Derek's cold voice filled the room: "This is Derek Montclair. I received your call about Hazel. Do whatever you want with her. She deserves all of this for what she's done to me financially and emotionally. I have nothing more to do with her. Don't call this number again unless she's dead."
My fingers clutched the thin hospital blanket as I processed his words.
Just then, a notification pinged on the young girl’s phone. She frowned, glancing at the screen.
"What is it?" I asked, sensing her discomfort.
"You might not want to see this," she warned, but I snatched the phone from her hands anyway.
There on the screen was an Instagram post. Derek and Tara, tagged at the exact Maldives resort where Derek and I were supposed to have our honeymoon.
Tara was wearing the exact black lace lingerie he'd told me "didn't suit my body type." They were laughing, drinking champagne from the bottle. The caption read: "Finally where we belong. #AlwaysWasMeant2Be."
Another post showed them in our pack's sacred bonding cave—the place where Alpha with their Lunas traditionally consummate their marriages. Derek was holding Tara possessively, his lips against her neck.
"Son of a bitch," I whispered.