembled.
“You really are pathetic,” I said, though my chest burned as I said it.
“Sign the damn papers, Damien!”
Fine.
I grabbed a pen, scrawling my name across the lines like I was carving her out of my life. When I finished, I dropped them at her feet. “There. Happy now?”
She bent, picked them up slowly—like they were heavy. Like she could barely hold on.
“Don’t come crying to me later,” I warned again, voice cold as steel.
She didn’t look back. She just turned, walked upstairs, and left me standing in the wreckage we built together.
And I let her go.