Category: English

I’m a first-year OB-GYN resident, and I have a secret: I can hear unborn babies talk. Today, a pregnant woman came in. Her amniotic fluid index was running dangerously low. Suddenly, a tiny voice echoed in my head. “Doctor, my dad has drugged my mom three times already. Save me!” The ultrasound probe in my hand trembled. I looked up. The man standing next to the pregnant woman was staring at his phone, laughing at some screen. I took a deep breath, carefully choosing my words. “There’s a slight issue with this report. I highly recommend a follow-up scan.” Immediately, their entire family stood up. A dozen eyes glared at me. “Doctor, are you saying there’s something wrong with our baby?” Right at that moment, the baby spoke again. “Doctor, the killer is standing right in front of you.” Hearing the commotion, the Attending Physician, Dr. Ronald Carter, walked over with a frown. He snatched the report and glanced at it. “The levels are within the normal range. Paige, stop talking nonsense.” I nodded slowly. Fine. Believe whatever you want.

“Are interns these days just desperate for commission?” Victor Vance snatched the ultrasound report from Dr. Carter’s hands and pointed a finger directly at my nose. “It says right here in black and white: ‘No obvious abnormalities.’” “You open your mouth and demand a re-scan. You just want to scam us into paying for more tests, don’t you?” His spit flew onto my mask. I looked at him, my gaze cold. “The amniotic fluid is low. While it’s technically at the borderline, the fetal heart rate is showing abnormal fluctuations.” “For the mother’s safety, a follow-up is the safest option.” “Bullshit!” Victor’s mother, Eleanor, shoved me aside and stepped in front of her son. “My son is a high-level executive who graduated from an Ivy League school! You think he can’t read a simple report?” “You put on a white coat and think you can curse my grandson?” “Keep this up, and I will report you to the medical board and get your license revoked!” Ignoring her screaming, I turned to look at Chloe Lindemann, who was lying on the examination table. She was an heiress to a massive family fortune, and Victor’s wife. Right now, she was gently holding Victor’s hand, her voice soft and submissive. “Honey, don’t be mad. It’s not worth ruining your day over.” She looked at me, her eyes filled with disapproval. “Dr. Sterling, I know you residents have performance targets to meet.” “But my husband wakes up in the middle of the night just to brew organic herbal pre-natal tea for me.” “He even tests the temperature of my drinking water himself.” “How could he ever harm me?” Chloe caressed her swollen belly, her face practically glowing with happiness. “Your unprofessional scare tactics are honestly disgusting.” I stared at her. In my ears, the baby’s crying was growing louder. “Doctor! It’s poison!” “It’s so bitter! It hurts!” “He’s been poisoning me since I was tiny! And these past few days, he added an even stronger drug!” “Doctor, please look at me!” I gripped the medical clipboard tightly. “Mrs. Vance, some damages are irreversible.” “If there’s really nothing wrong with your diet, why has the baby’s growth stalled compared to last month?” “Shut up!” Victor suddenly snapped, shoving me hard. My lower back slammed against the metal equipment cabinet. I gasped from the sharp pain. “Ronald!” Victor turned and yelled at Dr. Carter. “Is this how you train your staff?” “This isn’t over. I’m taking this straight to the hospital administration!” Dr. Carter’s face turned pale. He glared at me, then immediately put on a fake smile for Victor. “Mr. Vance, please calm down.” “Paige is new and doesn’t know the rules. I will handle this strictly.” Victor let out a cold snort and helped Chloe up. “Let’s go, babe. We’re not staying in this trash hospital.” Chloe’s best friend, Amber Davis, rushed forward to hand over her designer bag. “Exactly, Chloe. Let’s go to a private clinic. No need to waste time with this cheap doctor.” As Amber passed by me, she rolled her eyes. They walked out. The baby’s crying slowly faded into the distance. By the afternoon, a hospital-wide warning was issued against me. Dr. Carter called me into his office and screamed at me for half an hour. “Paige Sterling, have you lost your mind?” “Chloe Lindemann is the heiress of the Lindemann Group, and Victor Vance is the vice president!” “You offended them! Do you want our department to lose our annual funding?” I stood straight. “Dr. Carter, the fetal heart rate was indeed abnormal. I was only doing my job.” Dr. Carter slammed his hand on the desk. “Your job? Your job is to follow my orders!” “Starting tomorrow, you are out of the ultrasound room. Go to the inpatient ward and do grunt work.” “If you cause any more trouble, I won’t sign off on your residency certificate.” I said nothing, turned around, and walked out of the office.

By the time I finished my shift, it was pouring rain outside. I walked down to the parking garage, ready to drive home. Just as I turned the corner by a concrete pillar, I froze. Under the dim yellow lights, a car was parked in the far corner, its door half-open. Victor had a woman pinned against the car door, kissing her passionately. The woman’s arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Victor, babe… when is that ugly brat in that bitch’s stomach finally going to die?” Victor was breathing heavily, his hands wandering under her skirt. “Soon, Amber.” “I increased the dosage of the drug. In two weeks at most, it’ll be a stillborn.” “When that happens, all the shares of the Lindemann Group will be ours.” Amber giggled. “Then you’d better reward me really, really well.” Standing in the shadows, I pulled out my phone and pressed the record button. The faint glow of the screen lit up my face. You can’t save someone who is bent on self-destruction. But I would never let that innocent baby die without a fight. The next day, Chloe was admitted to the hospital. Because of some light spotting the night before, Victor had rushed her to my ward for preventive bed rest. The entire department now knew she was a billionaire heiress. The head nurse had specially arranged the best private suite for her. When I walked in with the Doppler fetal monitor and blood pressure cuff for routine checks, the room was packed. Several relatives were crowding around Victor, showering him with praise. “Oh, Victor is truly the perfect husband.” “Right? He even washes her feet himself. You can’t find a man like this nowadays even if you search with a flashlight.” Victor was indeed kneeling by the bed, holding a towel, meticulously wiping Chloe’s feet. He looked up and gave a warm, gentle smile. “Chloe is carrying my child and going through so much pain. Doing this is the least I can do.” Chloe leaned against the pillows, her eyes red with emotion. “Honey, you’re so good to me.” I walked to the bedside to check her chart. “Chloe Lindemann, I need to take your blood pressure and check the baby’s heart rate.” Seeing me, Chloe’s face instantly hardened. She pulled her feet out of the water basin, frowning. “Why is it you again?” “Is this hospital short-staffed? Why are they letting someone who was disciplined touch my belly?” Ignoring her attitude, I quickly pulled the privacy curtains and squeezed the ultrasound gel onto her skin. “Lift your shirt, please.” Victor stood up, dried his hands, and blocked my path. “Dr. Sterling, I haven’t settled yesterday’s account with you yet.” “You’d better keep your hands gentle. Don’t press that probe too hard. If you hurt my wife, I’ll make sure you regret it.” I let out a faint smirk. “Don’t worry, Mr. Vance. I only treat patients. I don’t watch dramas.” After recording the vitals, I wiped her belly with a paper towel. Just as I was about to leave, the door was pushed open. Amber walked in with a designer thermos, a massive fake smile plastered on her face. “Chloe, Victor! I brought you some soup!” She placed the thermos on the nightstand, her eyes locked onto Victor’s with a subtle, electric tension. “Victor spent half the night brewing this organic chicken herbal broth. He said it’s the best thing for the baby.” “I went to his house this morning specifically to grab it. It’s still hot.” Chloe took Amber’s hand, deeply moved. “Amber, thank you so much for going through all the trouble.” Amber teased, “Oh, come on. We’re practically sisters. Your baby is my godson.” Victor unscrewed the thermos and poured a bowl of the hot, rich soup. He blew on it gently and brought it to Chloe’s lips. “Drink up, sweetie. It’s hot. Drink it for our healthy baby.” In that exact split second, a terrified shriek exploded in my head. “No!” “Doctor, save me!” “It’s poison! He added two whole packets of it last night!” “My stomach hurts! It hurts so much!” Hearing the baby’s desperate cries, I stared at the bowl of soup. Chloe opened her mouth, ready to take a sip. “Don’t drink that!”

Before my brain could even process the thought, my body reacted. With a loud crash, I slapped the bowl right out of Victor’s hand. The boiling hot soup splashed all over the floor, and the ceramic bowl shattered into pieces. The room fell into a dead silence. Victor’s hand was scalded red. He flew into a blinding rage. “Are you fucking insane?!” Amber immediately started screaming. “Paige Sterling! What are you doing? Are you trying to murder Chloe’s baby?!” She frantically pulled out tissues to wipe Victor’s hand, her eyes filled with genuine panic and heartbreak. Chloe was frozen in shock. “Paige Sterling!” She threw off her blanket, not even bothering to put on shoes, and lunged out of bed. “Slap!” A stinging slap landed squarely across my face. “You miserable, jealous psycho!” Chloe pointed at my face, her entire body shaking. “You’re just jealous because my husband treats me like a queen!” “Yesterday you cursed my baby, and today you ruin the soup my husband stayed up all night to make!” “What the hell is wrong with you?!” Other patients and nurses outside gathered around the open door. Amber stood to the side, wiping fake tears to fan the flames. “Everyone, look at this! This doctor held a grudge because we reported her, and now she’s taking it out on a pregnant woman!” “Victor poured his heart into making that soup!” The onlookers started whispering and pointing at me. “That doctor is so malicious.” “Yeah, she just can’t stand seeing other people happy.” Holding my stinging cheek, I slowly turned my head. I looked at Chloe’s furious face, and then at Victor’s smug smirk. The baby’s voice in my head was now so weak it was barely a whisper. “Doctor… why did mommy hit you?” “It hurts…” I spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva and smiled. “Chloe.” I stared into her eyes, pronouncing every word clearly. “There was a bug in the soup. I was just trying to help.” “But since you love his ‘hard work’ so much…” “By all means, drink up next time.” I pushed through the crowd and walked out of the room without looking back. You can’t wake up someone who is pretending to be asleep. But I could make sure she woke up screaming when the reality hit her. After getting slapped, I became a total outcast in the department. Dr. Carter didn’t even let me do basic ward rounds anymore. He assigned me to hand out flyers and organize dusty, archived medical files. Everyone avoided me like the plague, terrified of getting on the bad side of the Lindemann Group. I, however, enjoyed the peace. During lunch break, I sneaked back into Chloe’s room. While they were out at a fancy restaurant, I used a syringe to collect the residue of the soup trapped in the cracks of the floor tiles. In the afternoon, I found Ethan, a close colleague of mine in the pathology lab, and asked him to run an expedited chemical analysis. When I got the results, my hands were shaking. The report clearly showed a high concentration of Mifepristone, along with an unidentified neurotoxic compound. Mifepristone was a powerful abortion pill. And Ethan had left a warning note at the bottom: “The neurotoxin shows signs of chronic accumulation. This suggests the patient has been microdosing this poison since early pregnancy.” This would 100% lead to severe fetal skeletal malformations and facial deformities. Victor never wanted this child to be born alive. He wanted a deformed baby to completely destroy Chloe’s mental state. I took a deep breath and folded the report. I didn’t give it to Chloe directly. She hated me right now. Victor could easily lie his way out of it, and she would believe him. So, during a shift change, I slipped the report into Chloe’s medical chart hanging at the foot of her bed. As long as she opened it, she would see the truth. However, I underestimated how cautious and evil these people could be.

By evening, just as I changed out of my white coat to go home, Dr. Carter stormed into the locker room, furious. “Paige Sterling! Get your ass out here!” He crumpled a few torn pieces of paper and threw them at my face. “Are you sick in the head?” “You forged a lab report and slipped it into a patient’s chart? What are you trying to pull?” I looked at the shredded paper on the floor. I could make out the words “Mifepristone.” Victor’s mother, Eleanor, was standing behind Dr. Carter, her hands on her hips. “Dr. Carter, is this how you train your residents?” “Using fake reports to terrify my daughter-in-law! You’re trying to kill us!” “If you don’t fire her today, I will sue this entire hospital!” Dr. Carter pointed a trembling finger at my face. “Paige, you’ve deeply disappointed me.” “To get revenge on a patient, you resort to such disgusting, underhanded tricks.” “You are suspended. Effective immediately.” “And I will make sure your residency certificate is never signed. You will never practice medicine in this lifetime!” I looked at them coldly. “Dr. Carter, if you want to know if that report is forged, you can easily verify it with the pathology lab.” Dr. Carter’s expression shifted, his eyes darting away guiltily. “Verify what? Haven’t you embarrassed us enough?” “Pack your things and get the hell out of my department!” I understood then. Dr. Carter didn’t care about the truth. He only cared about the Lindemann Group’s donations and his end-of-year bonus. I took off my white coat and tossed it into the trash can. “Fine.” I looked at the smug Eleanor, a cold smile playing on my lips. “I hope your family gets exactly what you deserve.” Carrying my box of belongings, I walked out of the hospital doors. The night air was freezing. I touched the voice recorder in my pocket. It held the audio and video of Victor and Amber from the parking garage. Now was not the time to flip the table. I had to wait for the most brutal consequence to run its course. Three days after I was suspended, late at night. I was in my rented apartment, putting together clues about Victor buying illegal drugs on the black market. Suddenly, my phone vibrated violently. It was the landline from the OB-GYN ward. I picked up, and Nurse Mia’s panicked, crying voice came through. “Dr. Sterling, you need to come back right now!” “Chloe’s water broke! She’s hemorrhaging!” “Dr. Carter is out of town for a conference, and we only have two junior residents on duty tonight. They can’t handle this!” I stood up instantly. “Where is Victor?” “Mr. Vance signed the consent form to save the mother.” “But Chloe is refusing! She’s screaming to save the baby at all costs!” I grabbed my jacket and rushed out the door. In my ears, that weak, tiny baby voice echoed. “Auntie…” “I’m so cold.” At 2:00 AM, the delivery room smelled heavily of iron and blood. I threw on sterile scrubs and burst in. Chloe’s blood pressure had plummeted to sixty. The heart monitor was letting out sharp, warning beeps. “Dr. Sterling! Thank God you’re here!” Mia’s hands were covered in blood, sweat pouring down her face. “Her contractions are too weak, and the baby’s heart rate is disappearing!” I quickly moved to the operating table. Chloe was deathly pale, her sweaty hair plastered to her forehead. When she saw me, a desperate surge of survival instinct flared in her hollow eyes. She grabbed my sleeve tightly. “Paige… save my baby.” “Victor said to save me, but I won’t let him. I want my baby.” Looking at the pool of blood beneath her, my expression remained cold. “Save your energy, Chloe. Push.” I pressed the Doppler probe onto her abdomen. The voice from inside was barely a whisper. “Auntie…” “I don’t want to die.” “But my hands and feet feel so weird…” “I can’t get out.”

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I am a child psychologist and school evaluator. Today, I was temporarily assigned to a prestigious private preschool to conduct admission evaluations. During the parent-child activity, a little girl clung to her mother, refusing to let go. She sobbed, saying her daddy had promised he would make it today. The woman knelt, wiping the tears from her daughter’s face. She whispered that her father was an antique conservator, currently working out of town on a high-security restoration project for a rare collection. My pen froze on the evaluation sheet. My husband is also an art conservator. Recently, he told me he was locked in an off-site, high-security project with strict NDAs, saying it wasn’t even convenient for him to take a FaceTime call. Before the activity started, the woman’s phone rang. She answered it and sighed. “Julian, Mary won’t stop crying. If you don’t show up soon, I won’t be able to handle her.” A low chuckle came from the other end of the line. My fingers clamped tightly around the clipboard. “I’m almost there. Even if the museum’s priceless artifacts shatter today, I’m putting you guys first.” Julian. That was my husband. The one who was supposed to be “locked in a high-security lab.” Ten minutes later, Julian ran onto the playground, holding a bouquet of sunflowers. He knelt, scooped the little girl into his arms, and leaned in to kiss the woman’s forehead. “I’m sorry I’m late.” Standing under the canopy with my evaluation sheet, I watched them. He looked up and saw me. His steps halted. The smile on his face froze. His arm tightened around the child. So, this was his exclusive, high-security project. He wasn’t restoring antiques. He was busy playing husband and father here.

Clara Miller looked at me, then turned her eyes to Julian. “Julian, do you know Ms. Carter?” Julian’s Adam’s apple bobbed. I stared at him, waiting for him to speak. Instead, he held Mary tighter and muttered, “Yes. She’s the evaluator here today for the preschool admission.” My fingers clenched the pen so hard the tip almost ripped through the evaluation form. Mary rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes red as she asked, “Daddy, who is Ms. Carter?” Julian avoided my gaze, stroking the child’s hair. “She’s the teacher who’s going to help evaluate you today.” Clara took Mary’s hand and spoke gently. “Mary, say hello to Ms. Carter.” Mary whispered, “Hi, Ms. Carter.” I looked at the little girl. The child was innocent. I lowered my gaze and wrote on the form: Severe separation anxiety. High level of dependency on primary caregiver. My pen lingered on the words “primary caregiver.” The teacher clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Our first parent-child activity is starting! Parents, please guide your little ones across the balance beam.” Mary immediately grabbed Julian’s sleeve. “Daddy, you promised you’d walk with me.” Julian glanced at me, then quickly looked away. Clara took half a step back. “It’s okay, Mary. Julian might be busy today. I can walk with you.” But Mary burst into tears. “No! Daddy promised yesterday he wouldn’t lie to me again!” Julian’s face shifted. He grabbed Mary’s hand and gently pulled Clara to his other side. “I’ll walk with you.” Standing under the canopy, I crumpled the corner of my evaluation sheet. I remembered my first follow-up appointment after my miscarriage. He had promised he would be there. But when the nurse called my name for the third time, I only received a text from him: An emergency came up at the project site. Back then, I replied: Work comes first. So, it wasn’t that he couldn’t make it. He just chose who was worth making time for. After the activity, Mary clung to Julian’s leg. The teacher praised her for being brave. She looked up at Julian, beaming. “Daddy, was I good?” Julian leaned down and kissed her head. “Very good.” I turned to leave, but Julian chased after me, pulling me into the corner of the hallway. He lowered his voice. “Chloe, don’t make a scene in front of the kid. You’re going to scare her looking like this.” I yanked my hand back. “Am I making a scene?” “How else should I look?” I demanded, staring into his eyes. “Should I smile while taking notes on my husband playing daddy to someone else’s child?” Julian looked away. “It’s not what you think.” “Mary’s situation is complicated. I’m just helping out.” “Does ‘helping out’ require Clara to call you her husband?” His face went pale, and he avoided my eyes. “Mary’s therapist said she needs to feel her parents are a united front to build a sense of security.” “On the phone, I was just playing along to calm Mary down. It was purely for her therapy.” I crossed my arms and glared at him. “Then what about earlier? Taking Clara’s bag and telling her she’s been working hard?” He whispered defensively, “She’s a single mother. It’s not easy for her. I was just—” “Just what?” I pressed. He let out an impatient sigh. “Chloe, you work in child psychology. You of all people should understand. We can’t break her sense of security.” I dug my nails into my palms. He was using my own profession to demand that I swallow his betrayal. He was entirely confident that I would endure this for the rest of the day. At the end of the hall, Mary ran out and threw herself into Julian’s arms, crying. “Daddy, is Ms. Carter going to take you away?” Julian knelt and held her close. “No. No one is taking me away.” I stood frozen in the hallway. He didn’t even look back.

Once Mary calmed down, Clara led her over and gave me a apologetic nod. “Ms. Carter, I’m so sorry. Mary was startled.” “She doesn’t have a father. Julian has helped us a lot, so sometimes she gets confused.” I stared at her. “Did you know Julian is married?” Clara lowered her eyes. “Yes. That’s why I’ve never asked anything of him on my own.” I gripped my clipboard. Before I could speak, Julian frowned and scolded me. “Chloe, don’t be so harsh.” I looked straight at him. “Am I the one being harsh here?” He went speechless. Clara spoke up softly. “Julian, stop. Ms. Carter has every right to be angry.” She shrank back, and Julian instinctively stepped in front of her, shielding her. I reached down, tapped the pause button on my phone’s voice recorder app, and sent a message to Adrian, my clinical director: Conflict of interest. Requesting immediate withdrawal from this on-site evaluation. But until my replacement arrived, the record could not be interrupted. The preschool director smiled and walked over. “Next is the family photo session. Ms. Carter, please continue recording Mary’s family interaction stability.” My hand holding the pen tensed. The observation had already begun. A sudden change in evaluators would ruin the assessment. I couldn’t just throw my clipboard down and storm out in front of the children. Julian glanced at me, remaining silent. A photo booth was set up in the center of the lawn. The teacher called out, “Mary’s mommy and daddy, come over! Mary, stand in the middle.” Mary ran over, holding Julian’s hand on one side and Clara’s on the other. Julian looked at me. Clara whispered, “Maybe we shouldn’t. Let’s not make things difficult for Ms. Carter.” Mary immediately panicked. “Daddy, are you leaving again?” Julian sighed and walked over to them. The photographer smiled. “Dad, lean closer to Mom. Perfect. Mary, smile for the camera!” Julian leaned closer to Clara. Clara didn’t move away. The sunlight fell beautifully over them. I looked down at the evaluation sheet. I remembered our wedding photo shoot. Julian had promised me that in every photo, he would always stand by my side. After the photos were printed, Mary ran to me with a small copy. “Ms. Carter, look! This is my mommy and daddy.” I looked at Julian in the photo. His lips were pressed in a tight line, but he didn’t say a word to deny it. I flipped to Mary’s enrollment application form. Under the “Family Guardian” section, it read: Julian. Relationship: Father. The signature was Julian’s. The date was three months ago. That day was our wedding anniversary. No wonder the preschool staff kept calling him Mary’s dad. I shut the folder and wrote the first line in the evaluation recommendation box: Highly recommend verifying the authenticity of the family relationships to prevent the child from internalizing false parental identities. Julian walked over, saw the words, and his face drained of color. He lowered his voice. “Chloe, don’t do this.” “You know she’s just a child.” “So?” I countered. “Because she’s a child, I’m supposed to help you write a better script for this play?” His brow furrowed deep. “That’s not what I meant.” Clara stood nearby, whispering, “Ms. Carter, I can explain.” “She really is dependent on Julian.” “I know it’s not the child’s fault,” I said, looking straight at Julian. “The adults are the ones to blame.” Julian didn’t argue, nor did he admit it. Mary tugged at his hand. “Daddy, does Ms. Carter not like me?” Julian knelt to soothe her. “No, Mary. You’re great.” “Then why isn’t she smiling?” Mary asked. Julian paused. “She’s just tired today.” I gripped my pen. He wouldn’t even admit that he was the reason I was tired.

Lunch was held in the classroom. The teacher reminded us to observe the children’s self-feeding abilities. Mary sat between Julian and Clara. She picked out the cilantro with her spoon. “Daddy doesn’t eat cilantro either.” Clara pulled a thermos out of her bag and handed it to Julian. “Your stomach has been acting up. Don’t drink ice water.” Julian took it and took a sip. He saw me, and his hand froze in mid-air. Last night at ten, I texted him to remind him to eat and take his medicine. He still hadn’t replied. I turned off my phone screen. Mary pulled out a hand-braided leather bracelet and held it up to me. “Ms. Carter, look! Daddy made this for me.” She pointed to Clara’s wrist. “Mommy has one too.” Clara was indeed wearing the exact same bracelet. Julian cleared his throat. “Mary, eat your lunch.” Mary kept talking. “Daddy said this bracelet won’t break. It means our family will never be separated.” I stared at Julian. He bit his lip, offering no explanation. For our tenth anniversary, I asked if we should upgrade my ring. He said he was too busy with his projects. So, he did have time. Just not for me. The classroom speakers began playing the pre-recorded video introductions of the kids. Mary’s voice echoed through the room. “My name is Mary.” “My mommy is Clara, and my daddy is Julian.” The classroom fell dead silent. Julian’s lips trembled. I watched him, waiting for him to speak. But he said nothing. Clara kept her head down, pressing a napkin to her lap, looking at neither of us. I wrote in the observation log: Role designations have become fixed. The child has fully internalized this father identity. Julian leaned in, whispering, “Can you please not write it so harshly?” I put down my pen. “How would you prefer I write it?” “She’s still young. If the report is too severe, the preschool will mandate psychological intervention.” I let out a soft laugh. “Oh, so you do know this will affect her?” Julian looked miserable. “Chloe, I know you’re hurting right now. But Mary has had it hard enough.” “And what about me?” I asked directly. He lowered his voice further. “Just let it slide for today. Bear with it for my sake.” Hearing those words, I gripped the back of my chair. When I was signing the paperwork alone in the hospital during my miscarriage, he had told me the exact same thing: Just bear with it for now. It turned out I was always the one expected to suffer in silence. I picked up my pen and looked at him. “Julian, do you expect me to fake an official psychological evaluation for you too?” His face stiffened. Clara chimed in. “Ms. Carter, just write whatever is professional.” “Julian is just worried about Mary.” I turned to her. “Clara, have you always been this understanding?” She clenched her napkin. “I just know I have no right to demand anything.” “But you’ve also never rejected anything, have you?” She fell silent. My phone vibrated. It was Adrian calling on WhatsApp. “Chloe, the preschool director just notified me that you have a personal relationship with the accompanying parent.” “You don’t have to force yourself to stay. Hand over the case and leave immediately. Whatever trouble comes up, I’ll handle it.” His voice carried a clear tone of protectiveness. I glanced at Julian, whose finger was being held by Mary, and replied coldly, “Okay. I’ll submit the conflict of interest form.” Julian stood up.

In the director’s office, the director said, “Ms. Carter, your records will be sealed.” “Since you have a personal relationship with Julian, you cannot continue with this evaluation.” Julian rushed in, blocking the desk. “Chloe, don’t let this ruin Mary’s enrollment.” I looked at him. “Even now, she’s the first person you think of.” He frowned. “She’s just a child.” “Then what am I?” I pressed, stepping closer. Silence filled the office. Julian didn’t answer. Outside the door, Mary’s cries broke out. “Daddy! Daddy, come out!” Clara’s voice was soft as she tried to comfort her. “Mary, don’t cry. Julian has his own home.” Mary cried harder. “But Daddy said I am his home too!” I turned back to Julian. “You said that?” Julian opened his mouth. “She was in a terrible state back then. I was only—” “Only comforting a child?” I interrupted. He went quiet. I clenched the hem of my coat. I had been waiting for him to admit his mistake, waiting for him to explain. After a long silence, he dropped a sentence: “Chloe, just don’t make things difficult for me today.” He truly believed I was the one who should always compromise. Clara’s voice came from outside. “Julian, you should stay with Chloe. I’ll comfort Mary, though it might take a while.” Every word she spoke was designed to push him out the door. Mary sobbed, “Daddy, don’t go. You promised you’d stay with me and Mommy today.” Julian lowered his head, turned around, and walked out of the office to kneel in front of Mary. I stood inside, watching his back. He said, “I’m not leaving.” Mary sniffled. “Really?” Julian wiped her tears. “Really. I’ll stay with you and Mommy today.” I let go of my clenched fists. I slid my wedding ring off my finger and set it on the desk. I pushed the spare house keys right next to the ring. Julian turned, saw this, and instantly rushed back in. “Chloe, what are you doing?” I said, “Julian, you don’t have to come home to explain anymore.” He reached out to grab my wrist. “Don’t be like this. I’ll come back later tonight and explain everything.” I stepped aside, dodging his hand. “You already have a home to go to.” “I’m done waiting.” His hand froze in mid-air. I ignored him and turned to the director. “Please give me the withdrawal form.” The director handed me the paper. I took the pen and wrote my name: Chloe Carter. Reason for withdrawal: Personal relationship with the primary caregiver, Julian, which compromises evaluation neutrality. Julian stared at the words “primary caregiver.” His knuckles turned white. I handed the form back to the director. “From this moment on, I am officially off this case.” Julian wanted to chase after me, but Mary’s crying voice stopped him. I grabbed my bag, walked right past him, and closed the office door behind me. Ten minutes later, Adrian received my full written statement. Julian probably didn’t realize that the “home” he had so carefully built for someone else was about to be torn down, piece by piece.

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I took the fall for my ex-husband’s mistress and spent eight years behind bars. The day I was released, my ex-husband, Julian Vance, showed up at a pharmacy with a swarm of reporters, kneeling before me to beg for a second chance. His eyes were red-rimmed as he held out a bouquet of vibrant roses. “Amara… I’ve waited eight years for you.” The reporters shoved their microphones in my face, urging me to kneel and thank him for his “devotion.” As Julian wrapped me in what looked like an affectionate embrace, he leaned close and whispered in a voice as cold as a venomous snake, “If you dare reject me, your father’s ventilator will be unplugged tomorrow.” I clenched my crippled right hand, ready to explode. Just then, an eight-year-old boy rushed over and threw his arms around Julian’s leg. “Daddy!” A heavily pregnant Chloe Mille suddenly dropped to her knees in front of me, tears streaming down her face. “The child is innocent…” Every camera instantly turned toward my bloodstained face. Then my own parents charged over. My mother slapped me so hard I crashed onto the floor. “You curse! Chloe is our real daughter!” I lay on the freezing tile, watching them surround the woman who had destroyed my life as they escorted her away like a hero. The pharmacy owner kicked me in the side. “Murderer. Get out!” As the rain poured down, I finally understood the truth. They hadn’t just wanted me to take the blame. They wanted me dead.

I spent eight long years in prison, taking the fall for my ex-husband’s mistress. The day I was released, he cornered me in a local pharmacy with a swarm of media cameras behind him. His eyes were red, and he dropped to his knees right in front of the flashing lenses, looking deeply devoted. “Amara, I have waited eight years for you. Let’s get remarried.” Dozens of blinding camera flashes went off in my face, nearly blinding me. Reporters aggressively shoved microphones right into my face. “Miss Sterling. Dr. Julian Vance has remained single for eight years just for you. He even wore your wedding ring to the International Medical Summit. You have been dodging him. Doesn’t your conscience hurt?” “As the felon who killed a patient back then, shouldn’t you be on your knees thanking Dr. Vance for his deep devotion now that you are out?” I stared at the man in front of me, dressed in his expensive, custom-tailored suit. My stomach churned with pure disgust. Eight years ago, I was the youngest chief trauma surgeon in New York. But just three days before Julian and I were supposed to register our marriage. His little assistant, Chloe Miller, made a fatal mistake during an operation. She accidentally severed a major artery, causing a VIP patient to bleed to death on the table. To protect Chloe, who was already pregnant with his child, Julian personally fabricated the surgical logs. He used my sick parents’ lives to blackmail me into taking the plea deal. Then, he played the righteous hero in court. Tears in his eyes, he personally testified against me and sent me to a maximum-security prison. He climbed to the top over my shattered bones. Now, he was the powerful Chief of Medicine at New York Grace Hospital. Meanwhile, my right hand had been brutally broken in prison by inmates he hired. The nerves were completely ruined. Now, my hand shook so badly I couldn’t even hold a medicine bottle steady. Julian remained on one knee on the dirty, muddy tile floor, holding a bouquet of bright red roses. The roses were dripping wet, their deep red color looking exactly like the blood that wouldn’t stop gushing from the patient’s artery on the operating table eight years ago. “Amara, come home with me. Whenever you’re ready, you can always come back to the hospital.” His voice cracked, his eyes brimming with tears. But as he leaned forward under the pretense of handing me the flowers. He whispered in my ear, his voice dropping to a freezing, ruthless murmur that only I could hear. “Amara, the hospital is up for the national prestigious ranking this week. If you dare reject me in front of these cameras, believe me, I’ll pull the plug on your father’s ventilator tomorrow.” My body went completely numb. Staring at this monster, my teeth rattled with pure rage. This was his so-called “deep devotion.” The reporters were still swooning over his greatness, some even tearing up at the scene. I clenched my crippled right hand, preparing to tear his hypocritical mask off even if it cost me my life. But a sudden cry broke the silence.

“Daddy! Mommy and I finally found you!” An eight-year-old boy pushed through the crowd and threw himself right into Julian’s arms. Chloe walked in elegantly, wearing a flowing dress that draped over her slightly swollen belly, flanked by two burly bodyguards. She still had that innocent, helpless look that made men want to protect her. She looked at me, a brief flash of smugness and contempt crossing her eyes. Then, turning to the reporters, her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor right in front of me. “Amara, it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t been young and stupid back then, I wouldn’t have caused you to make that mistake during the surgery…” She wept beautifully, her tears like tiny daggers stabbing right into my chest. “Julian has waited for you for eight years, and I’ve lived with guilt for eight years. But I beg you, the children are innocent. Leo needs a father, and the baby in my belly is about to be born…” The cameras instantly whipped around to capture Chloe’s tear-stained face. Gasps filled the room. “Oh my God, Chloe has carried this guilt for eight years? She’s too kind!” “Amara Sterling, Chloe is pregnant! You’re a convicted felon, how can you be shameless enough to try to tear their family apart?” I stared at the shouting little boy. I had been in prison for exactly eight years. Which meant Chloe had given birth to this child the exact year I was locked up. While I was taking the fall for her, absorbing the curses of the public, they were already celebrating their new baby. While my right hand was being systematically broken in that dark cell, Julian and Chloe were playing happy family. Before I could speak, a harsh roar cut through the crowd from the entrance. “Amara! You shameless bitch! Are you trying to ruin our family the second you get out of prison?” My biological parents pushed through the crowd, panting heavily. The moment my mother reached me, she didn’t hesitate. She swung her hand and slapped me hard across my right cheek! Slap. The sharp crack echoed through the pharmacy. The force of her blow sent me crashing to the floor. My forehead slammed against the sharp corner of a metal medicine rack. Hot blood immediately trickled down, blurring my vision. My mother trembled with rage, pointing a finger at my face. “You curse! You spent eight years in prison and dragged our family’s name through the mud! If Chloe hadn’t sent us money and medicine every single day, your father would have died of his stroke last month!” My father, leaning heavily on a cane, limped over. He cast a disgusted look at me, then obsequiously helped Chloe up. “Sweetheart, please don’t get upset. This ungrateful brat is just jealous of you. We don’t have a daughter like her! You are our real daughter!” Lying on the freezing floor, looking through a veil of my own blood, I watched my biological parents fuss over the woman who had ruined my life. They despised me. They hated me. They wished I had died in prison so they could comfortably enjoy the wealth Julian and Chloe threw at them. Julian hugged Chloe protectively. Before leaving, he looked down at me with pity. “Amara, your parents are just emotional right now. I still owe you for what happened back then. Here is ten thousand dollars and my business card. Take it.” He pulled a thick stack of bills from his bespoke suit pocket and threw them in my bloody face like he was tossing scraps to a stray dog. The green bills fluttered down through the air, hitting my swollen face. It stung. The happy family of three, flanked by my parents and escorted by the admiring press, marched out of the store. Tom, the pharmacy owner, walked over with a dark face. He snatched the mop from my hands and spat on the floor. “Amara, don’t bother coming in tomorrow. My shop is a small business. I can’t afford to keep an ungrateful felon around! Pack your trash and get out!”

Tom’s words struck like a thunderbolt, ringing in my ears. I looked at my right hand, covered in dirt and blood. The knuckles were severely swollen from rheumatoid arthritis, and my fingers trembled uncontrollably from the permanent nerve damage. Eight years ago, these hands performed high-precision brain surgeries. Now, I couldn’t even grip a broom. “Tom, please, don’t fire me.” I bent my back, discarding every ounce of my dignity, and grabbed the hem of Tom’s shirt. “I don’t need wages. Just give me some scraps and let me sleep in the back storage room. Please…” Tom violently shook me off, throwing me back onto the damp, cold floor. “Amara, I saw the news. You killed someone, and Julian and Chloe have been incredibly generous to you. Instead of being grateful, you humiliated them in public!” “My pharmacy is in a tight-knit community. If the neighbors find out I hired a killer, who will buy medicine from me? Get out! Now!” He tossed my battered backpack out into the street like garbage. The zipper had broken back in prison. My few old clothes spilled into the muddy puddles, instantly stained black by the dirty water splashed by passing cars. The storm finally broke, rain pouring down in sheets. I clutched my soaked backpack, limping down the streets of the small town. As I passed the corner convenience store, the young clerk who usually smiled and called me “Dr. Sterling” while asking for advice on cold meds was now pointing his phone at me, whispering to his coworker. “See her? That’s the ungrateful felon ex-wife from the news. She looks decent, but her heart is black. She actually tried to bully a pregnant woman.” “Stay away from her. People like her are bad luck. Absolutely disgusting.” He spat on the pavement, just inches from my foot. I lowered my head, letting my wet hair cover my face, and ran into the rain. I tried to find work elsewhere in town. Clinics, pharmacies, even small diners. But the moment I walked in, they would see my deformed hand. Then they would look at the viral video playing on their phones, and their faces would instantly turn sour. “Sorry, we don’t hire murderers.” “Get lost. Don’t ruin our business. You’re bad luck!” By midnight, the rain had stopped. I had nowhere to go. I huddled under the rusted metal roof of a bus stop, shivering from the cold. I pulled my right hand out of my sleeve, trying to touch it with my left. Between my thumb and index finger, there was a jagged, hideous scar that looked like a centipede. It happened on my first night in prison eight years ago. Several female inmates used rusty nails to pierce and shred my hand nerves, inch by inch. That night, I fainted from the pain three times on the cold concrete floor. I thought it was a random prison assault back then. But looking back now… Who else but Julian and Chloe would be so terrified of my surgical hands? They didn’t just want me to take the fall. They wanted to permanently cripple me, ensuring I could never return to an operating table, never use my skills to clear my name! I bit my lip so hard it bled, my nails digging deep into my palms. Julian. Chloe. You say you owe me, but you clearly want me dead!

At 5:00 AM, my cheap phone vibrated loudly, breaking the silence of the bus stop. I stared at the caller ID, a number burned into my very soul. Laughing dryly, I swiped to answer. “Amara, I heard you got fired from the pharmacy. You don’t even have a place to stay now?” Julian’s voice was as gentle and caring as ever. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone. “Did you put a tracker on me, Julian? Or are those reporters just your personal bloodhounds, watching me twenty-four hours a day so you can enjoy the show?” A soft chuckle came through the receiver, carrying the casual amusement of a predator playing with its prey. “Amara, you’re still as prickly as ever. I’m just looking out for you. In this world, who else actually gives a damn if you live or die?” “You’re thirty-two, you’ve spent eight years in prison, and your right hand is ruined. Do you honestly think any company in this country would hire you without my permission?” My breathing turned heavy, my eyes burning with absolute hatred. “You did this to me. Julian, you know exactly who altered those medical records, and you know exactly who hired those inmates to shred my nerves.” Julian’s voice suddenly turned freezing cold, carrying a sharp warning. “Watch your words, Amara. That case was closed years ago. If you start babbling about conspiracies now, people will just think you had a psychotic break in prison. Be a good girl. Come back to New York.” “I have already set everything up for you. There is an opening for a file clerk in the archives department at Grace Hospital. The pay isn’t high, but it’s enough to get you off the streets. And… Chloe is now the deputy chief of surgery. Since you’re so experienced, you can work as her personal technical advisor. Guide her a bit.” “You want me to assist the murderer who ruined my life? Guide her?” I laughed so hard tears came to my eyes, each word squeezed through my gritted teeth. “In your dreams, Julian! Even if I starve to death on this street, I will never go back to beg for your scraps or be your sick PR prop!” “Is that so?” Julian’s voice remained calm, almost pitying. “Amara, you’re always so stubborn. Do you really think you have a choice?” Before I could reply, loud, chaotic screaming erupted on his end of the line. Suddenly, my mother’s shrill, hysterical voice cut in. “Amara! You curse! Who did you offend out there?!” “The nursing home just threw your father and me out on the street with all our luggage! Your father still has his feeding tube in! They said our account is delinquent and pushed his wheelchair right onto the pavement!” “Julian said we could live here for free forever! Why did he change his mind? Did you offend him again, you ungrateful bitch? I swear, if your father dies on the street today, I will jump off the roof of this building! I’ll write a suicide note in blood blaming you!” My mother’s shrieking voice pierced through the speaker like a red-hot wire, wrapping tightly around my neck, making it impossible to breathe. I knew my parents too well. They were incompetent, selfish, and ignorant. When I got arrested, they didn’t hire a single lawyer for me. Instead, they forced me to confess quickly so I wouldn’t ruin my younger brother’s college prospects. Later, when Julian put them in a luxury nursing home. They immediately treated him and Chloe like their savior and viewed me as embarrassing garbage. If my father really died because his treatment was cut off, my mother would absolutely keep her word. She would commit suicide in front of the media to completely destroy whatever little reputation I had left. Julian took the phone back. His voice was smooth as silk again. “Amara, your parents are old. They can’t handle this kind of stress. If you get on the morning bus back to New York right now, the nursing home’s account will be funded in five minutes.” “You’re a smart girl. You know what to do. I’ll expect your employment paperwork in my office in three days.” The line went dead. The dial tone echoed in the empty bus stop, sounding like a chorus of mockery. I slowly bent over, burying my face in my knees, and finally let the tears pour out. Eight years ago, they stole my innocence, my career, and my hand. Eight years later, they were dragging me back to that hell, wanting to leash me like a dog at their feet just to show the world how “forgiving” they were. I squeezed the dirty, wet business card I had picked up from the puddle. Julian. Chloe. Since you refuse to let me go, since you are forcing me back to New York. Then I will see you in hell.

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On my mating day to Prince Ronan, his true mate slips Barrenbane into my wine. That day, I become barren. When they catch her, she just sobs, “Just a joke! I didn’t think she’d really drink it.” “I’m sorry, my Prince. Let me give you pups. She can raise them.” Ronan turns to me and says, “Aurora, you’re my Luna. In name, and that’s enough. Show some grace. You don’t have to carry pups now. Seraphina will do that for you. What more could you possibly want?” My father’s pack never bowed to any Lycan. We made kings. And we broke them—with our own claws.That’s why the crown wanted this bond. Seraphina and Ronan rule the pack together. She gives him four pups. Everyone knows Seraphina—his true mate. Nobody remembers me. The political Luna. The placeholder. I wither away in the back rooms. Seraphina smiles down at me. “You’ve kept the Luna’s seat warm for me long enough, you barren bitch. If we hadn’t needed your father’s warriors to put my Prince on top, you’d never have touched that title. Not for one night.” “Aurora, tomorrow I become Lycan King. My true mate will be Queen. You’re still breathing—why?” Seraphina grabs my jaw and wrenches my mouth open. Ronan tips the bowl. The poison pours down my throat. My wolf thrashes inside me，then goes still. Darkness takes everything. No sound. No scent. No pack bond. Just… nothing. Then,my heart slams back into my chest. I gasp. Air floods my lungs. My eyes snap open. I’m back on my Mating Day. “Please—Prince, Luna—drink the Rite Wine,” the elder announces from the center of the mating chamber. I stare at the cup in front of me. Seraphina was sloppy. There’s still powder dusting the rim. A cold smile curls across my lips. Without anyone noticing, I pick up Ronan’s cup and slide mine toward him. “I’d like to swap cups with you, my Prince. They say it binds two wolves into one. Your scent in my nose. Mine in yours.” The elder nods. “Your scents will mix. Your wolves will recognize one mate forever.” Ronan lifts the cup. We drink together. The guests erupt in cheers. Before the cups even touch the table, the doors swing open. “Oh my—you’ve already drunk it?” Seraphina glides in with a breathless little laugh. She’s dressed like she’s here to seduce, not celebrate. Her eyes land on my empty cup. She claps a hand over her mouth—the picture of shocked innocence, and tears spring to her eyes on command. Then she turns to Ronan, wearing terror like a costume. “I’m so sorry, my Prince. I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to play a little trick on your Luna, that’s all. I… I put something in her cup.” I gasp, letting the color drain from my face. “Who are you? Why would you put that in my wine?” The guests break into murmurs. Someone speaks up: “Seraphina, I know you grew up with the Prince, but this is his Mating Day. How dare you joke about poison?” Ronan rises and steps in front of Seraphina like a shield. He frowns at me. “Luna, this is Seraphina. She grew up in the palace. We’ve known each other since we were pups. She’s a little spoiled, that’s all. Just let it go.” Then he turns to her, voice sharp. “What are you doing here? I told you—no trouble today. How dare you pull something like this?” I ignore how close their bodies are. I fix my stare on her, cold and unblinking. “Seraphina. Tell me. What did you put in my wine?” My handmaiden finally snaps out of it. “Someone fetch the Royal Healer! Now!” Seraphina clutches Ronan’s sleeve, weeping prettily. “My Prince, I’m not a bad person. I was on my way here and I passed a shop selling Barrenbane. It looked… interesting, so I bought some. I thought I’d give your Luna a little scare on her mating night—teach her to mind her Prince.” “I was going to stop you before you drank. But I tripped outside—I was late. I had no idea she’d already finished it.” “Barrenbane?” I press a hand to my chest and sink into the chair. “That potion will leave a wolf barren—no pups, ever. And this wine was blessed by the King himself.” My voice cracks through the room. “Guards—take her away.” Seraphina shrieks and throws herself into Ronan’s arms, crying beautifully, artfully. “My Prince, I didn’t mean it! I really, truly didn’t! And who even knows if this Barrenbane is real? What if it’s fake?” “Is your Luna really going to have me killed over a counterfeit potion?” Ronan holds her gently—tenderly—and looks at me. “Aurora, Seraphina is young. It was just a joke. She never wanted this to happen.” “Don’t worry. You’re my Luna. Even if you drank Barrenbane, I won’t reject you. The title is yours.” Seraphina drops to her knees, eyes red-rimmed, tears streaming in perfect rivulets down her cheeks. “It’s all my fault. It’s too late for words now. Let me make it right.” “Your Luna can’t bear pups anymore. Then let me be the one to carry your bloodline. I’ll give you pups—and she can raise them. That’s how I’ll atone.” The exact same words as last time. But this time, I won’t be that fool. My eyes narrow to slits and my voice cuts through the chamber like a blade. “You tried to end my bloodline. That’s a crime against the royal family. You deserve death.”

Ronan pulls her to her feet and turns on me with a scowl. “That’s enough. She said she was sorry. She didn’t mean it. Today is our mating day—are you really going to have her killed over some stupid potion?” “A Luna should have some grace, Aurora. You’re being petty. What kind of Luna are you?” He says it like I’m the unreasonable one. I laugh, quietly, to myself. Last time around, he said the exact same things. No grace. Too petty. I swallowed my pride back then. I told myself I was being the bigger person. Being smart. All I did was walk right into their trap. That’s how I ended up where I did. I remember dying. It claws at my chest. My hands curl into fists. “She tried to poison your Luna. And you just let her go? Is that fair??” “Where’s my pack’s honor when a low-rank omega’s daughter can pull something like this and just walk away?” Ronan’s jaw tightens. “It’s done. What—you want me to rip her throat out? She didn’t mean any harm.” The whole room is buzzing now. Word has already reached the guests outside. One of the Royal Council elders steps forward to mediate. “Her Grace, Luna Aurora, the Council agrees this is a serious matter. Seraphina will be punished. But today is your mating day. Don’t let this spiral. Think of the kingdom’s unity.” Right. All they care about is keeping the peace. I look at Ronan. “You truly think what she did is nothing?” He’s too busy stroking Seraphina’s hair, murmuring comfort to his precious true mate. He waves me off without even looking at me. “She apologized. She’ll scrub the palace floors for a month. That’s the end of it.” She tries to poison the Luna—and the punishment is mopping floors. I nearly laugh out loud. Good thing I’m not the one who drank that poison this time. A few of the female guests lean close and whisper, “Luna, call the Royal Healer anyway. Perhaps he can still reverse it.” Seraphina cuts in immediately. “No! Call the Healer on mating night? That’s bad luck for everyone.” Ronan nods. “Seraphina’s right. Tomorrow is soon enough.” My handmaiden shakes with fury. “Luna, you’ve been poisoned. And he wants to wait until tomorrow?” “Luna, let me send word to your father. Let Alpha Lord Vance handle this.” I look at Ronan one last time. “You’re really not going to punish her?” He flicks his wrist like he’s swatting a fly. “I already told you—it was a joke that went too far. She even offered to give you her pups. What more do you want?” “You’re making a scene over a cup of wine. If you don’t want to be my Luna, fine. Someone else will. Someone who isn’t so petty and selfish.” I smile. Slowly, I run my finger along the rim of the cup. Then I look him dead in the eye. “Petty? I did this for you, my Prince.” Word by word, I say: “That cup you just drank from? That was mine.” The room goes dead silent. Ronan’s face turns purple. “What… did you just say?” I point at the cup sitting in front of him. You can still see the powder clinging to the rim. “We exchanged cups,” I say calmly. “Remember? For good luck. You drank from my cup. I drank from yours.” “The one Seraphina poisoned?” I pause, letting it sink in. “You drank it.” Seraphina stares at me. Then at the cup. She snatches it off the table with trembling hands. She breathes. “You drank this?” Ronan can’t even form words. Seraphina screams—raw, ugly—and jabs a finger at me. “Bitch! You evil, scheming bitch! That poison was for her! She made you drink it—on purpose!”

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Serena’s POV: Fifty couples, one live broadcast, and my fiancé is about to swap me out for his dead brother’s wife. I don’t hear it from him. I hear it from a stairwell. The grooms are downstairs doing their challenges — bridal party games, the usual. All fifty brides are in their separate rooms, waiting to be picked up. I sneak out early because I want Ethan to find me first. I want to see his face light up when he spots me before anyone else. I duck behind the stairwell door — and that’s when I hear them. “Ethan, man, this isn’t right.” Jake’s voice. Ethan’s best man. “This is a city-wide event. It’s on live TV. You’re seriously gonna switch brides in the middle of all this? Serena’s gonna be humiliated.” My breath catches. Then Ethan’s voice comes through — low, tired, like he’s explained this a hundred times already. “I don’t have a choice. Vivian’s been widowed for three years. My parents still treat her like garbage. If I marry her, they’ll finally have to accept her.” “As for Serena — she and I have always been more of a platonic thing. She doesn’t need a ring or a certificate. She won’t care.” My fingers go numb against the wall. Jake’s still pushing back, though. I can hear the hesitation cracking through his voice. “Dude, have you forgotten what happened when your brother dumped her? She almost jumped off a bridge. You spent three years pulling her out of that. If she finds out the same woman took her man — again? She’s gonna lose it.” Ethan cuts him off like it’s nothing. “There are fifty couples out there, all in matching outfits. No one can tell who’s who. I’ll just say I got confused in the crowd.” “Besides — you guys know why I went after her in the first place. It was so Vivian could marry Dylan without any drama. Now Dylan’s gone. It’s on me to take care of her.” He turns to the other two groomsmen, voice flat and cold. “Go to room 302. Keep the door shut. Don’t let Serena out. Once the vows are done and the certificates are signed on live TV, my parents won’t be able to say no.” I stand there behind that door. I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I just laugh — once, quietly — and walk back to my room. I pull out my phone. The screen’s still bright. I scroll through the wedding registry and find the groom paired with Vivian today. I type out a message: “Room 302 needs a groom. You in?” I put the phone down. “Serena! Come help block the door! Ethan’s team already passed the first round!” Nora’s grabbing my arm before I can blink. I don’t move. She tugs harder. “Come on! He’s almost at round two — what are we gonna make him do when he gets up here?” “Don’t bother.” I pull my arm free. Nora freezes. “What do you mean?” I look right at her. “This wedding might not be happening.” She stares at me, confused. “What? You two waited months for this. You fought to get a spot. What do you mean it’s not happening?” I don’t answer. Yeah. Fought to get a spot. Three months ago, Ethan handed me the registration form. A city-sponsored mass wedding. Fifty couples, all signing their marriage certificates live on the local news. He said he’d stayed up two nights straight to get us in. Said he only planned on getting married once, and he wanted the whole world to see. I hesitated. Because at the time, my mom had just been moved into the ICU. The biggest regret of her life was never having a real wedding ceremony. Grandma died young. They were too poor. She signed a piece of paper at a courthouse and that was it. She always told me — when it’s your turn, I want to watch you walk down that aisle. I want to hand you off to your groom with my own two hands. I wanted her to see it. I brought the form to her hospital room. Showed her the fine print: “Due to venue limitations, no family processional will be included.” She said it’s okay. Just being alive to see me get married is enough. She didn’t need the walk. But then she turned to the ceremony schedule and went quiet for a long time. “So I won’t even get to see you walk through the door in your dress?” I didn’t make it past the hallway before I broke down crying. That night, I told Ethan — can we skip the mass wedding? Let’s do something small. Just us. Let my mom sit in her wheelchair and hand me off to you. Ethan held me and said the spot was too hard to get. Don’t be selfish. The mass wedding has cameras, he said. Your mom can watch the livestream from her bed. Same thing. I said it’s not the same. He said — after I come get you, we’ll video-call her together. Same thing. I didn’t push it. Because when he said all that, his eyes were red. He said he just wanted to give me the biggest wedding he could. I believed him. Then my mom got worse. They moved her to the respiratory unit. On her last lucid day, she held my hand and said, “I won’t get to see you in your dress.” I said you will. Livestream, Mom. Just remember to open the link. She said okay. But today — he said: “She doesn’t need a ring or a certificate. She won’t care.” My mom is lying in that hospital bed, glued to a screen, waiting to watch her daughter get married — and she doesn’t even know no one’s coming to marry her daughter. Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway. Nora peeks out the door, suspicious. “That’s weird — there’s only two groomsmen out there. Where’s Ethan?”

Serena’s POV: Nora turns back to me, completely lost. “The games are over. Shouldn’t he be the first one running up here?” I let out a small laugh. “Nora — when the groom shows up, go easy on him.” She blinks. Then she covers her mouth and grins. “Oh my God, I knew it. You’re too soft on him.” “Fine, fine — since he chased you for three whole years, I’ll tell the girls to take it easy. Twenty push-ups max.” She’s already typing in the group chat: “Bride says chill out. Don’t wear the groom out. The bride will feel bad for him.” I almost smile. Almost. This was supposed to be such a sweet moment. Nora finishes texting and loops her arm through mine. “Seriously though — three years together, and he’s barely even held your hand. Now you’re signing the papers today. You nervous?” “No,” I say. “Liar.” She grins. “Your lips are white.” Right on cue, my phone buzzes. Mom. Video call. She’s just finished a round of chemo. Her hair is gone. Her skin is the color of old paper. But she’s smiling — eyes crinkled, warm, alive. “My baby looks so beautiful today. I’m watching the stream — Ethan was working so hard on those games to get to you. Don’t be too tough on him, okay?” I force out a laugh. Nod. “I can’t wait to see you two sign those papers.” The nurse walks in to change her IV. Glances at the screen. “Oh — is your daughter one of today’s brides?” “She is. Fifty couples, all on TV.” Mom’s voice is thin as a candle in the wind. “My girl found herself a good man. Three years, never gave me a reason to worry. Treats her like she’s the most precious thing in the world.” I grip the phone so hard my nails dig into my palm. She doesn’t know. The man who chased me for three years, who loved me for three years, who moved heaven and earth to get us into this wedding — He did it all so he could marry his dead brother’s widow in the chaos. So he could force his parents into accepting a marriage they never would’ve agreed to. I take a deep breath. Smile at the camera. “Okay Mom, the signal’s bad. I’ll call you back after we sign.” I hang up. Nora adjusts my veil. “You know, a mass wedding isn’t so bad. No stress, everything’s taken care of, and it’s on live TV.” She smiles again. “Your mom’s probably so happy right now, it’s healing her faster than any medicine.” Then she walks to the window and looks out for a while. When she comes back, she’s frowning. “Why isn’t Ethan here yet?” “Every other room’s been picked up already. The host just announced couple number twenty-eight.”

Serena’s POV: Nora turns around, grabs a chocolate wedding favor off the table, unwraps it and pops it in her mouth. “Honestly though — three years ago, who would’ve guessed you’d end up marrying him?” I don’t respond. She chews slowly, eyes going distant. “You were so wrecked after Dylan. I was terrified.” “That man was something else. Made you believe he’d give you the whole damn sky. We all thought you two were a done deal.” Her voice drops. “Then Vivian showed up.” My fingers curl, just slightly. Vivian. I haven’t heard that name in a long time. Ethan and I had been together six months before he brought me home to meet his family. That’s when I found out. Dylan was his older brother. And Vivian — the woman who’d destroyed my engagement — was already his brother’s wife. I was shaking so hard I couldn’t stand. I turned to leave. Ethan grabbed my hand. His voice was barely a whisper. “Serena, give me a chance. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. What happened before — let it stay in the past. Please.” I fought it for a long time. Every time I saw Dylan and Vivian at family dinners, my stomach turned inside out. But Ethan — he was so good to me. He made sure I barely had to see them. At every gathering, he kept them away from me. He said, “You don’t have to deal with her. She’s nothing to you.” But I didn’t want to make things hard for him. He was a Moore. Vivian was his brother’s wife. Holidays, birthdays — they’d always cross paths. The better he treated me, the more guilty I felt for holding onto the past. After months of fighting myself, one night at dinner, I picked up my glass, looked at Vivian, and smiled. “To family.” Under the table, Ethan squeezed my hand. His eyes went red. From then on, I played nice. Every single time. Then Dylan died. Construction accident. There one day, gone the next. Vivian became a widow. “I wasn’t gonna bring this up on your big day,” Nora says, cutting through my thoughts with a bitter little laugh. “I’m just so mad — I couldn’t even get a spot in this wedding for me and my boyfriend, but somehow Vivian’s here too?” “And the guy she’s paired with? Some college buddy of Ethan’s who just got back from overseas — Lucas Caldwell!” “What is it with men? Do they all fall for the same type of two-faced woman?” She’s getting angrier by the second. The candy box in her hand is crushed. “Back when you and Dylan got engaged, he literally left you in front of both families — said Vivian wasn’t feeling well and needed him. And what happened? He took care of her all the way into his bed!” Her voice cracks now. “That night, you went to the bridge alone—” I lower my eyes. My lashes tremble. “If Ethan hadn’t jumped in after you—” She can’t finish. She swipes hard at her face. I hand her a tissue. “Ethan…” Nora takes it, forces a shaky smile. “He was soaking wet, shivering, lips turning blue, and he just knelt down in front of you and said, ‘Don’t be scared. I’m here.’ You didn’t even know him. Why would a total stranger do that for you?” Her voice picks up again, lighter, that survivor’s relief. “He said he understood you. Said he’d been lied to before too. Said he’d spend a lifetime helping you heal.” “You know how bad it was? You were down to nothing — barely eating, wouldn’t talk to anyone. He was the only person you’d eat for.” Nora crumples the tissue into a ball. “We all thought God sent him to save you. Three years of chasing you and he never even touched your hand. We used to joke behind his back — like, does this guy even work? But looking at it now, what kind of man can do that? He really loves you.” Her eyes are red again on those last two words. I lift my head. Look out the window. Then I laugh. Just once. “He doesn’t love me.” Nora goes still. “What did you just say?”

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My husband’s mother, Luna Vivienne, ran away with me. She slipped into my room that night, undid my stays, and pressed cold coins against my inner thigh. Her lips grazed my ear. “We leave tonight. Keep these on your body.” It all started because my husband’s father, Alpha Dominic, brought home a mother and daughter. The older woman was his mate. He declared she would replace his wife, Luna Vivienne, and take her place. The younger one,the daughter,just so happened to be my husband’s mate. So that same night, Vivienne crept into my room, her voice barely a whisper: “Pack your things. We leave tonight.” By the next morning, the Pack House stands hollow. Nothing left but two raging men and two weeping women, tearing each other apart inside an empty shell of an estate. — Alpha Dominic Blackmoor,my husband’s father,comes home today. He brings two strangers with him. Their scents are unfamiliar. Sharp. One is a woman who still carries the ghost of youthful beauty; the other can’t be older than seventeen or eighteen. Mother and daughter,the resemblance is unmistakable. I stand behind Luna Vivienne, eyes lowered. My husband, Grayson, stands across from me, but his gaze locks onto the younger girl like a moth pinned to a flame. The want rolling off him is suffocating. None of it is for me. *”The way he’s looking at her,he has NEVER looked at us like that!”* Sage, my wolf, snarls inside me. *”I’ll rip her throat out. I’ll—”* *”Not now. Shut it.”* She paces and rages beneath my skin, her fury so violent I have to clench my fists to keep my hands from shaking. “Vivienne,” Alpha Dominic says, gesturing toward the older woman. “This is Selene. She is my mate. From today forward, she will serve as the new Luna of Blackmoor Pack.” Vivienne’s smile doesn’t falter. Not even a flicker. She actually steps forward, reaching out to clasp Selene’s hand in both of hers. “Welcome. You must be exhausted from the journey.” The smile is flawless. Gracious. Warm. But I notice,her scent gives away nothing. Not a single fluctuation. She is burying her emotions so deep even a wolf can’t sniff them out. Alpha Dominic looks pleased. He turns to Grayson. “This is Mia. Selene’s daughter. She is the mate the Moon Goddess has chosen for you. It’s time to let Elena go and accept her.” Grayson’s face goes red. Not from shame,from excitement. His eyes are glued to Mia, wide and hungry, and he nods. Hard. Something slams into my chest. White-hot, searing,like a branding iron pressed straight against my heart. Sage lets out a low, guttural keen inside me. *”No! He’s OURS! I won’t allow this!”* But I am invisible. A dusty old portrait mounted above the fireplace in the great hall,present, but never worth a glance. Alpha Dominic wants to replace his Luna. His son wants to replace his mate. Two mating ceremonies in one night, right here in the Blackmoor estate. How festive. Vivienne’s voice lifts half an octave, bright with celebration. “How wonderful! Both the Alpha and the future Alpha have found their fated mates,a true blessing from the Moon Goddess. This will strengthen the Blackmoor bloodline immensely.” She turns to the head butler. “Marcus, have the kitchen prepare a feast tonight. And open that bottle of Château Margaux we’ve been saving,the one from twenty years ago.” Then she catches my hand. “Elena, don’t just stand there. Go to the vault. Pull out those jewels and gowns that arrived last month,the Cartier necklace, the Dior couture,and let Selene and Mia each pick a few pieces. Only the best.” I look up and meet her eyes. They are full of warmth. Radiant, even. Like sunlight on a spring morning. So why do I feel ice crawling down my spine? I nod woodenly. “Yes, Luna.” I turn toward the vault. When I pass Grayson, he doesn’t look at me. Every atom of his attention is fixed on Mia. His scent floods my senses as I walk by,pine, leather, and… *want.* Raw, blazing want. Not for me. Never for me. Mia’s cheeks are flushed pink, her lashes trembling, her gaze pulling him in like gravity. He wants her. She wants him right back. So what does that make me? *”Nothing, apparently! And he’s nothing either. Why won’t you leave him? I couldn’t care less about this pathetic excuse for a mate. Go find a real one!”* Sage paces inside me, agitated. I open the vault’s heavy iron door and step inside. I stand there for a long time. My entire value in this Pack has been reduced to one thing: keeping the Pack House running smoothly and eventually becoming a quiet, obedient Luna. Now his real mate has arrived. *”Elena, stop thinking like that. Your worth doesn’t come from him. Walk out of here,or better yet, go back out there and show them what happens when they cross us!”* Sage growls. I can’t answer her. I move deeper into the vault, my fingers trailing over velvet-lined jewelry cases and couture gowns sheathed in garment bags. These things are worth more than my birth pack’s entire treasury. Vivienne wants the best. I open a case and lift out a Cartier necklace dripping with rubies. The stones catch the dim light and throw it back in my eyes like tiny sparks of pain. I carry it out of the vault the way you’d carry a piece of hot iron,at arm’s length, burning your palms anyway. The welcome banquet fills the estate’s great hall. Every high-ranking member of the Pack is there, glasses clinking, laughter rising. But their reactions aren’t uniform. Beta Marcus wears a professional smile, though his hand pauses for just a beat while pouring wine. A cluster of older she-wolves exchange a loaded glance,the kind that says *here we go again.* Warrior Captain Derek stares at his plate like the steak holds state secrets. Alpha Dominic and Grayson sit at the head of the long table, the mother and daughter tucked close beside them, all smiles and easy conversation. Vivienne glides between them, personally filling glasses and passing dishes, her smile never dimming for a single second. She looks genuinely happy. *”These shameless— I’m going to be sick. You should dump that platter right in their faces,”* Sage spits. I hand the jewelry and gowns off to an Omega attendant and slip back to my seat without a word. The steak and roasted vegetables on my plate go untouched. A few whiskeys in, Alpha Dominic’s tongue loosens. He launches into a dramatic retelling of rogue skirmishes in the northern territories. “Selene’s husband was a Pack warrior,killed during a rogue siege. He was one of my most trusted brothers. And Mia, a young she-wolf with no one left in this world,having Grayson accept her as his mate is the greatest honor Blackmoor can offer.” He speaks like he’s bestowing charity on the needy. Like he’s some kind of saint. Grayson nods along, gazing at Mia with something that looks dangerously like tenderness and protectiveness all tangled together. The burn in my chest surges again. My stomach turns inside out. I excuse myself quietly and retreat to my room in the east wing. *Good,* Sage mutters. *I can’t stand his scent for one more second.* Later that night, I hear footsteps. Soft ones. They stop outside my door. Rain,the beta I brought from my birth pack. We grew up together. “Elena, it’s late. You should get some rest.” I don’t answer. A knock. Light. Not Rain’s knock. My pulse spikes. I rise to my feet. My nose catches the scent drifting under the door,white tea and cold fir. Familiar. “Who’s there?” The voice on the other side is barely a breath. “It’s me.” Vivienne. I freeze for a second, then cross the room and pull the door open. She stands in the corridor. The warmth from earlier,the radiant smile, the gracious hostess,all of it is gone. Stripped away like a mask after the final curtain call. Moonlight carves her features into something sharp and cold, her eyes glinting like the edge of a blade. For a split second, I catch a flash of silver deep in her pupils. Her wolf. *Her wolf,* Sage goes rigid. *She’s stronger than we thought. Much stronger.* Vivienne slips inside and shuts the door behind her in one fluid motion. My heart hammers. “Vivienne…” She spins around, closes the distance between us in two quick strides, and seizes my wrist. Her grip is iron,shocking, inhuman,the kind of strength that doesn’t belong to an ordinary she-wolf. Her voice comes fast and low: “Elena, pack your things. We’re leaving. Tonight.” —

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My wife is six months pregnant, but she insists on a business trip out of town. I begged her not to go. For the baby’s sake. She reassured me, saying if she earns more now, I’ll have it easier. While helping her pack her underwear bag, a phone I’d never seen before fell out. The screen flickered. A private message popped up. “You’re such a dirty girl. Even knocked up and you still can’t behave?” I stared at the contact name for five seconds. The contact was saved as “Master.” And I was saved as “Chump.” … The bathroom door opened. I panicked and shoved the backup phone back to the bottom of her suitcase, burying it under layers of clothes. Steam poured out. Samantha stepped out wrapped in a towel, her face flushed pink from the heat. Her skin was pale. Pregnancy had made her curvier. Her cheeks had a rosy glow. By all appearances, she was the picture of a happy mother-to-be. She walked over, reaching out to touch my forehead. “What’s wrong? You look awful.” I instinctively stepped back, dodging her hand. Samantha’s hand froze mid-air. A flash of confusion crossed her eyes. “Didn’t sleep well.” I forced out a smile uglier than crying. “Had a nightmare. I’m worried this trip will be too much for you.” Samantha relaxed and lowered her hand, giving me a playful eye-roll. “I told you it’s fine. The client is really nice. Why are you more nervous than me?” She sat on the edge of the bed and started drying her hair. Looking at her swollen belly, that thorn in my heart twisted again. Five years together. That’s my wife. Carrying my child. I still couldn’t give up. I wanted to give her one last chance. If she’d turn back now, for the baby’s sake, maybe I could pretend I never saw that phone. “Honey, do you really have to go?” I crouched in front of her, looking up, my voice already begging. “I’m not afraid of hard work. I can deliver food. Drive for Uber.” “As long as you stay home and rest, I’ll do anything.” “Please don’t go. Okay?” Samantha stopped drying her hair. She lowered her eyes and sighed. “Babe, I already signed the contract with the client. If I back out now, we’d owe three times the penalty fee.” She adjusted the towel wrapped around her body, shifting to expose her calf. I stared at that spot. Above her knee, there was a coin-sized bruise. Purplish-blue. For the past two months, she’d been locking the bathroom door. She wouldn’t even let me in to deliver clean clothes. The occasional glimpse of her arms and thighs always showed unexplained bruises. Last week, it was on the inside of her left thigh. The week before, her arm. Every time I asked with concern, she had perfect excuses. “The bathroom’s so slippery. I bumped into something.” “Hit the corner of my desk. You know how clumsy pregnant women get.” I believed her. My heart ached for her. I covered our entire bathroom with non-slip mats. I bought foam bumpers and padded every sharp corner in the house. I wished I could turn myself into cotton and wrap her in it. Turns out I really am cotton. A wad of cotton people use to wipe their ass. What kind of bump leaves a mark on the inner thigh? What kind of slip produces bruises that look like finger marks from someone squeezing hard? I stared at her calf. My stomach churned. Samantha seemed to notice my gaze. She pulled the towel down to cover her leg. She walked over and naturally wrapped her arms around my neck, smelling of body wash. She buried her face in my neck and nuzzled. “Babe, blow-dry my hair for me.” “I leave early tomorrow morning. I want you to spend more time with me.” If this were yesterday, I would’ve thought this was a sweet burden. Now I just felt disgusted. Every hair on my body stood on end. I stiffly picked up the hair dryer, running my fingers through her hair. Hot air roared, covering my rapid breathing. What am I to her? A sucker who provides a paycheck and a stable life? “How many days this time?” I turned off the dryer. My voice was so cold it scared me. “Three days. I’ll be back Sunday.” Samantha turned around and wrapped her arms around my waist, pressing my hand to her belly. “You’re gonna miss us, right? Me and the baby?” My hand rested on the curve of her stomach. “Yeah. I will.” Six months along. Is it even mine?

Once that thought took root, I couldn’t bury it. “The client—man or woman?” I tried to sound casual, turning to fold clothes. “A man. Some old guy in his fifties. So annoying.” Samantha complained as she stood up to grab the storage bag. My heart jumped to my throat. She opened the bag, checked it, but didn’t dig to the bottom layer. “These are maternity sets. So comfortable.” She muttered to herself, sealed the bag, and put it in the suitcase. I turned to pour water, avoiding her eyes. Afraid I’d lose it and slap her across the face. “Babe, did you pack that pregnancy oil? I’ll need it there too.” She smiled and walked over, hugging me from behind, her hand rubbing her belly. “The baby just moved. You wanna feel?” Her chest pressed against my back. I felt no warmth. Just a snake wrapped around me. She lied. Without hesitation. Like it was nothing. That kind of composure doesn’t develop overnight. I gripped the water glass. My knuckles turned white. “Yeah.” I took a sip of water, but all I tasted was bitterness. “Get some rest. You have a flight tomorrow.” I pulled away from her embrace, got into bed, and lay with my back to her. That night, I listened to her breathing, eyes open until dawn. In these five years, how much else has she been hiding from me? Her so-called business trips—what the hell has she really been doing? Six a.m. Samantha got up. She put on light makeup. Said she needed to look fresh for the client. She wore a loose trench coat that hid her baby bump. She looked almost girlish. I stood on the balcony, watching her wheel her suitcase to the door. “Babe, I’m leaving. I’ll text you when I land.” She turned at the entrance, blowing me a kiss. I leaned against the doorframe, expressionless, and nodded. “Safe travels.” The moment the door closed, I grabbed my car keys and bolted. I’d already called in sick. Even if the sky fell today, I wasn’t going to work. To avoid being spotted, I didn’t take my usual car. I borrowed my neighbor Rick’s beat-up van, saying I needed it to help a relative move stuff. Samantha didn’t take the subway. She hailed a cab at the gate. I followed from a distance, keeping two car lengths behind. The cab got on the highway, but it wasn’t heading toward the airport. My hands strangled the steering wheel. My knuckles went white from the pressure. I knew this route. It led to the city’s most exclusive wealthy district. Half an hour later, the cab stopped in front of “Skyline,” a private club. I knew this place. Members-only. Annual fees start at hundreds of thousands. Rumor had it they offered every kind of service. Total privacy. Samantha got out of the cab but didn’t go straight in. She stood at the entrance, looking around, then pulled out her phone to text. I parked across the street in the shade, cracking the window open. Even from a distance, I could see the anticipation and excitement on her face. Two minutes later, the club’s main door opened. A tall man in a black suit walked out. The moment Samantha saw him, she jogged over—completely ignoring her six-month pregnancy. She hooked her arm through his with practiced ease. His hand went straight to her waist. Samantha giggled and playfully hit his chest, pressing her body closer. I sat in the car, feeling all the blood in my body rush to my head. I grabbed my phone from the passenger seat and frantically snapped photos. Who the hell is this guy?

I can barely recognize this face anymore. We first met five years ago. A rainy night. Outside a convenience store. She’d been kicked out by her landlord for not paying rent. She was curled up in a corner, soaked to the bone. I held my umbrella over her and brought her back to my tiny rental. That night, I cooked her instant noodles. She cradled the bowl and drank every drop of broth. She looked up, eyes red, full of trust. “Liam, can I be your wife? Let’s never be apart.” After I got paid, I’d buy her roasted sweet potatoes from a street stand. She’d break one in half and feed it to me, her mouth smudged with ash, her eyes crescent moons when she smiled. That was Samantha when she was with me. Simple, poor, but her eyes shone. She’d hold me from behind, her face pressed to my back, arms around my waist. “Liam! I want to be with you forever!” Three years married. Five years together. I treated her like a princess. I gave her my whole paycheck. Did all the chores. Never forgot a holiday gift. We’d traveled to every corner of the country together. After she got pregnant and her feet swelled, I massaged them for half an hour every night. When she craved the pizza from across town at midnight, I’d drive there without a second thought. I held her in the palm of my hand. And she trampled me into the dirt. I don’t understand. I really don’t. Wasn’t I good to her? Why did Samantha become like this? Just as they were about to enter the building, I sent Samantha a text from my own phone. “Honey, did you get to the airport? Did you get your boarding pass?” Less than a minute later, she replied. A photo of her in an airplane seat. Blue sky and white clouds outside the window. She held a cup of orange juice. No makeup. If I weren’t standing outside the club right now, I would’ve believed it completely. The photo was obviously Photoshopped ahead of time. Or an old one from her gallery. Then came a voice message. I played it. Her voice was sickeningly sweet. “Just sat down. The baby kicked me. Babe, make sure you eat well, okay?” “Bad signal. I’m turning my phone off. I’ll text you when I land.” I listened to that voice message over and over. She’s got one man on her arm while pacifying the fool at home. Does she get off on playing two men like this? I let out a cold laugh. But tears betrayed me, streaming down my face. I wiped my face and pulled up the tracking app on the backup phone. Last night, while she slept, I’d installed a hidden GPS program on that phone. I didn’t dare check the chat history. Afraid I’d lose control and strangle her on the spot. Even if she was just sexting people online, for the baby’s sake, I could play dumb. The red dot blinked. The location showed she was in the building right in front of me. Moving fast. The dot finally stopped on the 8th floor.

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Six years I gave Damien Krest. He gave me back a contract — three years as his secret mistress, on call like a damn escort. I thought it was a prenup. I’d already picked up the pen, ready to sign. But the words staring back at me read: Mistress Agreement. Three-year term. On call at all times. Renewed upon satisfaction. My fingers tremble. “Damien, what the hell is this?” He lights a cigarette without looking up, his tone lazy and cruel. “The family’s been pushing. The Don arranged a match — someone from the right bloodline. I have to get married.” “Then what about me?” My voice comes out raw. He glances up, smiling like he doesn’t have a heart. “Baby, let’s be fair here.” “Your old man walked out on you and your mom, then limped back when his liver gave out , and you held his hand. Your ex drained your accounts and ghosted , and you still paid off his bookies. So don’t stand there looking at me like I’m the villain.” “All I’m asking is for you to become my side piece. That’s not unreasonable, is it?” … The terms are printed in black and white, each clause more blinding than the last. “Party B must be available on demand and shall not inquire about Party A’s whereabouts.” “Party B shall not display affection toward Party A in public.” “Should Party B become pregnant, she must handle it on her own…” I stare at that last line. My hand drifts to my stomach without thinking. My fingers are ice cold. Damien leans back on the couch, exhaling smoke. His gaze lands on me, light as air. “Sign it.” He flicks ash off the cigarette. “What are you waiting for?” I set the contract down. My voice shakes with fury. “Damien… we’ve been together for six years.” “And?” He smiles. “Six years, and you still never made it through the front door, did you?” That sentence is a knife — aimed right at the place I’m most afraid to touch. He’s right. Six years. He brought me to every family gathering, every gala. But the introduction was always “my assistant.” Maybe his mother sensed something. More than once she hinted: “You should really think about settling down, dear. It only gets harder as a woman gets older.” I thought she was pushing for our wedding. Turns out she was just giving me a polite nudge toward the exit. “Then what were these six years?” I ask. Damien stubs out his cigarette, stands, and walks over to me. “They were mutual.” He reaches out, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “Ivy, you stayed with me six years. I took care of you for six years. That little paycheck of yours , how many times would it have covered your dad’s medical bills? And those tens of thousands your ex owed the loan sharks, didn’t you pay that off with my card?” He pauses, then smiles. “Baby, be fair. You had no problem using me. Now I’m using you. It’s an even trade.” My eyes burn, but not a single tear falls. He never said these things before. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t true. My father did abandon us. Then he got old and sick and came crawling back. I’m pathetic — too soft-hearted. I spent every penny I had keeping him alive. As for my ex… He was nobody. A guy I dated for one month before we split over “incompatibility.” I only found out he’d stolen my identity to take out loans when the sharks showed up at my office. Damien stepped in and made it go away. I know I owe him. I just didn’t know he was keeping score. “So,” I push his hand away, “you’re saying these six years meant nothing to you? I was just an investment?” Damien laughs. “Not quite. What kind of investment value could you possibly have?” He pulls out a bank card and sets it beside the contract. “There’s five million in here. Sign, and it’s yours.” “Be my mistress for three years. After that, you want to renew, we renew. You don’t — the money’s still yours.” I stare at the card. Five million. Enough to pay off every debt I owe — but not enough to buy me. That sentence rolls around my throat three times. I never say it. Because I think of my father’s care facility fees. If I don’t pay by next week, they’ll send him back to me. Damien knows I can’t afford it. That’s why he can toss that card in front of me so casually. Like throwing a bone. Waiting for me to gnaw on it. “Well?” He watches me hesitate, then lights another cigarette. “Not enough?” I don’t speak. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Six years with me? Half a mil is a little low.” He blows smoke in my face; it stings my eyes. “But that’s the rate I pay a mistress. Not a girlfriend. Your current status — that’s what it’s worth.” He pauses, then smiles. “Of course, you don’t have to sign. But if you don’t, you can’t stay in this apartment either.” My heart feels like someone’s squeezing it in a fist. Six years together. I always thought of this place as home. The succulents on the balcony , I grew them one by one. The spice rack in the kitchen , arranged exactly how I like it. The nightstand always held a photo of us together. I thought this was our home… Turns out I was just a tenant who could be evicted at any time.

“Damien,” my voice is still shaking, “if you don’t have feelings for me, we can part ways like adults. There’s no need to humiliate me like this.” “Feelings?” He says it like it’s a joke. “Ivy, did your father have feelings for you?” “Did your ex have feelings for you?” “When you poured your heart out to people — did any of them have feelings for you?” He insists on talking like this. Insists on making me admit — every relationship I’ve ever fought to hold onto never truly belonged to me. “They all did, I guess?” He answers his own question, his tone suddenly softer. “At least once upon a time.” My tears finally fall. Not because he’s being cruel — but because for one terrible second, I think he’s right. “Signing or not?” He holds out the pen, impatient now. I reach out and take it. I flip to page two, clause five: Should Party B become pregnant, she must handle it on her own… My hand freezes. Damien adds casually from beside me: “Relax. I won’t let that happen. My fiancée’s family is very traditional — no bastards before the wedding.” Fiancée. The title I craved for six years — and it was never mine. Not for a single second. “Damien, what if I told you I’m already—” The words reach my lips and die there. Forget it. What would it change? I lower my gaze and say flatly: “What if I told you my mother and I already discussed it — we’re planning a wedding next month. Would you still be making me sign this?” “Your mother?” He laughs. “That useless woman drowned herself in the ocean. Who exactly did you discuss this with?” He exhales slowly, smoke blurring his expression. “Even without all this mess between us, I had no plans to get married this young.” “Next month? You’ve got quite the imagination.” I close my eyes. Six years. We’re both pushing thirty. That’s not young. A wedding that never happens , because from the very beginning, it was never going to. I open my eyes. My fingers finally stop trembling. I sign the last page. “Good girl.” Damien picks up the contract, smiling with satisfaction. “Everything stays the same. Only difference — from now on, you call me Mr. Krest.” He leans down and presses a cold kiss to my forehead. “Be good.” He leaves. The door closes softly. I look down at the bank card. Slowly, I sink to the floor and bury my face in my knees. Outside, it starts to rain. As hard as the night six years ago when he pulled me out of the storm. Back then, he was the one holding the umbrella. Now he’s the one pushing me into the rain. I don’t know how long I stay there. My legs go numb. My tears dry up. I stand slowly, walk to the bathroom, turn on the faucet, and splash cold water on my face. Until that face in the mirror is calm again. Then I pick up my phone and dial a number. “Mom. You were right. I lost.” “That thing you mentioned before… don’t wait. I’m ready to start.” A pause on the other end. “Are you sure? Once it begins, there’s no turning back.” I look out the window. “I’m sure.”

The next morning, I go to the care facility first. My father sits in a wheelchair, pushed into the courtyard by an aide to get some sun. He’s aged badly. His hair is all white. He looks like a tree hollowed out by rot. I hand over the bank card. “There’s five million on this. Enough for the best facility, the best care. From today on, I won’t be coming back.” “Because — she wants me clean when I see her.” His lips tremble like he has a hundred questions. I don’t give him the chance to speak. Some memories, I don’t want to touch anymore… But the moment I turn around, they flood back anyway. The year he went bankrupt, he knelt in front of me, asked if I could forgive him. I suddenly find it laughable. My mother gave everything fighting for a man and got nothing but a cheap apology in the end. So I swore I’d never be like her , crying, clinging, losing everything. Just as I’m about to tell him “I don’t forgive you,” a flash of white cuts across my peripheral vision — a van, out of control, barreling straight toward me. The next second, a massive force shoves me aside. I hit the ground hard. When I look back— He’s lying in a pool of blood, the bumper embedded in the left side of his body. He took the hit for me. That’s why he ended up in the care facility. Five million — not because he’s my father. It’s me paying back a life. After that, I go to work like normal. Damien walks into the office while I’m sorting files. He glances at me. No expression. “Ivy, bring the quarterly reports to my office.” “Yes, Mr. Krest.” I say it naturally. He’s the one who falters. “You adapt fast.” He murmurs it under his breath. He passes me, his fingers deliberately brushing the back of my hand. I don’t flinch. I don’t respond. Our relationship was never exactly a secret at headquarters. Six years of him picking me up after work, bringing me to events — everyone knew without being told. But he never made it official. A relationship that was never official ,now he calls me “Ivy,” I call him “Mr. Krest,” and to everyone watching, it actually looks proper. That night he sends me a location pin. I take a car. I push open the suite door and find rose petals scattered across the floor and a silk negligée hanging on a rack. She’s not here. But her perfume still is. Damien’s voice comes from behind me: “Seen enough?” I turn around. He’s leaning against the doorframe, cigarette in hand, watching me with that half-smile. “The engagement gala is next week. I need you there to help.”

I pull out the calm I’ve trained myself into these past weeks. “Help with what?” Their engagement gala has a top-tier event planning team handling everything. They don’t need an ex-girlfriend stirring things up. “Greet the guests. You know everyone at headquarters — keep them comfortable.” He exhales smoke. “Serena also thought it’d be nice for you to witness our happiness.” I let out a small laugh. That last part is the real point. “Sure.” I pull out my phone to take notes. “I’ll confirm the details with you at the office tomorrow, Mr. Krest. If there’s nothing else, can I go?” His fiancée just left. He won’t need me staying the night. After all, a mistress only serves one purpose. He narrows his eyes. “You’re not upset?” “Would you like me to be upset, Mr. Krest?” He doesn’t answer. He stubs out his cigarette, walks over, and grips my chin. “Ivy, honestly. You’ve changed a lot lately.” “Changed into—” He tightens his grip. “Something a little irritating.” I keep my eyes down. “What would you like me to be, Mr. Krest? I can adjust.” Back then, what drew him to me was exactly this — the fact that I was close enough to have him but never once asked for anything. He used to call it dignity. Now he calls it irritating. The one who changed was never me. “Forget it.” He stares into my eyes for a long time, then lets go. “Go home.” I turn to leave, but he wraps his arms around me from behind. His chin rests on my shoulder. His voice comes out muffled: “Do you know why I won’t let you go?” He means the Mistress Agreement binding me to him. I don’t know either. At the very least, I thought two people who don’t love each other could split peacefully. “Because you’re too obedient. You never make things hard for me, never fight with me, never ask where I’ve been or who I’ve seen. Not like her — checking up on me every damn day.” His arms tighten. “Sometimes I think, if you just had a proper family behind you, I wouldn’t have to marry someone else.” I almost laugh. In the end, he’s blaming me for not having a better bloodline. But he forgets — he’s the one who pursued a girl with nothing. “Mr. Krest,” I gently peel his hands off me, “what color should I wear to the gala? I’ll get something ready.” His hands freeze in midair. Maybe the evening wore him out. He doesn’t have the energy to push back. He lets me go. Outside the hotel doors, I realize my palms are bleeding where my nails dug in.

The day of the engagement gala, I’m stationed at the entrance handling the guest book. Champagne in hand. My eyes can’t leave the couple everyone’s congratulating. In a daze, I think back to the day I signed the Mistress Agreement. I’d quietly slipped the pregnancy report into the study drawer. I thought — once he finds it, a proposal would be the natural next step. So when he pulled out that contract, my heart leapt. I thought it was a prenup. In these powerful families, signing one is perfectly normal. I was willing. Because all I wanted was him. I never imagined six years together would end as a joke. In one moment, I became a dirty secret — a mistress hidden in the shadows. Near the end of the gala. Serena stops in front of me, smiling warmly. “So you’re Ivy?” I blink, then nod. “Damien mentioned you. Said you’ve been with the organization for years — very capable.” I return a few polite words. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, by the way — starting next week, I’m having him move out of that apartment. We’ve already picked out our new place.” “I figure it’s awkward for you to stay there, so… you might want to start looking for somewhere else.” My fingertips jolt. The sting behind my eyes nearly spills over. I swallow it down while pretending to straighten the guest book. “Of course… I’ll take care of it.” The words barely leave my mouth before she picks up the champagne glass beside me. Before I can react, she lets out a shriek. “Ah—!” “You — how could you throw your drink on me?” Then a slap cracks across my face. I press my hand to my cheek and look up to see her — drenched, eyes glistening red. Half the room turns to stare. Damien walks over, frowning. “What happened?” Serena throws herself into his arms, sobbing: “Damien, I was just kindly letting her know you’re moving out, telling her to find a new place — and she threw champagne on me…” “Ivy.” “I didn’t—” My voice is raw. “So what — she poured it on herself and then came over to slap you?” His logic is flawless. No one would believe a bride-to-be would ruin her own dress on her big night. And he’s already decided I think of that apartment as my territory. His voice turns cold. “Apologize.” I don’t move. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You know what today is. If this blows up, it’s bad for you. Apologize — or don’t bother showing up tomorrow.” I look at him. Six years ago he pulled me out of the rain and said, “No one’s ever going to hurt you again.” Six years later he holds the woman who just hit me in his arms — and tells me to apologize. The scab over my chest tears open again. I lower my head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spilled my drink on you.” Damien isn’t satisfied. But he turns and waves the crowd away. “It’s fine. Misunderstanding. Everyone move along.” Before he goes, he gives me one last look. “Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up. Don’t embarrass yourself out here.” I touch my swollen cheek and the hair shaken loose by that slap. Right. How embarrassing. But the most humiliating part — is the man I loved for six years convicted me in front of everyone without even asking. I pick up my phone and send one message: [Move everything up.] Then I smile through my tears.

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My husband FaceTimed me every night for three years—turns out he was calling from her bed. The first year Ethan transfers to the New York office, he FaceTimes me every night until midnight. The second year, it becomes once a week. The third year, FaceTime stops altogether—just texts. I understand. He’s busy. Until one day, he sends me a message: “Mom wants you to come to Connecticut. She says there’s something to discuss.” I take time off work and fly out. His mother is sitting in the living room. Next to her stands a woman I’ve never seen before. “Quinn, dear, I’m not asking you two to divorce. I just want you to be a little more open-minded—give Vivian a place in this family.” “She’s been by Ethan’s side at the New York office this whole time. You’ve seen it yourself—his numbers have been so much better these past two years.” I look at the woman. She keeps her head down and says softly: “I’m already pregnant. The baby needs a father.” His mother picks up right where she left off: “You still haven’t gotten pregnant after all these years. Is there something wrong with you? I’ve already found a fertility specialist. You’re starting treatment.” I sit on the couch without saying a word. Then I stand up, grab my bag, and walk toward the door. I barely step outside when I see Ethan’s car parked at the curb. He gets out and sees me. He freezes. The passenger door opens too. A little boy, maybe two years old, reaches his arms out toward Ethan and cries: “Daddy! Up!” … Two years old. Nine months of pregnancy, plus two years. That lines up exactly with his first year in New York. The man who FaceTimed me every night until midnight—who once ordered me soup delivery at 2 a.m. because I mentioned a sore throat—got another woman pregnant during that very same time. Ethan clearly didn’t expect me to walk out right then. His hand hangs frozen in midair. He hasn’t even closed his car door. The little boy in the passenger seat squirms restlessly, babbling Daddy, Daddy in that high-pitched toddler voice. Vivian rushes out from the house and grabs my arm. “Please don’t blame Ethan. It’s all my fault.” “I’d had too much to drink that night, and I threw myself at him. You’re the only one in his heart.” I shake her hand off and lock my eyes on Ethan. Ethan finally snaps out of it. He strides over and positions himself in front of Vivian. “Quinn, let me explain.” I stare at that familiar face and feel my stomach lurch. “Explain what?” “Explain how you spent your days in her bed, and then at night, you’d FaceTime me and call me babe?” Ethan’s face goes white as a sheet. He lowers his voice, a thread of desperation creeping in. “Quinn, not here. My mom is still watching from inside the house.” I laugh. So in his mind, me calling out his lies is making a scene. His mother comes outside now too, holding a half-peeled orange. “Quinn, dear—men, you know how it is. Business dinners, social obligations. These things happen.” “Besides, Vivian’s been doing her part—gave us a boy on the first try, and she’s pregnant again.” “You can’t conceive. You can’t expect the Carter family line to just die out, can you?” I turn to face her. “I can’t conceive?” “Ethan, did you not tell her? That you wrecked your health binge-drinking for business deals, and I destroyed my hormones staying up night after night nursing you back to health?” Ethan looks away. He can’t meet my eyes. Vivian’s eyes redden on cue. She shrinks behind Ethan’s back. “I know you must feel wronged.” “I don’t need a title. I just want to stay by Ethan’s side.” “The baby can call you Mommy. I’ll be the nanny—I’ll serve you both.” How noble. How selfless. Ethan hears this and the guilt in his eyes instantly transforms into tenderness—for her. He wraps his arm around Vivian’s shoulder. When he turns to face me, his tone has hardened. “Quinn, Vivian has already bent over backwards. What more do you want?” “These past two years, if she hadn’t been at the New York office helping me build connections, I never would have made it to where I am.” “You stayed here the whole time. You have no idea how hard things have been for me.” I have no idea how hard things have been for him. All I know is that the startup money for his transfer came from selling my grandmother’s house. All I know is that I reread his once-a-week texts over and over, like a lifeline. I take a deep breath and pull a black voice recorder from my bag. He’d had it custom-made for me during his first year in New York. Inside is his voice: “Quinn, give me three years. I promise I’ll bring you to New York in style.” I press play, right there in front of him. A man’s tender promise echoes down the empty street, grotesquely absurd. Ethan’s breath catches. He lunges to grab it. I let go. The recorder hits the pavement. I lift my foot and bring my heel down hard. The crack of shattering plastic is sharp and satisfying. “Ethan. We’re done.” I turn and walk away. Behind me, Ethan shouts my name—but his footsteps are cut short by Vivian’s gasp. “Ethan, my stomach—it hurts so bad…” I don’t look back. I flag down a cab and slam the door shut.

I don’t go back to the hotel. I go straight to the airport. I buy the next available flight and return to the city where we built our life together. The apartment is full of him. Matching slippers by the door. Two sets of everything in the bathroom. Our fifth-anniversary photo on the wall. I find a suitcase and start packing. Nothing that isn’t mine. And even the things that are—I only take the bare essentials. I’ve just zipped it shut when the lock clicks. Ethan stands in the doorway, disheveled, his tie pulled loose, bloodshot eyes wild. He actually followed me back. He sees the suitcase on the floor and panics. Three quick strides and his hand is clamped over mine. “Quinn, wait—calm down.” “I admit I screwed up. But I never once thought about divorcing you.” I stare coldly at his fingers pressing down on the back of my hand. “Let go.” He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls me into his arms. “No.” “That child was truly an accident. At the company celebration dinner, I blacked out.” “By the time I woke up, it had already happened.” “Then Vivian got pregnant, and the doctor said her condition made termination life-threatening.” “What was I supposed to do? Just watch her die?” He pushes every ounce of blame onto accidents and impossible choices. I shove him off and slap him across the face. The crack echoes through the living room. Ethan’s head snaps to the side. Half his face blooms red instantly. “The first child was an accident. What about the second one she’s carrying now?” “Did you black out and accidentally fall into bed with her again?” Ethan has nothing to say. He looks at me, and a flash of irritation crosses his face. “Quinn, do you have to be this crude about it?” “I already told you—you’re my wife. You’ll always be my wife. Most of my assets will go to you.” “Vivian doesn’t want anything. She just wants a complete family for the children.” “Why can’t you just be a little understanding?” I’m so disgusted I actually laugh. “Understanding?” “Ethan, do you think now that you’ve made Regional Director, you’re entitled to have it all?” “What do you think this marriage is? What do you think I am?” He drags his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Then what do you want me to do?” “Strangle a two-year-old? Push Vivian off a building?” “Quinn, you never used to be this cold-blooded.” Cold-blooded. So in his mind, the woman who refuses to welcome his mistress and bastard child is the cold-blooded one. My heart goes numb, inch by inch. My phone buzzes. A text from Vivian. A photo—her lying in a hospital bed, selfie-style, the logo of a private hospital visible behind her. The caption: “I know Ethan rushed back to calm you down. I’m here alone on bed rest. I’m really scared, but I don’t blame you. I just want you two to be okay.” Then a second message pops up. A photo of a stock transfer agreement. Ethan transferred thirty percent of his shares to someone named Lucas Carter. The two-year-old’s name. I hold the screen up to Ethan’s face. “This is what you meant by ‘most of my assets will go to you’?” Ethan sees what’s on the screen and his expression changes completely. “Quinn, listen—Mom forced me to sign that. She said it was security for the child…” I don’t want to hear another word. I grab my suitcase and walk around him toward the door. “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. The courthouse.” “If you don’t show up, I file for divorce and send this agreement to your company intranet.” Ethan doesn’t chase me. Because his phone rings, and on the other end is Vivian’s feeble, weeping voice.

The next day, Ethan doesn’t show up at the courthouse. He sends me a long message. Says Vivian might lose the baby. So he can’t make it.He can’t leave. Says he won’t sign the divorce papers. Tells me to calm down. I don’t reply. I go straight to a lawyer and have a petition for divorce drafted. But what I don’t expect is for Ethan to strike first. A week later, the company holds its annual gala. I’m the lead architect at the Boston branch. Attendance is mandatory. The venue is in New York. The moment I walk into the ballroom, I feel the stares. Whispers everywhere. “That’s her—three years of marriage and she can’t produce an heir.” “I heard their director already has a second kid on the way with someone else, and she’s still clinging to her position like some kind of squatter.” “Pathetic. If I were her, I’d have taken the money and left.” I sweep my gaze across their gossiping faces and walk straight to my seat. On stage, Ethan stands in a tailored suit, delivering the year-end address. His eyes find me across the crowd. A warning flickers in them. The awards segment begins. Designer of the Year—a project I pulled three all-nighters to finish. The host announces the winner with theatrical enthusiasm. “This year’s Designer of the Year Award goes to—Vivian Cole!” My head snaps up. Vivian glides onto the stage in a designer gown, her belly slightly rounded, basking in applause. She takes the trophy, eyes glistening as she gazes at Ethan. “I want to thank Mr. Carter for his guidance. Without him, I wouldn’t be here today.” Thunderous applause. I sit in the corner, shaking. That project was mine from start to finish. Vivian can’t even use CAD. Ethan takes the microphone. His eyes lock directly onto mine. “In addition to tonight’s awards, I have an announcement.” “Ms. Quinn Shaw will be taking an indefinite medical leave, effective immediately.” “The position of Design Director at the Boston branch will be filled by Vivian Cole in the interim.” Every eye in the room turns to me. Some with pity. Some with mockery. Most with gleeful contempt. Ethan is using this to break me. He’s stolen my work, gutted my career, humiliated me in public. All to make me understand: without him, I am nothing. I stand up. No hysteria. No fleeing. I walk to the front of the stage and look up at Ethan Carter. “Mr. Carter, claiming someone else’s work carries legal consequences.” Ethan’s brow furrows. He lowers his voice. “Quinn, stop making a scene. I put Vivian’s name on the project as compensation to her.” “If you want money, I’ll pay you double privately.” I look at that sanctimonious face and feel physically ill. “You took my work to compensate your mistress?” “Ethan, you truly never stop amazing me.” Vivian chimes in softly from beside him. “Please don’t blame Ethan. I just wanted a chance to prove myself.” “Don’t worry—I won’t take a cent of the prize money. It’s all yours.” Her words draw murmurs of admiration from the crowd. “Vivian is so gracious.” “Seriously—a barren hen, and she still has the nerve to act entitled.” A sudden, vicious pain rips through my lower abdomen. Like a knife twisting inside me. I press my hand to my stomach. Cold sweat breaks across my forehead. Ethan thinks I’m faking it. He lets out a cold laugh. “Quinn, pulling the same trick twice isn’t going to work.” “Security—please escort Ms. Shaw out.” Two large security guards walk over and grab my arms on either side. I’m in too much pain to even struggle. They half-drag, half-carry me out of the ballroom. As the doors slam shut behind me, I hear Vivian’s coy little voice from inside. “Ethan, the baby just kicked me!”

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I was reborn. Reborn to the day my whole pack got slaughtered. Same night. Same spot in the woods. I’m hiding behind the same rock. Killian finds me again. He’s standing over me, breathing hard, blood on his chest. Not his. “Anyone else from your pack make it out?” Last time, I said no. I didn’t know Vanessa was alive. I didn’t know she was three miles away, hiding in a hollow tree, waiting. The rogues found her before he did. They kept her three months. She came back pregnant. He blamed me for it. Took me as my mate anyway, because he owed my father. And then he punished me for ten years. His last words to me were, “Next time, I won’t pick you.” Funny. Here we are. I look up at him. “My sister. Vanessa. She’s in the old hollow tree by the creek.” The second the words leave my mouth, a figure comes running out of the dark. She grabs my hands, tears all over her face. “Cara — Cara, are you hurt — I thought I’d never see you again —” Her hands are warm. “I’m okay,” I say. Killian steps closer. His shadow falls over both of us. He takes off his cloak and puts it around Vanessa. “It’s cold. You’re shaking.” His voice is soft. His eyes never touch me. Not once. So that’s why he was fifteen minutes late this time. Vanessa wipes her face. “Cara, this is Alpha Killian. He visited our pack once when we were pups, do you remember?” She tries to say more. Her face crumbles. She can’t. Killian’s hand on her arm goes white. “Not here,” he says. “I’m taking you both home.” Killian walks with Vanessa. I follow behind. His eyes never come back to me. He’s keeping his promise. The one he made on his deathbed. Next time, I won’t pick you. Good. This life, I can finally breathe. Three days through the forest. We reach Killian’s territory. Vanessa and I get placed in the same wing of the pack house. Misty Pear House. The wing he banned me from, last life. It’s hers. White pear blossoms in the courtyard, just like our family home. Her incense burning. Her tea on the table. Except the painting is gone. Last life, I walked in here once. By accident. Killian was standing in front of a painting of a she-wolf. His eyes were soft — the kind of soft I never saw, would never see. Before I could see her face, he turned and caught me. “Who let you in?” “I told you. You don’t step foot in here. Not in this life.” I didn’t understand the regret in his eyes then. He punished me anyway. Three nights, no fire, dead of winter. My knees ached so bad I couldn’t sleep. I begged him to stay in his bed a little longer, just for the warmth. He laughed. “The Whitepine pack was supposed to raise respectable she-wolves. How did they end up with a slut like you?” That night he ripped me apart. I almost died. “Anything else you need? I’ll have it sent over.” His voice. Right behind me. Soft. Sweet. Talking to her. Vanessa laughs. “Alpha, you spoil me. I have everything.” She turns. “Cara? What about you?” His eyes land on me for the first time since the woods. Like a hand around my throat.

The pressure is suffocating. My legs ache again. I drop my head. “Thank you, Alpha. I don’t need anything.” A quiet laugh. I don’t have to look up. I heard that laugh ten thousand times last life. Cold, with mockery underneath. That life was too heavy. Whatever happens this time, I’m done with this male. But I can’t avoid him. Because of Vanessa, he’s here all the time. Honey cakes. Romance novels. Little gifts to make a she-wolf smile. She’s falling for him too. I can see it. Good. Without me in the way, they were always meant for each other. “Cara, do you think it’s pretty?” Vanessa holds something up. A wolf-tooth pendant, two wolves curled around each other, tied to a leather cord. I nod. “It’s beautiful. Your hands are the best in our pack. He’ll love it.” She lowers her head, smiling. “You always know what to say.” Then her smile thins. “There are so many high-ranked she-wolves here. I don’t know if Alpha Killian would even —” “He will.” I say it too fast. Because I remember. Last life, after Vanessa came back, after Killian and I were already mated, I was desperate. A she-wolf told me — males can’t resist a handmade token. Carve one. Put your scent on it. My hands are clumsy. The two wolves I carved looked like drowned rats. I kept cutting my own fingers. There was blood on the cord by the time I finished. That same week, I saw Killian walk out of Vanessa’s wing, smiling. A wolf-tooth pendant on his belt. Hers. Of course. The she-wolf wasn’t wrong. Males do melt for tokens. She forgot to add — only from the female they actually love. For a few days after that, Killian was almost kind. Even brought me cakes from the bakery on the east side. I never gave him my ugly pendant. It disappeared. Someone probably thought it was trash. A maid calls Vanessa out. She sets the pendant down and goes. I stare at it. If I could carve like that, would someone love me too? A shadow falls over the table. I think it’s Vanessa. I pick the pendant up to hand it back. I look up. Black eyes. Right in front of me. Killian’s mouth twists. “Cara. What are you trying now?” The disgust hits me before the words do. “You’re really that cheap? Crawling into my bed again?” “I told you. I will never take you as my mate. Get it through your head.” The old fear rolls through me. He smells like that winter — pine, frost, blood. My hands shake. It takes forever to find my voice. “Alpha. This isn’t mine. Vanessa carved it for you.” He freezes. Something twists across his face. Half a second. Gone. “Alpha?” Vanessa, in the doorway. He steps back. His face smooths out. Soft again. “Cara was showing me something. Said it was yours.” Vanessa goes red. But she stands tall. “Forgive me, Alpha. I don’t have much to offer. But my hands are decent. I made it for you.” I shove the pendant into her hand and run. My legs are still shaking outside. I wipe sweat off my forehead. Spring in this territory. Why is it still so cold.

By that afternoon, the whole pack house knows. Alpha Killian has claimed Vanessa as his Luna. The mating ceremony is set for the third of next month. It moves through the halls like fire. Maids, guards, everyone buzzing. Red banners going up by sundown. Alphas from neighboring packs sending gifts before nightfall. So this is what it looks like when an Alpha takes the female he actually wants. Last life, my mating ceremony took one day to plan. He looked at me with empty eyes. “My parents are dead. You’re a rogue’s daughter. We’re not making a fuss.” I nodded. He saved me and wanted to make me his Luna. I had no reason to say no. His parents had been Alphas. Guarded the northern border for two generations. Died there. That was the official story. My father was Beta of the Whitepine pack. Got dragged into a power struggle between two of the Lycan King’s heirs. Our whole pack got slaughtered. Thirty-five wolves. Dead in one night for nothing. Killian taking in the only orphan to clear his debt to my father — nobody questioned it. He just didn’t love me. That was all. I touch my face. Wet. I wipe it fast. Cried once. That’s enough. That night, Vanessa crawls into my bed like we’re little she-pups again. “Cara. Are you happy I’m getting mated?” I pick my words. “Of course. Alpha Killian is good to you. He’ll be a good mate.” She looks at me. “Yes. He will.” Her voice changes. “But I’m worried about you. We’re rogue’s daughters, Cara. The King hates our pack name. One day even an Alpha won’t be able to protect you.” I don’t fully get it. But ten years with Killian taught me how to read a face. Something cold in her eyes. Something pulling away. I make my voice small. “Sister — what should I do?” She strokes my hair. “Don’t be scared. I’ll find you a mate of your own.” Next day, she takes me out. Excuse: buying things for the ceremony. Real reason: she lines up four males for me. I turn down them all. Warriors remind me of Killian. The last one is Caleb. Beta of a smaller pack on the south side. Soft eyes. Quiet voice. Hands that have never held a blade. He gives me a small handmade rabbit toy at our first meeting. Little wood-carved thing with floppy ears. I want to give him something back. I sneak into the kitchen the second we’re home. I’m not good at much. But I can bake. Even Killian — who never said a kind word — used to eat what I made without complaining. Honey cakes. My mother’s recipe. I want Vanessa to taste one first. I head to her wing with the box. The first person I see in the courtyard is Killian. I drop my eyes. “Alpha.” He walks toward me. Slow. His eyes drop to the box. The mockery is so casual it burns. He reaches in. Takes a cake. Crushes it between his fingers. “Cara. You really aren’t afraid to die, are you.” Low and mean. My lips go white. You don’t owe him anything anymore. I step back. Keep my voice flat. “These are for my sister. And for Caleb. If the Alpha wants honey cakes, the kitchen can make some.” His hand stops. “Caleb. Who is Caleb.” The door opens. Vanessa walks in, light as anything. “Caleb is the Beta I picked for Cara.”

Something flickers across Killian’s face. Gone in a second. His voice goes flat. Cold. “She’s too young. No rush to find her a mate.” Vanessa laughs. “You don’t know how a she-wolf’s mind works. Caleb and Cara are alike — both gentle, both kind. His pack is a little small, sure, but that means no politics either.” She looks at me. “Besides, Cara likes him.” I nod fast. Anything to make Killian stop looking at me like that. “Caleb is great. He made me a rabbit toy on the first day.” Killian says nothing. His eyes are dark. Unreadable. But he’d never get mad at Vanessa. That stare is terrifying. I slip back to my room before he can say another word. Behind me, Vanessa’s voice floats through the door. “Are you upset with me?” A little pout in it. Playful. “It’s my fault. I should’ve told you first. Punish me if you want. I can take it.” I can’t help it. I glance back. Killian’s mouth curves, just barely. He leans down and says something low. Vanessa swats his arm, blushing. Last life, watching this would’ve torn me apart. Jealousy, bitterness, all of it crashing over me like a wave. This time — nothing. Good enough. The honey cakes never made it out. Killian sent word: giving gifts in private is what loose she-wolves do. It shames the pack. His pack doesn’t need that kind of embarrassment. Last life, after I became his mate, that’s the word he used most. Loose. Shameless. If it weren’t for my father, he’d never have taken me. He hated that I couldn’t read. Hated that I wasn’t smart enough. Three days after our mating ceremony, he brought in a tutor. History. Math. Everything, crammed into my skull until my head was splitting. Every night he tested me. Every wrong answer — his hand came down. Hard. The pain shot from my palm through my whole body. “Cara. Again.” His face like stone. I was so scared I passed out. When I woke up, the tutor was gone. Killian never brought it up again. “Cara, you’re the dumbest wolf I’ve ever met.” He stared at my bloody palms, mouth full of ugly words. “What the hell did your father teach you? How did you turn out like this?” But then he took my hands, one at a time, and dabbed medicine on them. Gentle. Careful. Light through the window on his lowered brow. That was Killian. Always like that. Hit you, then patch you up. Like training a dog. That night I couldn’t sleep. Killian’s face kept snarling through my dreams. I woke up drenched in cold sweat. But none of it happened. Not this time. The ceremony is getting close. The pack house is busier every day. Caleb keeps sending little things. He’s not a talker, but he makes you feel safe. I write him back every time. The dark cloud from the last few days starts to lift. Until a servant from Caleb’s pack delivers a message. “Beta Caleb says he’s been reassigned to a pack down south. Leaving today. He wants to know if you’d go with him. If you’re willing, he’ll meet you at the south gate.” I go quiet. Before I can answer, one of Vanessa’s maids rushes in. “Miss! The Luna-to-be broke out in a rash — her whole body — please come quick!” My stomach drops. I run. It’s an allergic reaction. Someone put hazelnut in the morning porridge. I tell the maids to boil herb water and wash her down. After one round, the rash fades. Vanessa falls asleep, exhausted. I pick up the basin and head out. A tall shadow blocks the doorway. “What’s wrong — your perfect little mate gets taken away, so now you’re walking around with a face like a corpse?”

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