The Fake Luna: Marked By The Alpha King

Chapter 237: Chapter 237 Damian had replied to her message!

The night everything changed, Vanessa hadn’t even been there.

She’d heard about it secondhand, in fragments that grew more horrifying with each retelling. A business reception. Some minor executive who’d had too much to drink and leaned in too close, whispering something in Damian’s ear.

And then Damian—composed, controlled, untouchable Damian—had simply snapped.

By the time three grown wolves managed to drag him off, the man was on the floor in a spreading pool of red, his throat torn open.

Vanessa had gone to the hospital to see the victim herself. She’d stood at the foot of his bed and stared at the bandages wrapping his ruined neck, at the tube he now breathed through. The doctors had removed what was left of his vocal cords. He would never speak again. Never breathe on his own again.

She remembered standing there, cold all the way through.

Because the Damian she knew was the most emotionally stable person in any room. Decisive, yes. Cold, certainly. But never impulsive. Never out of control. This wasn’t him.

Except—it was. She’d just spent years choosing to forget.

The trauma from his childhood. She could still hear the old doctor’s warning, delivered in a hushed voice outside a hospital room years ago: wounds like this don’t simply heal. Without proper care, they fester. They can grow into something darker.

So she’d lied to him—gently, lovingly—and walked him into a psychiatric evaluation dressed up as routine engagement paperwork.

The results had been worse than she feared. Severe post-traumatic stress disorder.

Under emotional collapse, a brief but total loss of control. High risk of catastrophic violence. Prognosis: unlikely to ever fully heal.

Marrying Damian meant accepting that risk. Living beside it. Sleeping beside it. Forever.

Vanessa had read that report three times, then packed her bags. Two weeks before the engagement, she sent him a single message—I’m sorry, Damian. I can’t marry you—and boarded a plane.

She’d told herself it was self-preservation. Anyone would have done the same.

But she’d never stopped having him watched.

All these years abroad, she’d kept people quietly reporting on him.

And every report said the same thing: no women. Not one. Damian Blackwood remained alone, exactly as she’d left him.