I didn't go back to the penthouse.

I went to a hotel and stood under the hottest shower I could stand. I scrubbed my skin with the coarsest loofah I could find, rubbing until it was raw and bleeding.

I had to wash away every trace of him.

When I looked at the woman in the mirror, I knew that Chloe was dead.

She had died in that ballroom.

She had died in that clinic, with that fatal dose of silver.

All that was left was an empty shell.

Six hours later, my phone started buzzing uncontrollably.

Twitter, Instagram, the shifter forums—everything had exploded.

#LunaAttacksPregnantMother

#AnniversaryDisaster

#VictoriasReturn

A high-definition photo showed me, face covered in cake, eyes wild with fury.

The photo next to it: a fragile Victoria lying on the floor, with Lucian holding her like a guardian angel.

The comments were vicious.

"She attacked a pregnant woman?"

"Exile her from the pack!"

"Victoria is so innocent. That Chloe is insane."

The narrative was completely controlled.

The Black family and their elitist shifter allies were weaving a web of lies.

They claimed Lucian was forced to marry me. That I was the homewrecker who tore true love apart. That Victoria was always the one destined to be with him.

The old me would have been furious. I would have tweeted a rebuttal. I would have fought back with the honor of the Bennett family name.

But now, reading those curses, I just found it funny.

Lucian possessed billions of dollars and absolute power.

Yet he chose to remain silent as his wife was slandered.

His silence was the greatest betrayal of all.

I dragged my empty body back to the Upper East Side penthouse.

The housekeeper, Martha, met me at the door. Her eyes turned red when she caught my scent—a mixture of buttercream, the metallic tang of burnt silver, blood, and death.

"Mrs. Sterling…" she started.

"Run a bath," I said. "I need to wash."

I walked upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom.