The next morning, at precisely ten o'clock, there was a knock on the door of suite 0726 at The Greenwich Hotel.

Kyle answered it in a bathrobe, his hair a mess and his eyes bloodshot from a hangover—he thought it was me, coming to "apologize."

Three people stood outside.

The woman in the lead was in her fifties, dressed in a perfectly tailored Ralph Lauren suit, holding a Birkin briefcase worth thirty thousand dollars.

Her pheromones were as clean and sharp as a scalpel—the mark of a top-tier supernatural lawyer who has complete control over her scent.

"Mr. Kyle Carlisle?" she asked with a smile that held no warmth. "I'm Margaret, legal counsel for Ms. Winston."

Her assistants behind her carried a silver case.

"May I come in?" she asked, already stepping past him into the suite.

Margaret walked to the center of the living room and gestured for the case to be opened. Inside was a portable holographic projector.

"In accordance with Chapter 12, Article 7 of the Supernatural Species Coexistence Act, and the third amendment of the New York Wolf Pack Elders' Council charter," she pressed a button, and glowing blue text materialized in the air, "my client, Ms. Claire Winston, officially submitted a 'Forced Dissolution of a Moon-Binding Contract' to the arbitration tribunal at nine o'clock this morning."

The hologram switched.

A chain of evidence appeared, piece by piece:

Photographic Evidence: Intimate photos of Kyle and Anna at his Hamptons villa, timestamped last August—the week of my birthday.

Financial Evidence: Records of transfers from Kyle's private account to Anna, fifty thousand dollars a month, with the memo "For my little bunny."

Communications Evidence: The complete chat history from his fraternity's group chat, including every humiliating thing Kyle had ever said about me.

Surveillance Evidence: A looped video from the hotel hallway, showing Kyle and Anna entering suite 0726—the number of Anna's birthday, not mine.

"This evidence has been simultaneously submitted to: the Elders' Council arbitration tribunal, the supernatural division of the New York Supreme Court, and," Margaret paused, a hint of pleasure in her voice, "the supernatural beat desk at the New York Post."

The color drained from Kyle's face. "Are you insane? Releasing this will ruin me—"

"Correct," Margaret interrupted. "That's precisely the point."

She pulled a paper document from her briefcase and placed it gently on the Italian marble coffee table. The light touch was more insulting than if she had slammed it down.

The cover was embossed with the Winston family's wolf crest, with gilded letters that read:

PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF A MOON-BINDING CONTRACT

GROUNDS: IRRECONCILABLE DIFFERENCES, EMOTIONAL ABUSE, INFIDELITY

PETITIONER: CLAIRE ELARA WINSTON, ALPHA HEIRESS OF THE WINSTON CLAN

"You have thirty days to respond. Failure to respond will result in a default judgment." Margaret walked to the door and turned with practiced elegance. "Oh, and by the way, Kyle?"

She spoke with the kind of condescending tone only old-money families from the Upper East Side could perfect.

"Next time you keep a human mistress, at least pick one who doesn't geotag your private villa on her Instagram. It's an amateur mistake."

The door clicked shut.

Kyle was left alone in the suite with the document lying on the coffee table like a ticking bomb.

His hands trembled as he flipped to the last page.

My signature was there.

Not the looping, romantic script from the love letters I used to write, but a sharp, clinical signature:

Claire Elara Winston

** irrevocable**

Just then, his phone rang. It was a reporter from the New York Post.

Kyle Carlisle collapsed onto the sofa, finally realizing the truth:

The Claire Winston who would always forgive him was dead.

She had died in a storm on I-95 in another life.