Viona's POV
When I opened my eyes, the white hospital lights blurred above me. A doctor leaned into view, his smile warm but professional.
"The surgery was successful," he said gently. "The transplant went as planned."
A shaky breath escaped me, and despite the pain tugging at my side, a smile found its way to my lips. I turned my head, though slowly, toward the separate recovery bay where Nicolas was. Machines beeped steadily beside him, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm I had feared I would never see again.
For months, cancer had eaten him alive. Seeing him like this—breathing without gasps of agony—made every risk, every scar, worth it.
The doctor adjusted the IV line on my arm. "You'll need to rest, Miss Viona. Donor recovery is not easy." His eyes softened, as if he could sense the secret swelling inside me—that Nicolas would never know it was me who gave him this chance at life. Not yet.
"Why isn't he awake?" I whispered. My voice trembled, and so did my heart.
The doctor hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "His body has been through a great deal. The transplant was a shock to his system. It may take time for him to regain full consciousness. Days, maybe longer. But the graft is holding. That's what matters."
Relief washed over me, though faintly. I closed my eyes and clung to one thought: when he woke, we would have the rest of our lives. Our fairytale.
Several days later
I was still sore from the incision, but each day I pushed myself to shuffle across the ward, to sit by Nicolas's bed. I would wipe the sweat from his brow, adjust his blankets, whisper little stories to him. The nurses smiled at my stubbornness, though one scolded me for moving too much.
"Urgh… damn these werewolf ears," I muttered, pressing a pillow to my head when my phone buzzed for the tenth time that morning. Even the faint vibration cut through my skull.
Reluctantly, I grabbed it. The name flashing across the screen darkened my mood.
"What is it?" I asked flatly when I answered.
"Viona, please. Just meet me. It's important," Joey's voice pleaded on the other end. My ex–best friend, the one who confessed feelings I couldn't return.
"I told you, I can't—"
He cut me off. "At the café. Outskirts. I'll be waiting." Then the line went dead.
I stared at the screen, conflicted. Since Nicolas's hospitalization, people had pulled away, whispered doubts, tried to sway me from his side. Joey had been one of them. Still… the urgency in his voice left me uneasy.
A few hours later
The café looked the same as it had in our school days. The wooden chairs, the corner table by the window where we once spent afternoons gossiping. But to me, it now felt like a graveyard—where I had buried the friendship I once cherished.
"Viona!" Joey's voice called, and I saw him wave me over. I sat before he could pull the chair out, ignoring his old habit.
"You wanted to talk," I said.
He fumbled with his cup before blurting it out. "Flora's back."
The name struck me like ice water down my spine. "That's not possible. She wasn't supposed to return for three more years."
"She came back two months ago," he said quickly.
Two months. My stomach churned.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You wouldn't take my calls," he muttered, guilt lacing his words. He wasn't wrong. In the early days of my recovery, I had rejected every attempt he made.
I rose abruptly, my chair scraping the floor. "I have to go. Nicolas… he needs me."
I didn't wait for his reply.
The drive back through the outskirts calmed me. Few cars, quiet streets, the kind of silence that let my thoughts settle. I should have called the pack, should have told someone where I was. But I hadn't. I'd kept my secret, even from them—especially from them. Would they forgive their Luna for disappearing without a word?
My musings shattered when headlights flared in my lane.
"Wh—"
A black van screeched, doors slamming open. Before I could react, rough hands grabbed me, the sting of a needle piercing my neck. Darkness swallowed me whole.
When I woke, the world smelled of rust and oil. My wrists and ankles burned where cold chains dug into them. I was strapped to a metal chair, in what looked like an abandoned factory. I recognized it vaguely—the site of a fatal accident years ago.
Every few hours, footsteps echoed, and one of them came. A sharp prick, liquid fire rushing into my veins. Sedatives. Enough to dull my strength, to keep a werewolf's body sluggish. Enough to remind me how powerless I truly was.
Days bled into weeks. I lost count of time. They fed me just enough to keep me breathing, water enough to wet my throat. I prayed for Nicolas. I prayed he was alive, awake, searching for me.
He never came.
One afternoon, the kindest of the three men entered, a folded newspaper tucked under his arm. My sharp eyes caught the bold headline before he turned away.
Desperate, I rasped, "Please… may I see it? Just the front page."
Suspicion flickered in his eyes, but at last, he tossed it to the ground before locking the door behind him.
My trembling fingers reached for it, the paper crackling open.
"True Love Shines Forth: CEO's First Love Returns to Donate Her Kidney."
The words blurred, but I forced myself to read.
"Young CEO Nicolas, after months of cancer treatment, recovers miraculously thanks to a kidney donation from his first love, Miss Flora. Meanwhile, his wife, Viona Nobel, vanishes—taking with her a staggering sum of over thirty trillion won. Officials suspect betrayal."
The room tilted. My chest constricted, hot tears spilling unchecked.
It should have been me in those headlines. It was me.
Rage clawed through my body, shredding the fog of sedation. With a cry, I pulled against the chains. Metal bit into my wrists, blood dripping, but I didn't stop. My bones screamed, my muscles trembled, yet at last—the chains gave way with a deafening snap.
Gasping, broken, I staggered toward the shattered window. Glass teeth glinted in the frame. Rationally, I knew it was madness. But reason no longer mattered.
I pressed my palms to the jagged edge, bloodied flesh against glass, and whispered, "For Nicolas…"
Then I forced myself through.