Myra's POV
The living room was my kingdom. My throne? A sagging but surprisingly comfortable cushion on the floor. My crown? A half-eaten tub of vanilla ice cream. My royal audience? A big, shiny television screen blaring the latest K-drama where the female lead had just found out her fiancé was cheating on her with her best friend.
In short, life was good—well, at least for the next forty-five minutes until reality decided to smack me in the face again.
I was just about to shove a heroic spoonful of ice cream into my mouth when I heard footsteps.
Now, normal people might think: "Oh, someone's home."
But me? I didn't even have to look up to know whose presence was thickening the air around me. The temperature in the room dipped, my heartbeat stumbled, and even the poor ice cream seemed to shrink in fear.
Benjamin Calvin.
The Lycan King. The ruler of six Packs. The living, breathing reminder that fate had a cruel sense of humor.
I still remember the first time I saw him—sharp jawline that could cut glass, eyes the color of storm clouds just before they broke into rain, broad shoulders that looked like they carried the weight of the whole damn world, and an aura that screamed kneel or die. His black hair was perpetually messy in the way rich men's hair always was—like he had stylists trying to make it look like he didn't have stylists. And don't even get me started on the suit—tailored perfection that probably cost more than my entire orphanage did.
And this impossible man just walked in like it was his house.
Okay, fine. It was his house. But still.
"She's back."
Just two words. That's all he said, tossing his suit jacket onto the couch like it wasn't made of silk worth a small country's GDP. His voice was casual, but his words sliced into my brain like a silver blade.
The spoon in my hand froze midair. The ice cream, bless its sugary soul, died right then and there.
"She's back?" My voice cracked like a thirteen-year-old boy hitting puberty. "Who's back?"
But I knew. Oh, I knew. My stomach was already twisting itself into Olympic-level gymnastics.
Ophelia.
The name rang in my head like the church bell of doom.
The great Ophelia Evans. His first love. His one and only. The woman who had once owned the heart of Benjamin Calvin before she decided to leave him and travel abroad.
And now… she was back?
What the actual hell?
I dropped the spoon, the poor ice cream splattering onto my pajama shorts like blood at a crime scene. Not that Benjamin cared. He never noticed the little things, not when his world was suddenly orbiting someone else's star.
I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish desperately trying to breathe. "Are you serious right now? You walk in here like some Greek god, throw your suit on my drama zone, and drop a bomb like that?"
Benjamin's stormy eyes slid to me, and for a moment, I swear my soul tried to crawl out of my body. He had that look—that unreadable, terrifying, don't-even-try-to-argue look.
"Yes," he said simply, loosening his tie. "Ophelia's back."
And just like that, my carefully constructed little kingdom—the Luna of Six Packs, the wife of the Lycan King, the queen of luxury and endless ATM withdrawals—crumbled to dust.
Because if Ophelia Evans was back, then what was I?
Nothing. A replacement. A stand-in. A fake.
I felt my chest tighten, panic clawing up my throat. I remembered Ciara Calvin's smug smile the day she handed me that "proposal"—be Benjamin's wife until he recovers from heartbreak, play the part of Luna, and in return, live a life I never dreamed of. I was supposed to be a placeholder, not a permanent fixture.
And now the original painting had returned to reclaim her frame.
I swallowed hard, trying to plaster a smile on my face, because if there's one thing Myra does best, it's pretending she's okay when the world is on fire.
"Oh," I said, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a dying goat. "Ophelia's back. That's… that's great. Really great. Fantastic. Let's throw a parade, why don't we?"
Benjamin's brows lifted, but he didn't reply. He just walked past me, his aura pressing down on my lungs, and grabbed a glass of water like he hadn't just detonated my entire existence with two syllables.
I watched him, every nerve in my body buzzing.
This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.
I couldn't go back. Not to being that wolfless omega everyone spat on. Not to the orphanage whispers. Not to the bullies who made me their favorite chew toy. Not to the girl who once argued with a dog because it barked at her.
I wasn't that girl anymore. I was Luna. I had luxury. Respect. Power—borrowed power, yes, but power nonetheless.
And I wasn't about to hand it all back to some glowing, perfect, first-love goddess just because she fluttered back from abroad with her designer luggage and tragic love story.
Benjamin drained his water and looked at me again, his gaze so sharp I had to force myself not to flinch.
"She wants to see me tomorrow," he said, as if announcing the weather.
My jaw dropped. "Tomorrow? Like, as in the next day? As in twenty-four hours from now? Are you kidding me?"
The ice cream in my lap was melting into a sticky mess, and I couldn't tell if it was the sugar or my entire life that was slipping through my fingers.
I clutched the spoon again, my only weapon in this cruel universe, and pointed it at him like a sword.
"Listen here, Benjamin Calvin," I said, voice trembling but determined. "You might be the Lycan King. You might be able to snap my neck with one hand. But if you think I'm just going to sit here while your little Miss Perfect prances back into your life, you've got another thing coming. I didn't survive orphanage bullies, dog confrontations, and a lifetime of insults just to lose to someone named Ophelia."
My voice cracked on her name, which ruined my dramatic flair, but whatever.
Benjamin just stared at me, unreadable as ever. Then, slowly, a smirk curved his lips—the kind of smirk that could set a forest on fire.
"You talk too much," he said, turning to head upstairs.
My blood boiled. "And you brood too much!" I shouted after him, but he was already gone, his footsteps fading up the stairs.
The silence left behind pressed heavy on me. I looked down at my ruined ice cream, then at the TV where the poor heroine was still crying over her cheating fiancé.
"Girl," I muttered to her, "you think you've got problems?"
I sighed, leaning back against the cushion, my heart still racing.
Ophelia Evans was back.
And if she thought she was going to steal my husband, my title, and my life of luxury, she was in for the fight of her perfect little life.
Because I, Myra—the wolfless omega with nothing but my sharp tongue and my desperate grip on survival—wasn't about to let go without a war.