Chapter 2: Picking Up the Pieces

Verena's POV

I woke up on the living room couch, still in my emerald dress, my makeup smeared across the throw pillow. For one blissful moment, I thought it had all been a nightmare. Then I saw the divorce papers on the coffee table, and reality came crashing back.

Mrs. Maya, the head housekeeper, was in the dining room, roughly clearing away the anniversary dinner I'd spent all day preparing. She didn't look at me as she dumped the wilted flowers into a garbage bag.

"Mrs. Maya," I started, my voice hoarse from crying.

"It's just Maya now," she said without stopping her work. "You're not the Luna anymore."

The casual cruelty of it took my breath away. Yesterday, this woman had been calling me "ma'am" and asking for my input on everything from menu planning to pack event coordination. Today, I was nothing.

I wandered through the packhouse like a ghost, watching as any trace of last night's celebration was erased. The fairy lights I'd strung around the main room were torn down and stuffed into boxes. The champagne I'd chilled was poured down the sink. Even the flowers I'd arranged throughout the house were thrown away, still fresh and beautiful.

It felt symbolic somehow. Three years of my life with Elijah, disposed of as easily as week-old roses.

My phone buzzed. A text from my best friend Dory: "Haven't heard from you in days. Everything okay?"

I stared at the message for a long time, trying to figure out how to explain that my entire world had imploded in the span of a single conversation. How do you tell someone that the person you love most in the world believes you're capable of cruelty? That everything you built together was torn down by photos you knew were fake but couldn't prove were lies?

Instead, I typed back: "Just tired. Talk later?"

Another lie to add to the collection everyone seemed to think I was building.

The nausea hit me around noon, sudden and violent. I barely made it to the bathroom before I was retching, though there wasn't much in my stomach to bring up. I'd been too nervous to eat dinner last night, and breakfast this morning had been the furthest thing from my mind.

When the wave passed, I sat on the cool tile floor, my head in my hands. The stress was getting to me physically now. My body was rebelling against the emotional trauma, and I felt weak and shaky.

"Must be all that guilt eating at you."

I looked up to find Nixie standing in the bathroom doorway. She looked exactly as I remembered from the pack photos—golden blonde hair, bright blue eyes, the kind of natural beauty that made other women feel inadequate. But there was something different about her now, something harder around the edges.

"Nixie." I struggled to my feet, gripping the sink for support. "I'm glad you're safe. I heard about your captivity, and I'm so sorry you went through that."

She studied me like I was a particularly interesting insect. "Are you? Sorry, I mean?"

"Of course I am. No one deserves to be held prisoner."

"But you tried to keep me away when I came home." Her voice was sweet, almost childlike, but her eyes were cold. "Joshua told me what you said. What you threatened."

"I never threatened you." I met her gaze steadily. "I've never even spoken to you before this moment."

"Liar."

The word hung in the air between us. I wanted to defend myself, to explain that I'd never been to the border, that I'd never seen her before today. But what was the point? Elijah had already made his choice based on fabricated evidence and Joshua's lies.

"Enjoy your freedom," I said instead, pushing past her toward the door.

"Oh, I will," she called after me. "I'll enjoy everything that used to be yours."

I spent the afternoon packing, folding three years of my life into suitcases and boxes. Most of my belongings had been wedding gifts or things Elijah and I had bought together for the packhouse. I wasn't sure what I was entitled to take.

The photo albums were the hardest. Page after page of happy memories—our mating ceremony, pack celebrations, quiet moments stolen between Alpha duties. In every picture, Elijah was looking at me like I hung the moon. The love in his eyes was so clear, so obvious.

Had it all been pretense? Had I imagined the connection between us?

Maya appeared in the bedroom doorway, her arms crossed. "You need to be out by tonight," she said. "The new Luna will be moving in tomorrow."

New Luna. The title that had been mine for three years, gone just like that.

"Where am I supposed to go?" I asked.

Maya shrugged. "Not my problem."

The dizziness hit me again as I bent to close a box, and I had to sit on the bed to keep from falling over. My hands were shaking, and there was a strange metallic taste in my mouth.

"You look terrible," Maya observed, though she didn't sound concerned.

"I feel terrible," I admitted.

"Guilty conscience will do that to you."

I looked up at her sharply. "You believe I threatened Nixie too?"

"I believe my Alpha," she said. "And if he says you're dangerous, then you're dangerous."

Dangerous. The word felt foreign applied to me. I'd spent my entire time as Luna trying to help people, implementing programs for pack families, organizing food drives for neighboring communities. I'd never so much as raised my voice at anyone.

But apparently, none of that mattered now.

By evening, my belongings were loaded into my car. The packhouse that had been my home for three years felt foreign now, full of people who looked at me with suspicion or outright hostility. I'd gone from beloved Luna to pack pariah in less than twenty-four hours.

Elijah was nowhere to be seen. Probably with Nixie, I thought bitterly, then immediately felt guilty for the jealousy that sparked in my chest.

As I drove away from the only home I'd known since my marriage, I caught a glimpse of the anniversary cake I'd special-ordered sitting in the kitchen garbage can. Three layers of vanilla and raspberry, covered in fondant roses—Elijah's favorite. Now it was just expensive trash, like everything else I'd poured my heart into.

The irony wasn't lost on me. I felt exactly like that cake—something that had once been treasured and wanted, now discarded and forgotten. The nausea rolled through me again, stronger this time, and I had to pull over to the side of the road to compose myself.

Something was wrong with my body, something beyond the stress and heartbreak. The fatigue, the dizziness, the constant queasiness—it felt like more than just emotional trauma.

But I pushed the thought away. I had bigger problems to worry about than feeling under the weather. Tomorrow night was the rejection ceremony, and after that, I'd truly have nothing left of my old life.