Switched Bride, True Luna - Chapter 75: Chapter 75

Third Person
The article should’ve had her name in it.
Not Emily’s.
Chloe scrolled through the page for the third time, her nail tapping an anxious rhythm against the side of her teacup.
Emily Bennett leads fiscal reform with approval. It was a full breakdown of how Emily had caught a “minor discrepancy” and “moved swiftly to safeguard the Pack’s economic integrity.”
It should’ve been a scandal. A stain. A whisper campaign that tanked her position and made Logan toss her aside.
Instead, it had turned into praise.
Chloe’s chest tightened. She closed the tablet with a sharp snap and stood, pacing across the polished floors of the suite she'd secured near Titanfang’s center hall.
It was sleek, minimalist, impersonal—just like the contracts that kept her close to power without ever offering a piece of it.
The knock on her door came soft, polite. Expected. Her mother never raised her voice when it would be more effective to lower it.
Chloe opened the door and stepped aside. “You’re early.”
“I come when I’m needed,” her mother replied, her voice clipped, eyes scanning the apartment like she was evaluating inventory. “It seems you’ve wasted another opportunity.”
Chloe’s jaw clenched. “Emily’s not clever. She’s lucky.”
Her mother ignored the comment and placed a single sheet of parchment on the table. “This is an agreement. A proposal. From Alpha Dorian of the Ironclad Pack.”
Chloe stared at it. “He’s sixty.”
“He’s stable. Well-positioned. And willing to overlook your...missteps.”
“He’s known for locking his first Luna in her quarters during council meetings.”
Her mother’s mouth tightened. “Then perhaps she should have given him fewer reasons to doubt her.”
The silence between them stretched, thick with old patterns and newer disappointments.
Chloe’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. “You think I’m a failure.”
“I think you’ve miscalculated,” her mother said, voice smooth. “Repeatedly. First with Emily. Then with Logan. Now with this little stunt at Eldrin & Vale.”
A rush of blood roared in Chloe’s ears. “I was the one with ambition. I worked for everything. Emily just—took what is mine. And they all bent around her.”
“She was chosen for some reason,” her mother said softly. “And that is not acceptable.”
That was the wound, wasn’t it? The raw, festering truth no one ever said out loud.
Emily was chosen by Logan and Chloe was stuck with the consequences.
“I’m not mating that old man,” she said, her voice flat. “I’d rather die an old spinster wolf.”
Her mother gathered her coat without argument. “Then find a way to stay relevant and fix this. Before we stop wasting time on you entirely.”
The door closed with click. Chloe stood there, staring at the empty room, heart thudding behind her ribs like it didn’t know what to do with itself.
She pulled open her drawer and retrieved the small velvet pouch she’d hidden beneath a layer of innocuous lip balms and perfumes.
Inside was a single vial—pale amber, barely a mouthful. Designed to relax tension, lower defenses, dissolve hesitation.
She hadn’t planned to use it, not seriously. But Emily’s name was still in the headlines. And her own was nowhere.
If Chloe couldn’t be chosen honestly, then she’d make it look like she had been.
She'd stage the scene. Create the suggestion of something intimate—something Logan couldn’t ignore and couldn’t publicly reject without scrutiny.
It didn’t need to be real. It just needed to look real.
Chloe slipped the vial into her purse, the weight feather-light but electric.
Tonight, she’d attend the inter-Pack dinner. And Logan would be there.
And this time, he wouldn’t walk away.
Chloe stepped through the threshold like she owned it. The dress was a statement. And several eyes did turn, scanning her as she passed. But only one mattered.
Logan stood near the bar, speaking to a minor Pack’s diplomat. He wasn’t smiling, but he never did at these events.
Still, there was a steadiness to him that pulled at Chloe in ways she didn’t understand anymore.
Logan looked like unyielding power. She remembered the way he used to look at her when they were together.
Now, he didn’t even glance her way.
She drifted closer to the refreshment table, her pulse steady, her fingers already reaching for the tray with the untouched crystal tumblers.
One of these would be his. It didn’t matter which—he always preferred bourbon, neat. She selected the glass that say second from the left and slipped her hand into her clutch.
The vial’s contents poured quickly. Amber liquid into amber liquid. A moment’s cloudiness, then gone.
She turned to scan the room again. Logan was still talking—still out of reach.
Before she could intercept the glass with her usual practiced charm, a familiar voice slithered up beside her.
“Well, don’t you look like temptation bottled.”
Chloe blinked and turned, plastering on a smile. Reid.
Logan’s stepbrother. Logan’s shadow. He had a drink in one hand and too much confidence in the other.
“Evening, Reid,” she said, coolly polite.
He downed his drink in one swig. Then, Reid reached past her, grabbed the exact glass she had just tampered with, and lifted it in salute.
“To shitty step siblings.”
She froze. “Wait—”
But he had already taken a sip. Then another.
“Strong,” he said with a smirk. “Just how I like it.”
Panic flickered. Her eyes darted to Logan—still occupied. Still unaware.
Reid leaned closer. “You always stare at him like he owes you something. But I see you, Chloe. I see what you’re really after.”
“Do you?” she managed, voice tighter than she liked.
He tilted his head. “I think you’re just tired of being second. You want a headline. A legacy. A claim. Doesn’t matter who it’s on.”
He didn’t know. He couldn’t. But the words slapped her in the face.
She turned to leave, but his hand brushed hers—slow, insistent. “Come on. Don’t run off yet. We’re the leftovers, remember?”
She should have pulled away. Should have snapped at him, thrown the whole thing out. But the drug was already moving through him—his pupils slightly dilated, his grin more languid.
And in that moment, Chloe realized she had no way to undo what had been set in motion.
Reid leaned in, breath warm against her cheek. “Let’s stop pretending.”
He tugged her gently down a side hallway, his steps easy, half-dazed, half-certain.
She didn’t resist. She should have.
But something in her snapped—some thread she’d stretched too far, chasing something that had never belonged to her.
The guest suite was dark, the bed wide, the doors this enough to muffle sound.
His hands were on her hips, his mouth hot and eager against hers. It was sloppy, any technique ruined by the drink.
Chloe closed her eyes and tried not to think. Not about Logan. Not about Emily. Not about what she’d meant for this night to be.
It was about not losing again.
When she woke in the morning, sunlight spilled across the floor.
Her dress was wrinkled on a nearby chair. Her head throbbed. Her mouth tasted like regret and expensive wine.
Reid was still asleep beside her, one arm draped carelessly across the sheets.
She pulled it away, quietly, carefully. And sat on the edge of the bed.
This wasn’t power, it was a consequence. And it reeked.