Chapter 2 The Scent of Betrayal

Aria's pov

When I returned from the garage to our bedroom, Stephen still hadn't come back.

I remained on the sofa, motionless and composed, pretending I had not moved all evening, as though I had done nothing except sit there quietly and wait for my husband to return to the life he had already begun betraying.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed.

The detective had sent over a file titled Belinda White.

I opened it at once.

Belinda White was exactly what she appeared to be on the surface-a girl from nowhere special, with no pedigree, no power, no real protection. She had studied nursing at a community college, but dropped out before finishing, choosing instead to work as a jewelry sales assistant in order to escape a household built on ruin: two addict parents and an unemployed older brother who spent whatever little money came into the house on gambling.

It should have made me feel something close to pity.

It did not.

I kept reading.

She had met Stephen at a jewelry exhibition. According to the report, his pursuit had been swift, attentive, and impossible for a girl like her to resist. The gifts had come first, then the flowers, then the carefully timed concern, the kind of tenderness Stephen knew how to perform so well that women mistook it for devotion. Belinda had agreed to date him almost immediately.

There was a note beneath that section.

She may have noticed the pale indentation on his ring finger, the faint mark left by a wedding band recently removed. If she did, she chose not to ask. Instead, the report suggested, she had searched his name online, along with information about his wife.

So she knew.

Maybe not everything. Maybe not the whole truth. But enough.

I was still scrolling when I heard footsteps outside the room, light but familiar, and I shut my phone at once.

Emma entered a second later, carrying a mug with both hands.

"Luna Aria," she said gently, "please drink this while it's warm. Alpha said it was made especially for you."

I took the mug without hesitation, my fingers steady around the porcelain.

"It's still too hot," I said. "I'll drink it later."

Her expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "But you should drink it."

"I will," I promised.

Emma lingered for half a second longer, then nodded and left.

The moment the door closed behind her, I rose, carried the mug into the bathroom, and poured every drop into the toilet. The amber liquid disappeared in a slow swirl before I pressed the handle and watched it vanish.

Anything prepared by Stephen now made my stomach turn.

But tomorrow, I told myself, tomorrow I would be gone.

That thought was warm enough to carry me into sleep.

I woke sometime before dawn to the weight of an arm draped over my waist.

For one disoriented second, I did not move.

Then the scent reached me.

I knew it instantly. Belinda White wore it every time I saw her in the store, the perfume lingering in the air long after she stepped away from the counter, as if she needed even her absence to ask for attention.

My body went cold.

Stephen was lying beside me, his chest pressed to my back, his arm wrapped around me with the easy possession of a man who thought he still had every right to touch me, claim me, and sleep in my bed after carrying another woman's scent home on his skin.

When he felt me stir, he tightened his hold instead of releasing me.

"You're awake," he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep.

I turned sharply, ready to face him, the words already gathering on my tongue.

"You shouldn't-"

Before I could finish, he shifted over me, one hand braced beside my head as he pinned me into the mattress with a smile that was too lazy, too intimate, too sure of itself.

"Shouldn't what?" he asked softly. "Or were you awake all this time because you wanted me to come to bed?"

His mouth crashed down on mine before I could answer.

I shoved against his chest. "Let go of me."

He lifted his head just enough to look down at me, desire still clouding his eyes. "What's wrong?"

I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, my phone began to ring.

I grabbed it at once. "It's me. Are you here already? Good. I'm coming down."

Then I pushed past Stephen and got out of bed.

His expression darkened immediately. There was no warmth in it now, only irritation, suspicion, and the first hint of something uglier.

"Who's calling you this early?" he asked. "That sounded like a man."

I pulled on my jacket without looking at him. "It's late enough for you to be getting ready for work, isn't it?"

"Don't you remember?" He stood and moved toward me again. "I told Enzo to clear my schedule for a few days. I'm staying home with you."

"I don't need you here."

The coldness in my voice should have been enough. It wasn't.

Stephen closed the distance between us and slid his arms around my waist from behind, pressing a trail of soft kisses along my neck as if tenderness could erase disgust, as if persistence could rewrite the truth.

"How are we supposed to have a puppy," he murmured against my skin, "if you keep pushing me away?"

For one terrible second, I could not breathe.

I tore his hands off me and shoved him away. "Let go of me!"

He laughed, low and careless, mistaking fury for flirtation, resistance for another form of surrender.

Then he caught my chin and kissed me again.

"I'm not letting you go."

"Stop." My voice came out sharper this time, stripped of everything except command. "I said stop."

Something in my expression must finally have reached him, because Stephen paused.

His arms loosened. His brows drew together. For the first time that morning, confusion flickered across his face.

"Aria," he said slowly, "what's wrong with you?"

I turned away before he could study me any longer and straightened my clothes with hands that I refused to let shake.

"Nothing," I said. "The delivery driver I called is downstairs. I don't want to keep him waiting."

When I went down, Emma had already invited the man into the living room.

He stood the moment he saw me, holding a clipboard awkwardly against his chest. "Are you Aria Graves? The one who booked the pickup?"

"Yes." I nodded toward the staircase. "Come upstairs with me."

I led him to the bedroom.

Stephen was standing in the doorway by then, arms folded across his chest, every trace of sleep gone from his face. His gaze landed on the delivery driver first, then shifted to me, sharp and unreadable.

"Who let you in?" he said coldly. "Get out."

The delivery driver faltered at once and looked at me. "Mrs. Graves..."

"I brought him in," I said before Stephen could speak again.

Then I walked to the closet, opened the doors wide, and pointed at the stacked boxes inside.

"Those," I said. "Can you weigh them for me?"

For a moment, the room went completely still.

Stephen's eyes moved from the nearly emptied closet to the sealed boxes on the floor, and something in his face changed so abruptly that even the air seemed to tighten around us.

"Aria," he said, his voice lower now, more dangerous for how controlled it was, "where are your clothes?"

I pointed to the boxes without answering.

His stare sharpened. "Why are you packing?"

Still I said nothing.

That was when he crossed the room in two steps, caught my shoulders in both hands, and forced me to face him.

"Are you leaving?" he demanded, all the smoothness gone now, replaced by something rawer, harsher. "Where are you going, Aria?"