TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING novel Chapter 52

CHAPTER 32: JEALOUSY?-2

I spent months wondering what I did wrong, why I wasn’t enough, why the woman I was about to marry chose a camera lens over a life with me.

The thing is, I would have moved my whole life across oceans for her.

If she wanted Paris, I’d have given her Paris. Milan. Tokyo. Wherever the cameras were, I would have

followed.

But it wasn’t about the career. It was how easily she left. How little she considered the courtesy of a conversation, a proper ending, anything beyond a half-hearted voicemail and three months of silence

while I waited like a fool.

I almost chuckle at the memory now. Almost.

And then Celeste came along, and I thought maybe I’d finally found someone who wouldn’t leave,

someone who actually wanted to stay.

She stayed, alright. She stayed and she fucked my best friend in our bed and she proved that everyone

leaves eventually.

They leave or they cheat or they find creative new ways to destroy you. Rayana taught me that love has an

expiration date. Celeste taught me that trust is a weapon people use against you.

My walls aren’t walls anymore. They’re reinforced steel. And I’m never letting my guard down for any

woman again.

Not even the one currently in my penthouse, making me feel things I have no business feeling.

“I’ll arrange the Northern Lights,” I say, steering us back to business. “Private tour company that does viewing in glass igloos. Very exclusive.”

“Just the two of us?” she asks, and there’s something hungry underneath the question that she can’t quite

hide.

“You, me, and Ember. Good optics. Shows there are no hard feelings.”

Her face does something complicated before smoothing into acceptance. “Of course. That makes sense. I’d love to get to know her better.”

The way she says it tells me everything I need to know about what Rayana actually thinks of Ember. But she recovers quickly, pivoting into memories.

The gallery opening in Manhattan where we first met. How I spent forty-five minutes dissecting terrible abstract paintings with her because I was trying to impress her and had no idea how to do it.

I’m here to understand what she actually wants and establish boundaries before she decides those

boundaries are negotiable.

“I have six months. I’m sure you know that already,” she says quietly. “Maybe less if the treatment stops working. I’m not asking you to love me again. You’ve made it exceptionally clear that’s impossible. I’m just asking you to help me remember what it felt like to be loved. Before it’s too late.”

There’s genuine pain underneath the words. Genuine fear. Rayana has spent her whole life being admired, photographed, desired.

And now she’s facing the end alone because she traded the people who loved her for people who wanted to consume her image, and those people have already moved on to younger faces.

“I’ll help with the practical things,” I say finally. “Northern Lights. Switzerland. I’ll make sure you’re comfortable and that your remaining time is as good as it can be. But I’m not revisiting what we were. That’s not on the table.”

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