(Tyron's POV)
The plan settles into place with satisfying precision.
I'll threaten divorce. Watch her panic. Watch her realize she has nowhere to go—her brothers won't take her back, no other pack will accept damaged goods.
And when she's desperate enough, she'll tell me everything.
Then I'll decide whether to keep her or discard her.
But that decision will be mine. Not hers.
Never hers.
At six AM, unable to sleep, I give up and go downstairs.
The kitchen is already occupied.
Sanya stands at the stove, preparing breakfast. Her movements are mechanical. Robotic.
Her eyes are red and swollen from crying. Dark circles shadow her face. She looks like she hasn't slept either.
But she doesn't look at me. Doesn't acknowledge my presence.
Just cooks. Like she's on autopilot.
I watch h
