Chapter 5 The Art of Retaliation

Lila POV

My phone buzzed against the marble countertop as I watched Marcus nurse his hangover with black coffee. The notification made my stomach clench—another message from the number I'd memorized but never saved.

Look what your husband helped me pick out yesterday.

The ultrasound photo loaded slowly, grainy black and white with a tennis bracelet visible in the corner. The same bracelet Marcus had claimed was "a business gift" three weeks ago.

12 weeks along. He says the baby looks just like him already.

Across the table, Marcus scrolled through his phone, probably reading messages from the same woman taunting his wife.

"How are you feeling this morning?" I asked sweetly. "You were quite enthusiastic about those documents last night."

Marcus looked up, wincing. "Yeah, thanks for handling that. My head's killing me, but I remember signing everything."

Another buzz. This time Vera had sent a photo of an expensive baby boutique.

He's such a good provider. Can't wait to give him his first REAL child.

I excused myself to the bathroom, allowing myself thirty seconds of pure fury before returning with a sharp, calculating smile.

Two can play this game, sweetheart.

"We should do something special this weekend," I announced that evening, curling up next to Marcus. "Sarah Chen from the society pages wants to do a feature on 'Power Couples of Southern Bay.' The photographer is only available Saturday."

Marcus's vanity took the bait immediately. "A magazine feature?"

"Full spread. Perfect timing with your father talking about succession. The pack needs to see us as a united front."

Saturday's photo shoot was performance art. I had chosen our penthouse terrace, city skyline providing the perfect backdrop. I wore flowing white while Marcus looked every inch the powerful heir in charcoal.

"Perfect," the photographer murmured as we posed. "You two are absolutely magical together."

We were. Even knowing what I knew, we still moved with practiced intimacy. Four years of marriage had taught us how to present a perfect facade.

The photographer captured dozens of shots: Marcus spinning me around, intimate moments with foreheads touching, casual wine-sharing scenes. Every image perfect, every moment a carefully crafted lie.

But lies could be weapons in the right hands.

That evening, I curated the photos in my private office. Instagram first: romantic shots with captions about being "blessed with my soulmate" and "four years and still feels like a fairy tale." I tagged all the right accounts—photographers, magazines, pack businesses.

Facebook came next: formal shots with longer captions about love and commitment.

Then the masterstroke. I selected the most intimate photo—Marcus kissing my temple while I gazed up adoringly—and typed Vera's number.

Thought you might enjoy seeing what a REAL marriage looks like. Some women get tennis bracelets and empty promises. Others get magazine features and public declarations of love. ��

The message showed as read immediately.

I opened my encrypted evidence folder, adding today's photos alongside screenshots of Vera's messages, Marcus's suspicious credit card statements, and hotel receipts. Everything organized with forensic precision.

My phone rang. Vera's number.

"Hello?" I answered pleasantly after three rings.

"You think you're so clever," Vera's voice was tight with fury. "Playing these stupid games."

"I'm sorry, who is this? I don't recognize the number."

"Don't play dumb. I know you sent those photos on purpose."

"Oh, the magazine shoot? Yes, they turned out beautifully. Marcus and I are so photogenic together."

Silence stretched before Vera exploded: "He's going to leave you! When this baby comes, when he has a real heir, you'll be nothing!"

"That's interesting," I replied calmly. "Does Marcus know you've been sending me photos of your medical appointments? Sharing ultrasound images with your lover's wife seems... unstable."

"You can't prove anything—"

"Actually, I can prove everything. Time stamps, phone records, the works." My voice dropped to a whisper. "Harassment is a crime, even in the werewolf community. So you're going to stop contacting me, delete my number, and remember that some battles are better left unfought."

I hung up, immediately saving the recorded conversation.

Marcus appeared in the doorway. "Who was that?"

"Wrong number," I said smoothly, closing my laptop. "Some confused woman looking for someone named Marcus."

"The photos today turned out great," he said, kissing my head. "Sarah's going to love them."

"We make quite a team, don't we?"

As Marcus headed for the shower, I created a new folder labeled "Insurance Policy," adding every photo, the recorded call, and social media screenshots.

Let Vera think she was playing games. The truth was, I had already won—I just hadn't finished collecting my prize yet.

Outside our window, city lights twinkled like stars, and I began planning my next move in a war Vera didn't realize she'd already lost.