My Fiance Cheated So I Claimed His Lycan Bosses

Everything ready

Svetlana’s POV

The ride home is quiet, and I sit still in my seat, looking out through the window without focusing on anything for too long. Cars move past, people walk along the street, and voices drift in from outside, but none of it holds my attention.

I try to stay present by noticing small things, like the sound of tires on the road and the movement around me, but my thoughts keep slipping away from me.

I shift slightly and rest my head back, pressing my lips together as I try to keep my mind steady.

Everything is fine.

I repeat that to myself more than once, but the words feel empty the moment they form in my head.

My thoughts keep going back to the same place.

My past.

I was not always like this.

There was a time when I spoke without thinking too much about it, when I did not measure every word before I said it. I used to ask questions freely, and I did not feel nervous about giving my opinion.

But that changed in my step father’s house.

After my mother died, everything changed in a way I could not fully understand at the time. I was young, and I did not know how much her presence had protected me until she was no longer there.

When she was alive, she would step in when my father raised his voice. She would stand between us and tell him to stop. Sometimes he listened, even if it was only for a short moment. Sometimes her voice was enough to make him walk away.

After she was gone, there was no one left to do that.

There was no one to interrupt him.

There was no one to stand in front of me.

At first, it was just shouting. His voice filled the house more often, sharp and constant. I told myself it was only anger and that it would pass, but it did not.

The shouting did not stop.

It grew into something worse.

He started hitting me, then I did not understand what was happening. I stood there, shocked, trying to process it. I thought it was a mistake, something that would not happen again.

But it did.

And then it happened again.

He did not apologize and it became part of my life.

I started expecting it everyday.

Even on quiet days, I stayed alert because I knew how fast things could change.

I learned very quickly that speaking made things worse. Every time I tried to defend myself or explain something, his anger only grew stronger. My words never helped me.

So I stopped.

I stopped talking back.

I stopped asking questions.

I stopped trying to explain myself.

I learned to stay quiet and avoid drawing attention to myself. I watched everything I did, every word I said, every movement I made. I adjusted myself to fit what would keep the situation calm for as long as possible.

That was how I lived. Until I turned eighteen.

That was when I met him.

My boyfriend.

The man I am about to marry.

From the beginning, he treated me differently. He did not raise his voice. He did not look at me like I was a problem. He spoke to me with patience, and at first, I did not know how to respond to that.

When he asked me questions, I hesitated before answering because I was used to being careful. When he listened to me, I found it hard to believe that he actually cared about what I was saying.

He noticed everything.

He noticed when I stayed quiet for too long. He noticed when I seemed tense. He noticed things I had learned to hide.

One evening, after spending time together at his place, he looked at me in a way that made it clear he was thinking about something serious.

“You should not stay there anymore,” he had said.

I looked down at my hands before answering. “I do not have anywhere else to go.”

That had always been the truth.

I had repeated it to myself so many times that it felt final.

“You have me you can stay with me,” he said without hesitation.

I looked up at him then, searching his face to see if he meant it.

He did.

There was no doubt in his voice, no second thought.

And just like that, something hopeful sparked inside me.

Not long after that conversation, I left my father’s house.

I moved in with him.

We did not have much. The apartment was small, and the furniture was worn. There were days when we had to be careful with money, and we had to plan everything around what we could afford.

But none of that mattered to me.

For the first time in my life, I felt safe.

I could sit in a room without feeling tense. I could speak without worrying about how it would be received. I could sleep without listening for footsteps or raised voices.

That feeling stayed with me.

And then something changed again.

After I left, my father changed.

He started visiting, and when he did, he acted like nothing had happened. He spoke calmly. Sometimes he brought food for me. Sometimes he asked me how I was doing, and his tone sounded almost normal.

The first time it happened, I did not know how to react. I stayed cautious.

He continued like that.

Then one day, he apologized.

It was not easy to listen to. It was awkward, and the words did not come naturally to him, but he said them anyway. I had stood there, unsure of how to respond, but I held onto it.

I wanted to believe it meant something. I wanted to believe that he had changed. That things could be different.

Years passed, and slowly, I allowed myself to relax around that idea. I stopped expecting the worst from him every time he appeared. I started to believe that the worst part of my life was behind me now.

I am twenty-one now. And I am about to get engaged.

I thought this meant I had moved forward completely. I thought my life was finally my own.

The car comes to a stop, and I step out, adjusting my bag on my shoulder as I walk toward the apartment. As I reach the door, a small sense of relief settles in my chest.

This place is the one place where I do not feel like I have to think too much before I act.

I unlock the door and step inside, closing it quietly behind me.

“I am home,” I call out as I slip off my shoes.

There is no answer, but that is normal. He is often in the bedroom or on a call when I get back.

I place my bag on the couch and start walking toward the kitchen.

Then I stop when I hear voices. They are coming from the bedroom.

I stay still for a moment, listening carefully. It only takes a second to recognize them.

My father. And my boyfriend.

A small smile forms on my face immediately.

They must be talking about the engagement. Perhaps planning something, a surprise for me maybe.

“They are probably trying to surprise me,” I say softly to myself.

The thought warms me, and I take a few quiet steps toward the bedroom, moving slowly so I do not interrupt them too soon.

I want to listen for just a moment before I walk in. But as I get closer, something starts to feel off.

Their voices are low and serious.

There is no excitement in their tone. No sign that they are discussing anything happy.

I slow down even more, my steps becoming careful.

My attention sharpens, and I focus on every word I can catch.

This does not sound like a celebration.

I stop just outside the door, my hand hovering slightly as I listen.

Then my father’s voice comes through clearly. “Is everything ready?”