Category: English

My husband asked me to abort our baby so his mistress could keep hers. The package showed up at my door that morning. I thought it was from Ethan — something thoughtful, something for our baby. It was thoughtful, all right. Just not for me. Inside was a VIP contract for the most exclusive postpartum care center in the city. Top-tier. Six-figure deposit. The kind of place where you booked a year out and prayed. I stared at it for a second. Then I called him. “Ethan, why the rush?” I said, smiling into the receiver. “The baby’s only three months along. You didn’t have to book this early.” A pause on the other end. Then his voice came through, warm and soft. “Baby, cut me some slack — it’s my first time doing the dad thing. I just wanted to get ahead of it. Put it aside. I’ll handle it when I get home.” Something warm bloomed in my chest. “God, you’re already nailing this dad thing.” Everyone praised Ethan Lockwood as the perfect husband. He doted on me. Anticipated my needs. Took care of every detail of the pregnancy. I ended the call and stood there smiling for a second, like an idiot. Then I flipped to the second page. Estimated due date: next month. The 15th. My baby was only three months along. I knew the date by heart, because Ethan had cried when I’d shown him the first ultrasound — the kind of broken crying I’d never seen from him before. Next month. Next month? I read the line again. And again. And that was the moment — standing in my own foyer, in the house my husband had picked out for us, holding a contract with my name on it — that I understood something. The first-time father in his voice hadn’t been for me. The gentleness. The of course I don’t know what I’m doing, let me take care of it — none of it had been for me. He knew exactly what he was doing. He just wasn’t doing it for me. Maybe it was a printing error. That’s what I told myself. But my hand wasn’t listening. I pulled up the maternity center’s website. Tapped the contact number. Something cold and slow began to spread behind my ribs. “Seraphine Maternity Suites, how may I help you?” “Hi. I’d like to check on an order. Number 8867. Patient name Nina Lockwood.” “One moment, please.” The hold music clicked on. Then off. “Mrs. Lockwood?” The receptionist came back, her voice warm as melted butter. “Yes, ma’am, your reservation is fully confirmed. Estimated due date is the fifteenth of next month. You’ve booked the Platinum Suite — that’s our top-tier accommodation. Mr. Lockwood paid in full. The physical contract was couriered to your address. You should have it in hand any day now.” My hand trembled. “Are you — are you absolutely certain it’s Nina Lockwood?” I pressed. “Confirmed, Ms. Moore,” she interrupted. “Mr. Lockwood left a special note — you’re expecting twins and need extra care. Don’t worry. Our facility’s fully equipped. Medical team’s on standby twenty-four seven. You and your babies will be safe.” The phone almost slipped out of my hand. Twins? I hung up. Sat down on the couch. My hands and feet had gone ice cold. The name was right. The ID number was right. But I was carrying one baby. Only three months pregnant. And Seraphine? Seraphine was the kind of place that even a week’s notice was enough. There was no reason on earth to book this far ahead. Unless you needed the name on the paperwork to match a face that wasn’t going to be there. I sat very still. My hand drifted, almost without permission, to the small flat curve of my stomach. Whose baby was she carrying — and why was it due next month?

Ethan didn’t come home until well after midnight. I didn’t turn on the lights. I’m not sure why. Maybe I wanted to see his face in the moment before he could arrange it. Maybe I just didn’t trust my own expression under a lamp. The contract was spread open on the coffee table in front of me. I’d reread that one line so many times I could’ve recited it backwards. He had three years to learn my face. He should know what’s coming. “Nina?” The hall light clicked on. His footsteps came toward me, slow and tired. “Sweetheart, why are you sitting in the dark? You know that’s bad for —” I didn’t answer. I just looked at him. After a beat, he came closer, every line of his face arranged into something gentle and concerned, the role he’d been playing for three years and was very, very good at. He bent down to kiss my forehead the way he did every night. I turned my face away before his lips could land. “Nina?” There was a small, careful confusion in his voice now. “What’s wrong?” “Ethan.” I kept my voice level. “The contract from the maternity center arrived today.” “The due date is next month. And it says I’m carrying twins.” For half a second — just half — his face did absolutely nothing. Then he laughed, soft and rueful, and crouched down in front of me. He took my hand in both of his, the way he always did when he was about to talk me out of something. “God, sweetheart, I was going to tell you about that today.” His thumb traced over my knuckles. “Their system glitched last week — merged two patient files together. I already called and chewed them out. They swore to me they’d fix it.” He looked up at me with the same warm, apologetic eyes I’d been looking into across a kitchen table for three years. He squeezed my hand. “Come on, baby. You’re pregnant. You can’t let yourself spiral over something like this. It’s not good for her.” A week ago, I would’ve believed him. A day ago, I would’ve believed him. But this time, I was really looking. And I didn’t miss the flicker of panic at the bottom of his eyes.

Wait. The panic in his eyes told me he was about to. “A glitch in the system,” I repeated softly. I slid my hand, slowly and deliberately, out from under his. “Then how did the pregnancy timeline — the one someone wrote in by hand — also come out wrong?” His thumb, which had been tracing my knuckles, stilled. Three months ago, the day the second little pink line had shown up on the test stick, this man had wept into my hair and sworn — he’d never forget the date as long as he lived. But on that contract, neither date had anything to do with me. I waited. I gave him the chance. I watched him, hoping he’d give me a reason I could believe. He didn’t speak. A small, hot tremor crept into my voice before I could stop it. “It’s because the top suite at that place is impossible to get into, isn’t it.” I wasn’t asking anymore. “That’s why you booked so far in advance. That’s why you put it under my name.” “You couldn’t risk her name showing up anywhere.” “Nina —” Ethan rose to his feet. He turned away from me, ran a hand through his hair, and stood with his back to the room. For a long time, he didn’t say anything at all. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet I almost missed it. “Her name is Lena. She — she’s an intern at the company.” My mind went blank. Lena. Lena Moore. Nina Lockwood. Two syllables apart. Almost a joke, if you said them too fast. “At last year’s Christmas party—” His voice was strained now, threaded with something he wanted me to read as shame. “I’d had too much to drink. She — she’s just a girl, Nina. She’s under a lot of pressure right now —” Too much to drink. I almost laughed. In three years of marriage, had no one ever bothered to tell my husband that when he drank too much, he physically couldn’t get it up? “After that night,” he went on, eyes on the floor, “she got pregnant. The doctor told her it was twins. She wanted to terminate. I was the one who told her not to. They’re — they’re two lives, Nina. I couldn’t —” “So she’s giving birth at the maternity center,” I finished for him. “Under my name.” He didn’t answer. “That way you can keep playing the devoted husband.” “After all — your wife, Nina Lockwood, really is pregnant.” “Everyone will think I’m the one who gave birth. Your illegitimate children will become legitimate heirs right under their noses.” He flinched, but he didn’t deny it. “You even prepared the cover-up for yourself ahead of time,” I said. “How thoughtful of you.” I could feel tears tracking down my cheeks now, hot. “Nina, I love you. From beginning to end, I’ve only ever loved you.” He knelt again and took my hands. “She was an accident. I feel nothing for her. I just—” “I couldn’t let a young girl terminate her pregnancy. It would damage her health. Once the babies are born, she’ll leave. I promise.” I looked at him. This man I’d married three years ago. This man I’d thought, with absolute conviction, I was going to grow old beside. “You can’t stand her having an abortion… so I should have one?” Something flickered across his face — too fast to name. And then, slowly, he fell silent. No more explanations. No more denials. No more talk of how much he loved me. He just knelt there at my feet, head bowed, and said absolutely nothing. And that silence — God — gutted me. Because that was the answer. The answer he’d walked into this room hoping I’d give him myself, so he wouldn’t have to be the one to say it out loud. He didn’t want my baby.

It hit me all at once, then went ice-cold. Slow, creeping ice that filled every space inside my ribs. “Nina.” When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were still wet with that same careful pain. But the words coming out of his mouth were colder than anything he’d said yet. “She’s been falling apart these last few weeks. Worried sick the babies won’t have a name. That they’ll grow up as nothing.” He paused. The sympathy in his eyes was so undisguised that for a second I couldn’t breathe. “Two nights ago, she slit her wrists with a kitchen knife. Luckily, the maid found her in time.” He dropped his eyes to the floor. “You’re healthy, Nina. You bounce back fast. And —” his voice dropped lower, almost gentle, “you’ve done this before. One more time — it’s not gonna matter.” I went lightheaded. The kind of lightheaded where your ears start ringing. “What,” I whispered, “did you just say.” He wouldn’t look at me. He kept his eyes fixed on a single point on the floor, like a man who’d already rehearsed this conversation in his head and knew meeting my eyes would ruin the whole performance. “She’s different,” he said. “She’s only twenty-three. It’s her first pregnancy. She’s alone in this city. No family, no one to lean on —” I opened my mouth, and no sound came out. “I know you feel hurt.” His grip on my hand tightened. “We — ” “We can have another one later, Nina. You bounce back so easily. You got pregnant just fine after the first miscarriage. You’ll get pregnant again after this. Everything will be fine.” He looked up at me then, and — God help me — there were actual tears glittering in his eyes. “Just — just do it for me,” he whispered. “Please. Just this once. For me.” I stared at him. Looked into those wet, beautiful, lying eyes. And I laughed. “Ethan.” My voice came out very soft. “Do you remember why I miscarried the first time?” He froze. “Because your mother decided I wasn’t good enough for you,” I said. “Because she cornered me at the top of the staircase to tell me so. Because she argued with me, and I fell down the stairs.” His face paled. “I was twenty-three then too,” I went on, in the same quiet, conversational voice. “It was my first pregnancy too. I was alone in this city too. I’d left my own town, my own parents, my own life — for you.” He started to say something. I didn’t let him. I kept going, my voice flat. “You don’t remember, do you?” “Nina, my mother didn’t mean to—” “I know.” I cut him off softly. “That’s why I forgave her. I believed her. She looked terrified afterward. Genuinely terrified.” I tilted my head. “She just didn’t expect that you’d be standing two feet behind me on those stairs, and you didn’t catch me.”

Ethan’s face went white. “Nina —” His voice rose, sharp with something like panic. “How can you say that? That was my first child too. Why would I ever have let you fall on purpose?” I looked down at his hand. The hand still gripping mine. The hand that, three years ago, hadn’t caught me. The same hand that was now holding mine — and asking me, very tenderly, to lose another one. “So.” I drew my hand, slowly, out of his. My voice was very quiet now. “Your mother shoving me. You not catching me. Our baby dying.” “That was all just an accident.” “Yes,” he said, almost desperate. “Yes. It was an accident. Nobody wanted it to happen.” “Then tell me.” I held his eyes. “Is this one an accident, too?” He didn’t answer. This is for the baby he wants me to kill. “Her getting pregnant is an accident. You asking me to abort our baby is an accident.” “Tell me something, Ethan. Why is it that every Lockwood accident always happens to me?” The color came rushing back into his face in a furious red wave. The room was silent for a long time. For a long moment, I thought he wouldn’t speak again at all. Then, in a voice cracking at the edges, he said: “Nina. What the hell am I supposed to do?” He looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, raw, like he hadn’t slept in days. “There’s you on one side. Her on the other. And two babies.” “What the hell am I supposed to do?” I looked at him. “What are you supposed to do?” My voice was deadly quiet. “I’m the one asking what I am supposed to do.” And then, because I couldn’t hold it in for one more second, I broke. “She’s young. First pregnancy. Bad for her body. So she gets to walk away unscathed — and I deserve to suffer?” I was shaking. “She gets a Presidential Suite and twins and a future. And I get the operating table. Is that the math, Ethan?” “That’s not what I meant —” “Then what did you mean?” He didn’t answer. I looked at this face I had looked at across a pillow for three years, and suddenly it felt foreign. “Ethan.” My voice came out so quiet, it didn’t even sound like me. “Do you know what that’s called?” His lips moved, but nothing came out. “It’s called murder,” I said, slow and even. “You’re asking me to kill my own baby with my own hands.” “So I can raise your bastards.” “Nina —” I didn’t think about it. I didn’t decide. I raised my hand and slapped him across the face as hard as I could. The crack of it rang through the apartment. His head snapped sideways. He didn’t move. He just stayed frozen there, half-kneeling on the carpet at my feet, one hand drifting up to cover his cheek. My palm was numb. My chest was worse. “That slap,” I said, “was for the baby in my stomach.” I stood up. I didn’t shake. I didn’t cry. “Ethan. You are the one who didn’t want him.” I looked down at him and took a breath. “I want a divorce.”

He covered his cheek with one hand. And — somehow, impossibly — there was hurt in his eyes. “Hit me again if you want. I deserve it.” “But don’t you ever say the word divorce to me. Not ever.” “I told you. I never planned to be unfaithful. There is nothing wrong with our marriage —” His phone rang in the middle of the sentence. He froze. His eyes flickered down to the screen, and I watched him weigh it for a few seconds. He stood up and walked off to take the call. When he came back, his face had rearranged itself into something carefully apologetic. “Something urgent has come up at the office. I have to go in.” I looked at him. I didn’t say a word. “Just — calm down for tonight, all right, sweetheart? We’ll talk properly when I’m back.” He took a step toward the door. Then, of course, he turned around. “In her condition,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes, “out of basic responsibility, I have to keep an eye on her too.” “She’s close to her due date. These next few weeks I won’t be able to get away. And you — you, alone in this big house, hugely pregnant, no one to look after you — how miserable would that be?” “Better to do it now, while it’s still early. You’d suffer less, too.” “Once her babies are born, we’ll bring them home. We’ll put them under your name. You’d still be Mrs. Lockwood. They’d have a place in the family.” “Nothing between us would have to change.” He looked at me, walked out without looking back. The apartment went still. I sat there for a long time, looking at the door. Then I laughed. He made it sound so reasonable. *She was about to give birth, so he had no time to take care of me. I would be alone, carrying my belly, with no one by my side.* So why not just end it first? The night outside the window was deep and black. I just sat there, one hand on my stomach, and let the hours bleed into each other. I didn’t cry. I was past that. I had nothing left to give this man — not even my tears. By the time the doorbell rang, the sky outside was already pale. I crossed the apartment on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else, and opened the door. My mother-in-law stood there, with Bridget — Calder’s new wife — at her side. “Oh, Nina, honey. You look terrible. Have you eaten anything at all?” Bridget stepped inside first and grabbed both my hands. I tried to pull back. She held on. “Mom got the call last night and didn’t sleep a wink, sweetheart. She had me drag her out here before sunrise to come see how you were holding up.” Mrs. Lockwood walked past her. She settled onto my couch like she owned it. That slow, unhurried grace — I used to think it was elegance. Now I knew more. I sat. “Mom knows you’re hurting, dear.” She took my hand. Her rings were cold against my fingers. “I’ll have a serious talk with Ethan, I promise you. But Nina — you have to be reasonable too.” “That girl is carrying twins. That’s two lives.” I looked at her kind, lined face. I listened to every word coming out of her mouth — reasonable, decent, two lives. “Mother.” My voice came out raw, hoarser than I’d expected. “Are you saying the same thing as Ethan, then?” “Are you telling me to abort my baby?” Her expression didn’t change. Not by a flicker. Not by a millimeter. “They’re all my grandchildren. Of course it breaks my heart to lose any of them. But that girl is threatening to take her own life, Nina.” “One wrong move and we’d lose her and the twins — three lives, all at once.” She patted my hand, the way you’d humor a child. “That’s not how Lockwoods handle things, dear. It’s beneath us.” Beneath us. So forcing me to abort my own baby — that wasn’t beneath them, was it? I pulled my hand back. I stood up. “I can’t do it,” I said. My voice was very quiet, and very steady. “This is my child. I’m three months along. He has a heartbeat.” “I am not aborting him.”

Mrs. Lockwood’s face darkened. Beside me, Bridget let out a long, theatrical sigh, walked over, and slipped her arm through mine. “Nina, sweetheart, why are you being so stubborn?” She pressed me gently back down onto the couch. “Sit. Take relax. Let me say something to you, woman to woman.” I let myself be pushed back into the cushions. She kept hold of my hand, leaning in close, lowering her voice the way she did at parties. “Nina, sweetheart, you know what I do for a living. I deal with all kinds of people, every single day. And let me tell you — sometimes in life, you can’t just live for your pride.” “You have to play the long game.” Her voice dropped. “This whole mess? Yes. It’s Ethan’s fault. Nobody’s saying it isn’t. But think about it, honey. If you blow this up — what happens to his name? His reputation? The family’s reputation?” “And in the end, who pays the price?” “You do, Nina.” She squeezed my hand. “A woman has to learn to think about the bigger picture.” The bigger picture. I almost laughed in her face. Once upon a time, to get herself into this family, Bridget had deliberately befriended me. Used me to slip something into Ethan’s older brother Calder’s drink at a party. Used me and walked out of that night with her wanted marriage in her pocket. And now here she was. “Bridget.” I kept my voice perfectly level. “So what do you think I should do.” She paused for a second. Then she smiled. “I think you should listen to Mom, sweetheart. She’s been around the block a few more times than you have. She wouldn’t lead you wrong.” Mrs. Lockwood nodded. The kindly mask slid back over her face as easily as a glove. “As long as you behave, dear, I’ll make sure the Lockwoods continue to treat you. Every bit of respect that’s owed to you — you’ll keep. Down to the last cent.” I looked at her. “And what about my baby?” “Why can’t you listen, child?” Her voice dropped, and the warmth went out of it like someone had flipped a switch. “You’re not having a child.” She let the words sit for a second. “Your accounts have all been frozen. If you see reason, you’ll still have good life of this family. If not —” She paused, and her eyes — those soft, grandmotherly eyes — went cold. “The Lockwoods are not a family someone like you can afford to offend.” I bit my lip and said nothing. They didn’t bother trying to persuade me further. They stood up, smoothed out their coats, and let themselves out. The house went silent again. I picked up my phone and checked my banking app. I had trusted him completely. Now, besides the supplementary card he gave me, even my own private accounts were useless. My hands trembled. Every card I owned was dead in my hands. I was sitting there staring at the screen when footsteps sounded outside the door.

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The day Lily was supposed to move into her dorm, my phone lit up with two notifications. The first was Ethan’s Instagram post. In the photo, he stood between Vanessa and Mia in the lobby of The Peninsula, champagne flutes raised, captioned: “Three days of celebration for our girl. Proud of you, sweetheart.” The second was an email from Morrison & Sons Funeral Home, asking me to select an urn. On Orientation Day, six men dragged my daughter into a restroom on the east side of campus. They found her face-down in a flooded urinal. Not a single inch of her left unmarked. Three days. I identified the body, hunted down every last one of those animals, and watched them get hauled away in handcuffs. I arranged the cremation. I signed the paperwork. I did it all alone. Ethan was nowhere. I called him over a thousand times. Not one picked up. Just a single automated text he’d set for when he was busy: “In a meeting. Don’t disturb.” The morning they slid Lily into the cremation chamber, I tried one final time. The phone rang three times before someone declined the call. I stood there in that sterile white room, clutching my dead daughter’s belongings in a plastic bag, and I remembered something she’d said last year. It was her birthday—another one he missed. She’d blown out the candles alone, then turned to me with those old, tired eyes no seventeen-year-old should have. “Mom, if I die someday and Dad still isn’t in home—don’t tell him. Don’t let him come to my funeral, okay?” Okay, baby. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, booked a one-way flight, and printed the divorce papers. We don’t need his absence anymore. …… The funeral home was cold. The woman behind the counter kept glancing at the door behind me as she handed over the urn. “Just you? Where’s her father? It’s the girl’s last journey—it’s cruel if he doesn’t show.” I looked at my phone. The lock screen showed my messages. Clean. Empty. No reply in three days. Only subscription alerts from apps I never opened. I tucked the phone away. “I don’t know where he is.” “Maybe busy.” “Too busy for his own child’s—” She caught herself, softened. “I’m sorry, honey. You shouldn’t be doing this alone.” I’d seen that look dozens of times in the past seventy-two hours. Pity. From the detective. From the hospital staff. From the school counselor who called me ma’am in that careful, gentle voice people use around the freshly destroyed. I had no tears left. I took the urn—warm from the kiln, impossibly light for everything it held—and walked out. Behind me, their voices carried across the parking lot. “God, that poor woman. Her daughter was supposed to start college that day—” “Full scholarship too. Top of the whole state on her practice exams.” “And the mother tracked those boys down herself. Didn’t sleep for three days.” “The husband never showed. Not once. Maybe she’s widowed?” …… The house was dark when I got home. Past midnight. No lights on, no dinner left out, no sign anyone lived here who might have worried. Twenty years of marriage, and I was used to this. If Ethan wasn’t at the firm, he was with Vanessa. With Mia. Driving them somewhere, fixing something, buying something. Present for them in all the ways he’d never been for us. Our share of his time? There was none. For eighteen years, Lily and I split one portion of undercooked affection between us, and pretended it was enough. Now Lily was gone. And a marriage built on perpetual absence meant nothing to me anymore. I set the urn on her desk and began packing her things. Every object I touched—her hairbrush, her SAT prep books, the stuffed rabbit she’d had since she was four—cut into me like dull glass, slow and ragged. Her phone buzzed. I froze. Then picked it up. A message from Mia. A photo: an amusement park. The one Lily had begged Ethan to take her to ninety-nine times. He’d promised ninety-nine times. Showed up zero. The hundredth time, Lily held my hand beneath the Ferris wheel and waited until dark. Across the river, fireworks went up—Ethan throwing Mia a birthday party. He’d forgotten it was Lily’s birthday too. After that night, Lily never asked again. The photo was slightly blurred, a candid shot, but clear enough to gut me. Ethan—my husband, who recoiled if a stranger brushed his sleeve—carrying Vanessa on his back in the rain. One hand holding her heels, the other gripping Mia’s hand. The three of them laughing, soaked, a portrait of something warm and whole. Something Lily and I never had. Beneath it, two voice messages. Mia’s voice, sweet and breathy: “Uncle Ethan, you said if I got into a good school, you’d grant me one wish. So here’s my wish—will you be my dad?” A long pause. Then Ethan’s voice, low and fond: “Alright.” “Then I’m calling you Dad from now on! Dad, you’re the best!” Giggles. Silver-bell laughter. And Ethan, amused, indulgent: “Settle down, I’m still carrying your mother here.” I stared at the screen until it went black. Then I opened my own phone. Typed nothing. Deleted nothing. Just stared at his empty chat for a long, long time. The booking confirmation chimed. Day three. Departure at dawn.

I didn’t know when Ethan came home. When I opened my eyes, daylight was already filling the bedroom. He sat at the kitchen table eating toast, scrolling through his phone like any other morning. “When did you get back?” My voice came out wrecked—sandpaper over gravel. My forehead burned. Carrying Lily’s urn through the rain without an umbrella had done its work. “An hour ago. Vanessa got caught in the rain yesterday, her cycle’s about to start—I stayed to make sure she was alright.” Stayed. All night. Same rain. Same city. Same hours I spent shaking with fever, alone with an urn still warm from the fire. I said nothing. My eyes drifted to his wrist. A braided band, red and gold. “Is that a blessing bracelet from St. Clement’s?” “Mm. Vanessa’s daughter had her move-in this week, so I stopped by the cathedral to pick one up. Seems to have worked—Mia’s feeling good about her placement.” Stopped by. St. Clement’s was forty minutes uphill on a single-lane road. No parking within a mile. “Then why’d you bring it back?” “Lily’s not starting until next year, right? Vanessa thought we could save the luck for her.” Next year. Lily was starting this year. She would never start at all. He didn’t remember. But he remembered Vanessa’s cycle down to the day. I managed a small smile. Said nothing. Waited for him to finish. Then: “Are you free this afternoon? I need you to take a case for me.” He looked up, surprised. “What kind of case? Important?” My throat locked. It took everything I had to push the words out, flat and steady. “Important. A friend’s daughter was dragged into a bathroom during move-in week and—I need those men to get the maximum sentence.” Ethan nodded. Didn’t refuse. “Sure. What time? Vanessa mentioned Mia left a pen at the registration office—it was her father’s, sentimental value. Let me grab that first, then I’ll head straight to you.” “Two o’clock. The hearing’s today. If you go now, there’s barely enough time.” “Can’t the case wait one—” “It can’t. Please. This means everything to me. I’ll buy Mia a new pen.” Ethan sighed. Patient. Gentle. Immovable. “It’s not about the pen, Claire. That’s the only thing Mia has left from her father. They’ve been through so much, those two. It’s a small thing—let me do this for them.” “It won’t take long.” I watched him leave. Thirty-five miles round trip, for a pen. Three hours passed. Then four. Then the final boarding call for the courtroom came and went. Ethan didn’t come. I wasn’t surprised. But I called anyway. Third attempt, he picked up. “Where are you?” My voice was so calm it frightened me. “I’m sorry—Mia’s classmates, some boys, they’ve been falsely accused of assault. It’s urgent, Claire, these kids could lose everything. Your friend’s daughter can appeal—let me handle this first.” I begged him to fight for his own daughter. He told me Mia’s friends mattered more. “Forget it,” I said. “There won’t be a next time.” I hung up. Called another attorney. Paid triple the retainer for an emergency appearance. He arrived with minutes to spare. But when I stepped into the courtroom, I froze. Ethan was already there. Sitting on the other side of the aisle. Suit pressed, files open, perfectly composed. My husband—representing the men who killed our daughter.

“Claire? You’re the plaintiff? Your friend’s daughter is the one making accusations?” Ethan’s brow creased the instant he saw me across the courtroom. So that’s what it was. The men who murdered my daughter—those were the innocent boys he was defending. And Lily, my dead child, was the liar. The accuser. I laughed. It came out sharp and ugly. “Do you believe her, or do you believe me?” Ethan hesitated. Just a beat. “Maybe your friend misled you. These things aren’t always what they seem.” He said everything by saying nothing. The case went exactly as I expected. Ethan Whitmore—the Ethan Whitmore, the defense attorney every prosecutor in the state feared. I knew better than anyone what he could do in a courtroom. There wasn’t a case he couldn’t win. The lawyer I’d hired at triple rate didn’t survive a single round of cross-examination. Every piece of evidence I’d spent three sleepless days collecting, Ethan dismantled with surgical precision, calling it circumstantial, insufficient, unreliable. He hadn’t read the victim’s file. Hadn’t looked at the name on the report. He’d taken Mia’s word—just Mia’s word—and built his entire defense around it. And he won. Not guilty. All six released. The men who held my daughter’s head underwater walked out of that courtroom free. I drove home in silence. Went straight to Lily’s room—half-packed boxes everywhere—and lay on her bed. The smell of her shampoo still clung to the pillow. Lavender and vanilla. The dam broke. I don’t know how long I cried before the overhead light snapped on. Ethan. Home already. Holding a pink box. “Why are you sleeping in Lily’s room?” He barely glanced around. Didn’t notice the half-empty shelves. “After court, Vanessa wanted to thank me for helping Mia—took me to dinner. She thought you might be upset about losing, so she sent this.” He held up the box. “Strawberry cake. Her and Mia’s favorite. They insisted.” He pushed it toward me. I didn’t take it. When Lily was five, she ate strawberries laced with residual pesticide. Went into anaphylactic shock. Nearly died on the way to the hospital. After that, strawberry was banned from this house. I’d told him a hundred times. He remembered every one of Vanessa’s preferences. Never once remembered ours. When I didn’t move, Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Still upset about the trial? Look—Mia explained everything. Those boys were innocent. The girl was—she had a reputation. Slept around. Probably negotiated a price and things went sideways—” The slap cracked through the room before I knew my hand had moved. He stumbled. Touched his cheek. Stared at me. “Do you have any idea,” my voice shook so badly the words barely held together, “that the girl you just called a slut is—” “Enough.” His tone was still level. Still reasonable. Still that calm, authoritative voice he used to shut down arguments. “Fine. I cost you the case. I’ll take responsibility for that. But don’t—” I looked at him and felt every drop of fury drain out of me at once, replaced by something vast and empty. “You’re right. You think what you want. I need to go out—move aside.” Lily’s school still had her belongings. I needed them back. Ethan shifted, then paused. Scanned the room for the first time. Something flickered across his face. “Where’s Lily? Haven’t seen her in a few days.” Three days. It took him three days to notice his daughter was missing. Three days during which he’d argued in court that she deserved what happened to her. “She’s out.” “Hm.” He didn’t ask where. I didn’t offer. I was reaching for my shoes when he spoke again. “Oh—Claire, Vanessa and Mia are coming over tonight. Pick up some lobster on your way back, would you? She loves it.” She loves it. I’m allergic to shellfish. “Sure.” Twenty-seven hours until my flight. I was done fighting.

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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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I lay on the delivery bed in the private clinic, each contraction threatening to rip my body apart. My husband, Dante Corsetti, held my hand, his eyes so tender they could melt. “Just a little longer, Valentina. We’re about to meet our baby.” I was drenched in sweat from the pain, but I still managed to squeeze out a smile for him. Then the nurse walked in carrying a syringe. I assumed it was the epidural. But Dante suddenly let go of my hand and stepped back. The instant the needle pierced my skin, I heard him give the order: “Eleanora wants her baby born first. Get the dosage right—she has to wait until Eleanora delivers.” I stared at him wide-eyed, but he simply glanced down at his watch. “Eleanora’s already six centimeters dilated. Just stall for two more hours.” I wanted to scream, to fight back, but the drug was already flooding my bloodstream. The violent contractions in my abdomen were suddenly strangled— Cut dead. …… …… I was wheeled into a makeshift cell converted from the clinic’s basement. Dante’s sister, Bianca, stood in the doorway, toying with a scalpel. “Valentina, don’t blame my brother.” “The baby in Eleanora’s belly is my eldest brother’s child—the only male heir of this generation of the Corsetti family. The future Don.” “No matter how early you deliver, it’s just a girl. Useless.” I clutched my stomach. A new wave of contractions was battling the drugs, and the pain was blinding. “Get the doctor. I’m about to deliver, I really am—” Bianca let out a soft laugh, walked over, and crouched in front of me. “Deliver what?” “The drug’s good for another three hours. Eleanora’s already gone into the delivery room.” “Just sit tight like a good girl. Once her son is safely born, you can push all you want.” She stood up and called to the guard at the door: “Keep an eye on her. If she starts screaming, gag her.” The door slammed shut. I lay on the freezing concrete floor, the blood beneath me already soaking through my skirt. My phone had been taken the moment I entered the clinic. Dante said the radiation was bad for the baby. Now I realized it was just to stop me from calling for help. I curled into myself, trying to breathe through the pain, but all I could see was the look in Dante’s eyes. Cold. Calculating. Like he was appraising a tool. Not a wife. Not the woman about to bear his child. Three months ago, his older brother Nico had died in a car accident, leaving behind a widow three months pregnant—Eleanora. At the funeral, Dante’s father, the old Don, had clutched Eleanora’s hand, tears streaming down his weathered face. “You must carry this baby to term safely. The Corsetti bloodline cannot end.” I’d felt sorry for Eleanora then. I’d stepped forward and offered: “Dad, don’t worry. My baby with Dante will protect this family too.” The old Don had looked at me once and said nothing. So from that moment on, my child had already been written off. “Ahhh—” Another contraction hit, fiercer than the last. The drug was wearing off. The baby was coming. I clawed my way upright and pounded on the door with everything I had. “Someone! I’m in labor! Save my baby!” Dead silence on the other side. I screamed until my voice gave out before the guard’s irritated reply finally came: “Shut up. The young miss said to wait.” “But the baby—” “If it dies, that’s fate. Shouldn’t have been a girl. A daughter can never be the Don’s heir.” I slid to the ground, cold to the bone. But someone wanted my child dead. Death should not be this baby’s destiny.

I don’t know how long I lasted in that basement. The blood kept coming, pooling beneath me until everything was soaked through. Just as consciousness began to slip away, the iron door swung open. It wasn’t Bianca. It wasn’t the guard. It was the family’s private physician, Dr. Bianchi. One look at me and the color drained from his face. “Valentina? What are you doing here?” “The Don told me you were resting in the VIP suite, ready for delivery—” I tried to speak but couldn’t produce a sound. All I could do was point at my belly, tears streaming endlessly. Dr. Bianchi rushed over and knelt to examine me. The moment his hands touched my abdomen, he sucked in a sharp breath. “Fully dilated! Her water’s broken! And she’s hemorrhaging!” “We need surgery immediately!” He tried to lift me, but the moment I moved, a hot surge gushed between my legs. Blood. So much blood. Dr. Bianchi’s hands were shaking. He shouted toward the door: “Help! Someone help! The patient is hemorrhaging!” The corridor was empty. Not a soul answered. This private clinic was wholly owned by the Corsetti family. Tonight, for Eleanora’s delivery, the entire building had been cleared—every last nurse and doctor reassigned to the third-floor delivery suite. Dr. Bianchi pulled out his phone to call for help, only to find there was no signal in the basement. He gritted his teeth. “I’ll carry you upstairs. Hold on!” He heaved me into his arms and staggered toward the exit. The stairwell was steep and dark. Every step jolted through me like a knife. I could feel the baby descending, but the drug’s lingering effects made the contractions erratic—surging one moment, vanishing the next. That agonizing limbo made me want to die on the spot. “Dr. Bianchi…” I clutched his collar, barely a whisper. “Save my baby. Please.” “Don’t worry—you’re both going to be fine!” He finally reached the first floor and sprinted toward the operating room. But at the door, we both froze. The operating room stood wide open—and completely empty. The surgical lights, the operating table, the monitors, the oxygen machine—every piece of medical equipment was gone. Nothing remained but a bare room and a few power outlets on the walls. Dr. Bianchi stood rigid. I heard a strangled sound rise from his throat, like someone had seized him by the neck. “How is this possible…” “I checked the equipment this afternoon…” Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. Bianca approached with two nurses in tow. Spotting us, she raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Bianchi, what are you doing down here?” “Eleanora is on the third floor, about to deliver. Why did you wander off?” Dr. Bianchi pointed at the gutted operating room, his voice trembling: “The equipment—where is the equipment?” Bianca’s expression was pure innocence. “Moved to the third floor.” “Eleanora’s carrying the family heir. She needs a C-section—only the best equipment will do. What if there’s an emergency? A standard OR would never cut it.” Her gaze drifted to me, and she smiled. “Oh, is Valentina in labor?” “She’ll have to wait. Eleanora isn’t finished yet.” “Just hang in there a bit longer. It won’t kill you.” I stared at that perfectly made-up face and suddenly remembered how, six months ago, she’d looped her arm through mine while shopping, cooing: “Valentina, you’re so wonderful—even better than a real sister. I’m going to take such good care of you.” I’d felt sorry for her then, growing up without a mother. I’d bought her a custom bracelet worth over a hundred thousand. Looking back now, what a colossal joke.

Dr. Bianchi tore into the adjacent nurses’ station like a man possessed, ripping open cabinets in search of emergency supplies. Every shelf was bare—not even a basic hemostat or roll of gauze. “The medications! Hemostatics! Oxytocin!” He roared at the two nurses. One of them answered in a near-whisper: “They’ve all been sent to the third floor.” “Mr. Dante ordered that all medical resources be prioritized for Ms. Eleanora.” Dr. Bianchi slammed his fist against the cabinet. He looked at me with bloodshot eyes, his lips quivering: “I’m sorry, Valentina. I’m so sorry…” “There’s nothing I can do…” Bianca strolled over and patted his shoulder. “Relax, Doctor.” “Valentina hasn’t actually delivered yet, has she? Once Eleanora’s done, we’ll bring the equipment and meds right back down.” She glanced at the blood still streaming between my legs and added: “Even if it does come out, it’s just a girl. Lose it and move on.” “The Corsetti family is not short of heirs.” I fixed my eyes on her. On this woman I’d loved like a little sister for three years. Then, with every ounce of strength I had left, I forced out two words: “You’re. Vile.” Bianca’s expression hardened. She bent down, brought her lips close to my ear, and dropped her voice low: “Go ahead and curse. Knock yourself out.” “Once you’ve delivered and your body’s wrecked, I have plenty of ways to shut you up.” “When that happens, the title of Donna will belong to Eleanora.” “As for you—” She straightened up, flashing a smile so radiant it was blinding. “For my brother’s sake, we’ll let you keep your life. You can serve the household as a maid.” Dr. Bianchi couldn’t take it anymore. “Bianca! This is murder!” “Murder?” Bianca scoffed, her eyes like ice. “Watch your mouth, Doctor.” “Women die in childbirth all the time. It’s perfectly ordinary.” “Besides, which member of this family hasn’t seen a dead body?” She turned to the guards at the door and waved her hand. “Escort Dr. Bianchi to the break room.” “I’ll look after Valentina myself.” Two guards stepped forward immediately, seizing the struggling doctor and dragging him away. Dr. Bianchi fought against them, shouting: “Valentina! Press the pressure point below the carotid artery! And the median nerve on the inside of your wrist! Press them repeatedly! It can stimulate contractions!!” “Don’t give up! You have to hold on!” His voice faded into the distance. Bianca shut the nurses’ station door. She turned, pulled out her phone, and placed a video call. “Hey, big brother. Valentina’s about to give birth. She’s bleeding a lot—want to take a look?” Dante’s face appeared on screen. He was standing outside the third-floor delivery suite, medical staff bustling behind him. “Valentina, stop making a fuss.” His voice was thick with irritation. “Eleanora’s in trouble—the fetal heart rate is dropping. I can’t leave.” Bianca angled the camera at the blood pooling beneath me and deliberately zoomed in. “Look at Valentina like this—think she might die?” Dante glanced briefly, then quickly looked away. “Tell her to wait.” “Once Eleanora’s delivered, the doctors will go down.” “Bianca, just keep an eye on things for now. I really can’t step away.” The call ended. Bianca shrugged and tucked her phone away. “You heard him.” “In my brother’s heart, there’s only Eleanora and the heir in her belly.” “You? You’re just a breeding tool.” “And once the tool’s served its purpose, it gets tossed.” I closed my eyes. I refused to look at her anymore. My hand crept silently behind me, finding a button-sized metal device sewn into the lining of my skirt. A gift from my father. He’d told me: “Valentina, the waters in the Corsetti house run deep. If anything ever goes wrong, press this.” I’d laughed at him then, called him paranoid. Told him Dante treated me beautifully and the whole Corsetti family had been nothing but kind. Looking back, I’d been an inexcusable fool. I pried open the device’s protective cover with my fingernail and pressed down. No sound. No light. But I knew the distress signal had been sent. My father had promised: once I pressed it, someone would come within thirty minutes. But thirty minutes… Could my baby last that long?

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