Category: English

For eighteen years, I used the Moonlight Blessing bestowed upon me by the Moon Goddess to lift my Alpha husband, Basil, to the pinnacle of power. Until I discovered he had stolen my child—replacing her with the bastard son he’d fathered with my adopted sister, making that boy his heir. While my true daughter was exiled to a bottom-rung settlement, beaten and broken. And my parents had known all along, keeping silent to protect their interests. I didn’t weep. I didn’t beg. I simply reached out through the mindlink to the Alpha of the Northern Pack—Ronan Nightveil. “I’m willing to transfer my Moonlight Blessing to the Nightveil Pack,” I said. “I have only one condition—I want Delphinium Pack destroyed. Completely.” Basil once thought controlling an Omega was like keeping a pet on a leash. He was wrong. When he loses the Blessing, when his allies abandon him, when he’s on his knees begging for my forgiveness— I’ll make sure he knows exactly what it feels like to be ripped out by the roots. … … The night before my son Caspian’s eighteenth birthday, my husband Basil informed me that I would not be attending the Shift ceremony. “An Omega’s scent interferes with the first Shift,” he said without looking up, his tone laced with contempt and impatience. “Just stay home.” Eighteen years. I had never missed a single milestone in Caspian’s life—and now, on the most important night of his existence, my husband was telling me to stay away. “Basil, I’m his mother.” “Precisely because you’re his mother, you should be thinking of what’s best for him.” He finally raised his eyes, his gaze calm but utterly non-negotiable. “Serena, don’t be difficult.” Don’t be difficult. The words slid into my chest like a thin needle. As if insisting on attending my own child’s coming-of-age ceremony was somehow an unreasonable demand. I said nothing more. But at midnight, when the full moon climbed to its zenith, I slipped out of our home anyway. I followed the glow of the ritual bonfire through the silver fir forest until I reached the outer perimeter of the clan’s sacred grounds. At the center of the stone platform, Caspian knelt beneath the moonlight. His muscles were undergoing their first reshaping—shoulder blades rising, spine curving, knuckles beginning to distort. Basil stood behind him, his black-gold eyes blazing like lanterns. And then I saw someone who shouldn’t have been there. Breenda. She stood in the inner circle—the position reserved only for immediate blood kin. I, Caspian’s mother, had been barred from attending. Yet she—my adopted sister, exiled years ago—stood brazenly in the closest position, hands clasped together, lips moving as though praying for Caspian. My heart seized violently. In the next moment, Caspian completed his Shift. A young wolf rose in the firelight, lifted his head, and let out his first long howl. His coat was clearly visible in the flames—a base of black-gold interwoven with silver-grey, like storm clouds split open by lightning in a dark sky. Black-gold. Basil’s color. Silver-grey. Breenda’s color. And my wolf was moon-white—the color that should have flowed through my own flesh and blood—not a single trace of it existed. My legs began to buckle. I stumbled back a step. My spine hit a tree trunk, and the pain brought me partially back to my senses. I don’t remember how I made it home. I only know that when Basil pushed open the door at dawn, I was sitting in the dark, waiting. “His color is wrong.” My voice came out far calmer than I expected. Basil’s footsteps halted. “Serena—” “Black-gold and silver-grey. Your colors and Breenda’s.” I looked up at him. “Caspian isn’t my child, is he?” His reaction wasn’t denial. It wasn’t confusion. It was rage. “Have you lost your mind?” He snarled like a beast on the verge of losing control. “You carried him for ten months! You’re going to doubt your own son over fur color?” “Then let’s do a blood lineage test.” He grabbed my wrist with crushing force, enough to grind bone. “No.” “Basil—” “I said no!” His pheromones exploded outward in an instant, Alpha dominance slamming into me like a wall. My body trembled instinctively—an Omega has almost no capacity to resist that kind of pressure. Then he released me, turned, and stormed out of the room. A moment later, I heard the front door lock from the outside. I had been locked inside my own home. I opened my palms and stared at the four crescent-shaped blood marks on each one. I started to laugh. And somewhere in the laughing, the tears came. Eighteen years. For eighteen years, I had poured the Moon Goddess’s Moonlight Blessing into the Delphinium Pack without reservation. Their warriors were formidable because of my blood, unkillable because of my protection, united because of my bond. Basil had risen from the young leader of a third-rate clan to the most feared Alpha on the continent. And me? I wasn’t even allowed to attend my own “son’s” Shift ceremony. In the darkness, I activated my mindlink and reached out to someone I had never contacted of my own volition before. The Alpha of the Nightveil Pack—Ronan Nightveil. “Serena?” The voice on the other end carried obvious surprise. “Ronan,” I said. “About the Moonlight Blessing transfer—I agree.” A beat of silence. Then a low, measured response: “I’ll send someone to collect you tomorrow.” “No. It’s not time yet.” I severed the link and erased all traces. After dawn, Basil came back. He stood in the kitchen, clumsily frying a cut of venison. “Serena,” he turned to look at me, his voice softened by three degrees. “Last night—I was too impulsive.” On the table sat warm wine and slightly charred venison chops. He sat across from me, and neither of us mentioned the night before. “Caspian comes home next week.” “Mm.” His voice dropped lower. “Serena, stop overthinking this, all right? When he gets back, we’ll have a proper family dinner.” Family. The word suddenly sounded obscene. “What about the blood test?” The tenderness on his face froze for an instant, then slowly drained away. “Why do you insist on fixating on this?” His knife and fork clattered against the plate, the sound sharp and piercing. He stood up and left for the second time. I stood by the window, watching his figure disappear into the morning mist, then walked into the study. On the desk lay a mate-bond dissolution contract and a territory division agreement. Just then, a voice appeared in my mindlink. My mother, Gwendolyn. “Serena, how have you been feeling? Oh, by the way—Breenda is officially returning to the pack next week. Basil arranged a Warrior Elder seat for her. It’s been so long since we’ve all been together. We should have a family gathering.” I stared at those words, my fingertips ice-cold. Breenda. She was coming back.

Breenda Whitmore. The name made my eyelid twitch involuntarily. She was coming back. Basil had arranged it. I was a born Luna, blessed by the Moon Goddess herself, having poured eighteen years of Moonlight Blessing into this pack—yet because I was an Omega, I had never been granted a single formal position within the clan. And she—an adopted daughter who had been exiled for poisoning my food—was being handed the title of Warrior Elder the moment she returned. I would never forget the day Breenda was taken away. The hatred in her eyes—cold as a viper’s. “I hate her! I just hate her!” “Why? I’m a warrior’s descendant! I’m an Alpha! She’s nothing but a pathetic little Omega—why does she get everything?” For a long time afterward, she still appeared in my nightmares. But I had never stopped to think carefully about why Breenda—who had only survived because my family took her in—despised me so deeply. Or when exactly she and Basil had become so close. I swallowed the chill rising in my chest, kept my voice steady, and replied to my mother: “All right. When? I’ll get things ready.” “Don’t worry about it—we’ll handle everything. You just rest.” Mother paused, then added, “Serena, listen to me. Be gentler with Basil tonight. You know how Alphas are—pride matters more to them than anything.” I didn’t reply. That same day, I reached out through a secret channel outside the pack and contacted an independent blood lineage specialist. I paid the rush fee and sent a sample of fur Caspian had shed at the ritual site after his Shift. Then, through a separate line, I hired a roaming intelligence operative who moved between packs, tasking him with a full investigation into Basil’s secret resource flows over the years. Twelve hours later, the results came back. I sat in the study for a long time before I opened the document. I turned directly to the last line. “Based on comparative blood lineage analysis, no parental relationship exists between Serena Whitmore and Caspian Delphinium.” Even though I’d already suspected, seeing it in black and white made my hands tremble uncontrollably. Eighteen years. I pressed down on the shaking in my hands and looked out the window. In the distance, the surface of Moon Lake lay still as a mirror, reflecting everything I once thought I would protect for a lifetime. But now, nothing was what it had been. The operative’s preliminary report arrived shortly after. From Basil’s private vault, large shipments of moon coins, rare herbs, and forging materials had been sent to the border on a regular monthly basis. It had been going on for over twelve years. The recipient was registered as a shell trading company—but the actual beneficiary was one person: Breenda. The amounts were substantial. More than enough for someone in exile to live in extreme comfort. The final note made my stomach clench. [Breenda Whitmore owns a private estate in the exile territory, purchased nineteen years ago with full payment in moon coins.] Nineteen years ago—the same year I was diagnosed as pregnant. The same year Breenda was sent away. A horrifying theory began to form in my mind. … The weekend family dinner arrived on schedule. Mother brought a full basket of ingredients. Father Harold helped unload at the door. Breenda entered last. She wore a silver-grey evening gown, her hair loosely pinned behind her ears, her gait unhurried—as though she were returning to a place that had always been hers. “Serena.” She smiled and walked toward me, arms open for an embrace. I stepped aside. Her smile stiffened for a flash, then recovered seamlessly. “It’s been so long. I brought you a gift.” The dining table was laden with dishes. Mother bustled in the kitchen; Father Harold and Basil discussed pack affairs in the living room. Breenda naturally took the seat beside Basil. I frowned but said nothing. Halfway through the meal, Breenda raised her glass to drink, and a necklace slipped from beneath her collar, catching the candlelight with a cold blue-white radiance. My gaze locked onto it. Moonstone. —One of fewer than three such pieces on the entire continent. I had seen it two years ago at a cross-pack auction. Sealed within the moonstone was a thread of true lunar essence. I had loved it desperately, but given the price, I ultimately never bid. At the time, Basil had said: “If you can’t bring yourself to spend it, then let it go. I’ll find you something better later.” He never did. Now it hung around Breenda’s neck. “Serena, are you looking at this?” Breenda noticed my gaze. She smiled faintly, fingertips brushing the pendant. “Basil said it was a welcome-home gift to celebrate my return to the pack. He really does have excellent taste—the color complements my hair perfectly.” Basil’s hand tightened around his glass, but he said nothing. Mother laughed and smoothed things over: “It’s perfectly normal for family to exchange little gifts. Serena, don’t be so petty.” I said nothing. I only fixed my gaze on Basil’s face. He looked away. Breenda smiled again, her voice soft and seemingly harmless. “Don’t misunderstand, Serena. It’s just that some things only shine when they’re on the right person. This necklace, for instance—doesn’t it look better on me?” As she said it, her eyes bored directly into mine. —Triumph. Disdain. After dinner, Breenda volunteered to clear the dishes. Basil followed her to help. I sat in the living room, listening to the sound of running water and fragmented murmurs. I couldn’t make out the words, but Breenda’s occasional laugh cut through with particular sharpness. Mother sat down beside me. “Serena, Breenda really did come back to help with pack duties. Look how much she’s matured—volunteering to help and everything. You’re the older sister. Don’t be so stiff with her.” Father chimed in. “Basil carries a heavy burden. It’s good to have family pitching in. You need to be more open-minded. Stop holding grudges over old matters.” I turned to look at my father. “Dad, Basil is your son-in-law. Breenda is your adopted daughter. Don’t you think they’re a little too close?” Father’s expression darkened. “What nonsense. We raised Breenda—she’s the same as you. What’s wrong with helping her brother-in-law?” “The same as me?” I echoed softly. “You were both at Caspian’s Shift that night, weren’t you?” Both parents froze. “Black-gold and silver-grey. Nothing to do with my moon-white. And you truly had no questions at all?” Father’s face hardened. “Serena, what exactly are you trying to say?” “I’m asking you—is Caspian my biological child or not?” Mother shot to her feet. “Serena! You can’t just say things like that! How could Caspian not be your child? Are you having delusions again?” Father slammed his palm on the armrest. “Enough! You really have gone mad! Basil is right—you need to see the healer!” Their reaction extinguished the last flicker of hope in my heart.

That night, I returned to the small lakeside house where I had lived before my marriage. My parents had moved to their new residence years ago, and the hallways were thick with dust. I had come for one thing. In the attic, inside a leather trunk, were things Breenda hadn’t had time to take when she left. Some photographs, a few gifts I’d given her, and three journals. I opened the first page and saw a line written in familiar handwriting. —”Dear Basil.” Unmistakably Breenda’s script. I kept reading. “Basil, you came to the house to see Serena again today. Your voice is so gentle when you talk to her. The way you smiled at her made my heart ache. I was in the kitchen washing fruit, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.” And below that, another entry. “I know he doesn’t belong to me. But I can’t stop myself from thinking—if he’d met me first, would everything be different?” “The bonding ceremony invitation arrived. I locked myself in my room and cried all night.” My hands began to shake. I kept turning pages. Several pages after that had been torn out. I opened the second journal. The dates had jumped to just before and after her exile. “He came to see me. He said he was sorry, said he couldn’t go public, but that he would always take care of me.” There was also a photograph. Breenda and Basil standing shoulder to shoulder beneath the old silver fir in Moonlight Grove. Her head rested lightly against his shoulder, one hand placed on her swollen belly. Both of them smiling. On the back of the photo, a line scrawled in hasty handwriting: Even if the whole world refuses to acknowledge it, you’re mine. I held the photograph, my fingertips frozen. So it had started that long ago. And I had been kept in the dark all these years. Then where was my real child? I drew a deep breath and sent a message to the operative. [Investigate the birth records at Delphinium Pack Hospital from eighteen years ago. Full moon day, afternoon to dusk.] [Also check Breenda’s reproductive records in the exile territory. Confirm whether she has any documented delivery.] The mindlink was about to disconnect when it was pinged again. An emotional surge from Basil’s end bled through. What followed was a barrage of ragged breathing and distorted images flooding my mind— That was my bedroom. Breenda sat facing him, straddling Basil’s lap. She wore a gown thin as cicada wings, her fingers threaded through his hair. Basil tilted his head back, both hands gripping her waist, his breathing rough and heavy. Moonlight fell across them both, their bodies intertwined beyond separation. I stared at the images, my stomach dropping like a block of ice, nausea surging from the base of my throat. “Basil…” Her voice dripped, soft as honey. “Did you see Caspian’s fur color? It’s the perfect blend of both of us.” “Breenda, not here.” “I just want to say…” She leaned down, her lips nearly brushing his— “You know how much it hurts every time Caspian calls me ‘Auntie’? He should be calling me—” “Breenda!” Basil cut her off, turning his face away. But the hand gripping her waist never let go. In that moment, something inside me shattered completely. What followed was too revolting to watch. I shut down the link and rushed to the bathroom to vomit. Again and again I retched, bringing up nothing, only a searing pain that radiated from my chest through every inch of my body. It was a long time before I could compose myself enough to receive the operative’s message. [Ms. Whitmore, I have results.] [Breenda Whitmore arrived at the border exile territory eighteen years ago in July. In August, she gave birth to a full-term male infant at a private den. Blood type classified as Alpha.] [Your delivery-day records at the hospital show two female infants born during the afternoon-to-dusk window. One was classified Beta. The birthing ward was later decommissioned, and most files were lost.] [However, in November of that same year, when Breenda next traveled to the border, she was accompanied by a female infant approximately five months old.] [That girl currently performs hard labor at the lowest-tier slag mines on the border. Her physical condition is extremely poor—multiple old injuries, severe malnutrition, near-total social withdrawal. Breenda collects the majority of her wages each month through a middleman.] Attached at the end were several photographs. A skeletal girl hauling broken stone at the edge of a mine pit. Her forearms covered in bruises and old scars. Another image: she was curled up on a broken stool in some corner, expressionless, gnawing on cold scraps. In that instant, a hatred so vast it blotted out the sky swallowed me whole. I wept for a long time, until my tears ran dry and nothing remained in my chest but a searing, blunt ache. Then I stood up. I gathered every piece of evidence—the journals, the photographs, the recorded link images, the intelligence files—and transmitted the entire package to the pack’s judicial arbiter. After that, I contacted Ronan Nightveil again. “Tomorrow I’ll formally sign the transfer contract. But I have one condition—Delphinium Pack must be completely destroyed.” A low chuckle came through the link, followed by Ronan’s calm, unwavering voice. “Done.” Basil, I lifted you to every height you ever reached. And I will make sure the fall is just as far.

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It was the summer I turned eighteen that I tried to seduce my godfather for the first time. And he pressed his gun under my chin. I wore a white slip dress so thin it might as well have been water, straddling the lap of Sicily’s most ruthless godfather, pressing his own Beretta 92F against my jaw. Cold metal. Burning palm. That cross tattoo on his hand branded my skin like it was trying to sear itself into me. “You are crossing the line, Lola.” His voice came through clenched teeth. His throat bobbed. But his eyes—those Mediterranean-deep eyes that hid whirlpools beneath still surfaces—stuck to the hollow below my collarbone. To the mole there. The one he’d seen when he bathed me ten years ago. I leaned forward. My lips grazed the gun barrel, tasting oil and leather and something darker. “Then kill me,” I whispered. My legs tightened around his waist. Through his towel, I felt him harden—felt the war in his body between protector and predator. “Or claim me. Your choice… Uncle Asher.” His pupils blew wide. Black swallowed the blue. * The ocean crashed against the cliffs outside. Same sound as that night ten years ago. I still remembered everything. The gunshots tearing through cicada songs. The blood hitting piano keys—warm, so warm it steamed. The rough hands dragging me from a pile of corpses, fitting headphones over my ears, playing something loud and ancient. “Count to one hundred,” he’d said. “Then I’ll be back.” I counted to thirty-seven. He kissed my forehead—his lips burning, his hands shaking. I counted to sixty-eight. More gunshots. I counted to one hundred. He returned covered in blood, lifted me into his arms, carried me to the car. Since then, I never celebrated another birthday. And never looked forward to summer. Except for him flying back to this seaside villa every July to spend this damn anniversary with me. Ten years. Ten summers. Then times he handed me gifts, said “Happy summer vacation, little princess,” then vanished into his study like I was something to be locked away. But this year I was eighteen. Legally adult. And physically— I looked down at my dress. The fabric clung like a second skin, nipples visible, hipbones sharp. I knew I was ready. The shower stopped. Also stopped my heart. The doorknob turned. I pushed the door open. Steam poured out, and there he was. Thirty when he saved me. Forty now. Time had carved him—fine lines at the corners of his eyes, a sharper jaw, that permanent five-o’clock shadow. But those eyes. God, those eyes. Mediterranean depths. Surface calm. Undercurrents that could drag you under and drown you underneath. His towel sat low. Water tracked from his collarbone, down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, disappearing into— “Lola.” He pinned me in place with my name. “What are you doing in my room?” “This year I prepared a special gift.” I untied my robe. Silk slid off my shoulders with a whisper. The slip dress left nothing hidden. His gaze moved over me like touch—shoulders to waist to thighs. I watched his throat work. Watched his hand tighten on the towel. “I’m eighteen,” I said, stepping closer. “Not a little girl anymore.”

Close enough to smell him. Mint soap over tobacco and leather — the scent of him that haunted my dreams. I caught his wrist, guided him toward the bed, felt the tension in his muscles. Like a leopard deciding whether to snap his prey’s neck. I fell back onto the mattress, looking up at him. “Lola, I’m your…” “I know who you are,” I said. “The godfather. My father’s best friend. The man who raised me. But remember that summer night, that summer night you saved me? It’s not just my life.” I took his hand. Pressed it to my chest — my heart hammering against his palm. “You didn’t just save my life. You stole my soul. It’s been yours ever since.” His eyes went dark. Dangerous. Then his hand moved— Not to caress me. To the pillow beneath my head. Then the gun barrel pressed under my chin. I didn’t close my eyes. I stuck out my tongue. Licked the metal. His breath hitched. His finger whitened on the trigger. That cross tattoo swam in my vision—the one I’d seen a thousand times over these ten years. The one on the hand that held the pen when I handed him the document; on the hand that supported my waist when I was taught to swim; on the hand that fed me medicine when I had a fever last summer. Now this hand trembled. “I don’t care,” I breathed, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Next summer, I’ll come again. The summer after. Every summer.” I wrapped my lips around the cold steel, staring into his eyes. “Claim me. Or kill me.” Silence crushed us. Outside, waves beat the cliffs like a heartbeat, just like they had ten years ago. Then he threw the gun. The Beretta hit the carpet with a dull thud. His towel fell. In one violent motion, he snatched the bedsheet, wrapped it around me—rough, angry, tucking the edges against my shoulders like he was trying to sew me inside. Hide me from the world. From himself. “Say that again,” his voice rasped, “and you’ll learn what happens when you provoke me.” He killed the lights. Walked out. The door slammed in the dark. I sat on the bed, sheet clutched to my chin, counting my heartbeats. One hundred seven. One hundred eight. One hundred nine— “I won’t give up, Uncle Asher!” I shouted into the darkness, laughing to tears. “Next summer. I’ll be here. Every year! Until you say yes!” Footsteps paused at the stairs’ end. One second. Two. Then faded away. Moonlight spilled through the window, landing on the nightstand. On the battered teddy bear he’d given me ten years ago. Nose chewed bald by me. Ear sewn back three times. I curled around it, buried my face in familiar fur. Couldn’t smell lavender. Couldn’t smell blood. Only smelled myself. Exactly like ten years ago.

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I gave my Naga three babies — and he told me he wished he’d never brought me home. Naga are known for low fertility.Most females are lucky to carry one. I gave him three. But the man who once guarded me with an almost obsessive possessiveness now looks at me with cold, distant eyes. “Honestly? I regret it.” I look up at him, confused. His gaze sweeps over my full breasts, my curved waist, my hips. “I never should’ve let my fight with Aria push me into taking you. Looking back, you’re just another empty-headed female who’s only good for breeding.” “Meanwhile, my Aria has suffered for years because of me.” My whole body goes rigid. My eyes sting red. I whisper back — tell him he can’t live without me. But Caspian doesn’t flinch. If anything, he gets more animated, already scheming to bring his true love home. He shoots me a look of disgust. “You think I stayed for you? If it weren’t for that body of yours, I wouldn’t have looked twice.” “Relax. You gave me snakelings, so I won’t throw you out. My brother still needs a female. When he gets back, you’ll move into his room.” Naga males are driven by primal need. Once they’ve had a mate, they can’t go without one. And that brother of his? He’s been sneaking around, trying to get his hands on me for longer than I can count. … “You’re sure you want to transfer your female’s registration to your brother’s name?” The clerk at the Bonding Registry thinks he’s heard wrong. He stares at me — curves, full-figured, soft in all the right places. Then he stares at the woman in Caspian’s arms — bony, frail, like a stiff breeze could snap her in half. “Once the record’s changed, you can’t reverse it without the other male’s consent.” Caspian doesn’t even seem to hear him. He frowns impatiently. “Obviously. Could you hurry it up? My female just got here. She’s still adjusting. I need to take her home and get her settled.” The clerk chokes on his words. With a grunt, he scratches out the name next to Caspian’s and writes in a new one. My name gets filed under a different Naga — someone called Caelen. “Done. When’s your brother coming back? He just needs to press his mark on it.” Caspian is too busy soothing the woman in his arms to care. “Tomorrow,” he says absently. Outside the Registry, I stand alone. I watch Aria pout and press herself against Caspian, whining about how he abandoned her all those years ago — how he bought another female right in front of her face. Caspian coos and comforts her. When he’s done, he glances back at me. In the cold wind, I must look small. Thin. Hollow. He hesitates. Something catches in his throat. Before he can speak, I do. “Do I need to move out today?” Caspian frowns. “You don’t have to rush—” “Your name’s Amber, right?” Aria cuts in, her jealous eyes raking me from head to toe. “I remember you. The most popular female at the Auction.” “Shifters just love your type — big chest, big hips. But seriously, aren’t you embarrassed walking around with those two watermelons strapped to you? If I had those, I wouldn’t even leave the house.” She turns to Caspian with a pitiful little pout. “Caspian, you like that kind of thing too, don’t you?” Caspian tenses immediately, rushing to deny it. “Who said that? I think it’s disgusting.” I freeze. My eyes burn. Disgusting? Every single night, he coiled his tail around me and pulled me into his arms, pressing against me, wanting more. When the heat took over, his scales would drag slow and heavy down my spine. Sometimes once wasn’t enough. Twice. Three times. Until my body went limp — only then would he stop. And now he calls that disgusting. Aria smirks and hooks her arm through his, gazing at me with pity. “Don’t be upset. If Caspian hadn’t bought you, could you have lived this well? You should be thanking me, really. If I hadn’t had that fight with him, you’d never have had a chance.” I glance at Caspian. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. A bitter sound escapes my throat. “Mm.” When Aria sees I won’t fight back no matter how hard she pushes, she loses interest and tugs at Caspian to leave. He smiles — soft, indulgent — and lets her pull him forward. After a few steps, he turns back. “Amber, since you want to move, go ahead.” “Don’t take it to heart. We’re still family.” Family. Right. We’re still family. I’m just not his anymore. I belong to his brother now.

Aria drops the act the moment she walks in. She barges into the bedroom Caspian and I share and starts hauling everything that smells like me out into the yard. The little woven rings I braided myself. The protection charm I slipped under his pillow. I spend weeks on that damn charm — every stitch counts. Now she crushes it under her heel like it’s garbage. I stand there frozen, watching her rip my life apart like she’s gutting a bird. Caspian stands right beside her. He doesn’t stop her. He laughs softly and helplessly, like he thinks this is just some cute tantrum that means nothing. Then he glances at me, casual as breathing. “Let her blow off steam,” he says. “I owe her. If she breaks something, I’ll replace it.” My throat tightens. “…Don’t bother. It’s nothing.” My voice is thin. For a second he actually looks at me — really looks. Irritation flickers across his face, but he can’t name why. He says nothing else. Outside, the little row of vegetables I planted sits trampled. He used to tease me about the garden, told me it was silly to spend time on dirt when we could just buy food. Still, he goes out one morning and quietly puts up a low fence around it to keep deer and kids from wrecking it. Aria stomps right over the seedlings. She snatches my bra off the clothesline and holds it up between two fingers like it’s something disgusting. “You actually hang this out?” she snarls. “You want the whole settlement to see what you’re packing?” She drops it in the dirt and grinds her heel into it. Caspian laughs. He watches her like a man watching a favorite toy. He never looks at me. I pull my shoulders up without thinking. For the first time, I feel ashamed of my own body. She’s still not finished. Aria prowls the yard again, hunting for the last piece of evidence that I exist. Her eyes land on the wicker basket in the corner — the one I bring out so the snakelings can nap in the sun, because I’m afraid it’ll be too stuffy inside. My stomach drops. I shout before my brain catches up. “The snakelings are in there — don’t—!” She already has it over her head. I lunge. Too slow. Aria flinches, trips backward, about to fall — A dark shape flashes past and catches her. The basket tips. My snakelings tumble out like fruit shaken from a branch. They are so tiny. So small they make no sound when they hit the ground. Only the biggest one — startled awake — lets out a thin, scared hiss. “My snakelings!” I drop to my knees. I’m scooping them up, fingers shaking, pulling all three into my arms. They’re shaking too. Tiny tails curl around my fingers like lifelines. The biggest one has a scrape on his forehead. A bead of blood seeps through his skin. I can’t breathe. Caspian was closer to that basket than me. He could have gotten to it first. He could have stopped her. But he doesn’t. He reaches for Aria. He catches her. He lets our snakelings hit the dirt. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. Until now, I keep telling myself the nights matter. The hunger. The way he wraps his tail around me. I cling to those memories like a life raft. I think they’re proof of love. But now my hands are shaking, my snakelings’s blood warm against my skin, and I can’t pretend anymore. Maybe I was wrong about everything.

My voice trembles and my eyes blur when I look up. “Caspian, please,” I say, my voice cracking. “Don’t let her throw everything away. I’ll pack it all. I won’t leave a single thing.” For a beat he doesn’t move. Then his arm loosens around Aria, like something inside him finally gives. The snakelings are still hissing — small, wounded sounds that slice through the air. They look at him with those bright, wet eyes, the same ones that used to make him come running. They want him to scoop them up the way he used to, to press their little scaly heads between his hands. Before he can answer, Aria’s face snaps shut. Her eyes go red. Her voice sharpens to a knife. “So you feel sorry for her, then? You feel bad for her and those snakelings — admit it!” She spits the words at him. “I knew it. You say you think it’s disgusting, but you can’t let her go.” Caspian’s jaw tightens. He starts to say something, but Aria cuts him off. “You promised to take me home. What happened to that?” Her tears come fast and ugly. “You bid on her in front of everyone. They laughed at me for months. Said I was delusional. Said a male like you would never pick me.” She sobs into his chest. Her fists thump weakly against him. Her voice drops to something small and desperate. “Caspian, we’ll have snakelings too. I’ll give you a whole nest of them.Just stop looking at other females. Please?” He goes rigid, then slowly lets go. He looks away from me and the snakelings like turning a page. Then he reaches up and wipes her tears with the back of his hand. “Don’t cry,” he tells her. “I’ll do whatever you want, okay?” The snakelings watch him. Their hisses quiet down into tiny, confused murmurs. One of them nudges my finger with his little snout. His eyes reflect my face — bright, black, and searching. Why isn’t Daddy looking at us? Their question lands in my chest like a stone. I stand there like a statue. My face won’t move. My mouth is stuck. I put my hand on the smallest one’s head because the motion steadies me. Because if I stop moving, I will break. “It’s okay,” I whisper, forcing a crooked smile that tastes like ash. “It’s okay, little ones.” I bend down and start picking things up. I scoop a bundle into my arms. It slips. I pick it up again. It falls. Over and over. My hands are clumsy, thick with tears. The sun hits the dirt and my hot drops disappear like nothing. Aria fusses at Caspian in that syrupy, triumphant voice she saves for winning. “I want a brand-new bedframe,” she coos, her nails raking the air. “I am not sleeping where you slept with her. Pull up those ugly plants — I want flowers. And take down that fence, is disgusting.” Caspian follows her finger out of habit. His eyes pause on the little green patch I planted — the seedlings I watered with my own hands, the ones he used to pretend to mock. He looks at me for a long, frozen moment. Then he tucks his chin against Aria’s head like the choice was never really his. “Okay,” he says, voice quiet and flat. “Whatever you want.”

I move into Caelen’s room and it smells like mildew and old straw—the kind of place that’s been closed up too long. I clear a small patch of floor and lay down old clothes over dry hay. It’s ugly and quick, but it’ll do. The snakelings curl into the nest and I tuck them in like they’re the whole world. Night air slides in through the cracked window, sticky and heavy. There’s a sickly-sweet flower scent riding it—Caspian ripped out my vegetable beds and planted blooms for Aria. The smell should be pretty. It tastes like betrayal. The babies whimper against my chest, restless. Their little bodies tremble. From the day they were born, their father has never been this cold to them. I lean down and kiss each tiny forehead. My eyes sting before I can stop them. Somewhere outside, a muffled crying starts. I cover my ears, but then—there’s a loud crash. Footsteps pounding. Everything tightens. The door slams open. Caspian fills the doorway, all coiled muscle and that terrible, slit-pupiled green stare. His eyes burn into me, slow and hungry. Then they drop to the loose edge of my shirt. I know that look. I know it like I know my own heartbeat. A dozen nights of him watching me, then dragging me into darkness, tail wrapping my waist, taking and taking until there was nothing left. He’s in heat. I back into the corner before I even realize I’m moving. His jaw tightens like a trap. He doesn’t know why he’s angry, exactly—just that something animal in him is roaring. Thought narrows to a throatless, simple command: She’s his. No one gets to take her. I shake my head hard. “No—no, I don’t want this.” My voice is thin. Whatever I say seems to burn him. He stops, hurt splitting his face. It’s almost comical—like I’m the one who ruined him. “Don’t look at me like that,” his face says. “You’re the one who left me.” “I won’t—” I try to speak, but the word dies. His hands clamp around my wrists and pin them over my head before I can finish the sentence. A sharp hiss cuts the air. The biggest snakeling scrambles forward, tiny tail braced, and plants himself between us. He trembles so hard his whole body shudders, but he raises his head and bares his baby fangs at Caspian. The little mouth is a furious, ridiculous, brave thing. The other two snap awake and copy him. Three snakelings—no bigger than my palm—line up like a wall. My tears fall hot and fast. “Babies, no—stay back!” I lunge for them, but Caspian’s grip is iron. I can’t move. Caspian’s face has gone somewhere cold and sharp. The heat fogs his brain. He reaches with slow, ugly purpose. The little snakeling thrashes, tail whipping, trying to bite free. “Don’t! Caspian, let him go! You’re hurting him!” I scream. I claw at his arm like a wild animal; my nails rip his skin. He frowns, annoyed, and then—throws the snakeling like he’s nothing. The tiny body bounces off the wall and slides down crumpled on the floor. “No!” The sound tears out of me. “My baby!” The pain is white-hot in my chest. I can’t breathe. My hands shake so hard I can’t stand. For a moment, Caspian blinks—like someone hit him. He looks at the snakeling curled in the corner, then at his own hand. For a second his eyes clear. Then something darker pulls the line back over his face. He mumbles my name, the sound broken: “Amber…” A shout from the doorway cuts through everything. “What the hell are you doing?!” Caspian snaps his head. Aria stands there, barefoot, eyes wide as saucers. He shoves me away like I burned him. His face twists, guilty and frantic. The words spill out of him before he can stop them. “She—she seduced me.”

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The third time the Hollow Mother called me back, I became the most perfect Queen Consort and sister anyone had ever seen. All because I put away the arrogance of a highborn daughter and learned to make myself small, the way my half-sister Sera once did. I secured three border territories for my family. I helped my brother Layne rise to First Chancellor. I managed the king’s court and its endless politics, and even organized the Blood Moon Feast myself, opening the doors for a new Shadowbound to be chosen. When a woman appeared at the feast — her face identical to Sera’s — wine splashed across Caelian’s robes. I understood immediately. I picked up the Shadowbound seal and pressed it into Lina’s hand. “No.” Two voices rang out at once. Layne slammed his fist on the table and rose. “Sera may have stolen your place as queen, but she’s been dust and bone for years. Who exactly are you performing this martyrdom for?” Caelian’s eyes had gone red at the rims. “I gave up half my kingdom to bring you back. I wanted the Elara who used to race me on horseback, who used to overturn my war table when she was furious — not this.” Then, in the silence behind my ribs, I felt it. The mark on my wrist flared — not with heat, but with a sudden, deep cold. The contract is active. When Layne and Caelian’s devotion to another reaches its peak, you will return. Every pain you suffered will be returned to them. A hundredfold. My fingers trembled slightly. I thought of everything I had endured, and I laughed — a quiet sound, almost to myself. …… Caelian heard it. The laugh made his jaw tighten. “What is so amusing? Are you still holding the demotion against me — when I stripped your title and kept you as a shadow — all to hold Sera closer?” “She is dead now. I crossed half the world to bring you home. I want to start again. Why must you keep driving the blade in?” I lowered myself into a curtsy, measured and unhurried, the way Sera used to. “Your Majesty, forgive me. I only thought that Lina is so gentle and has such an accommodating nature. She would serve you well. I truly don’t understand why you’re upset.” I let a beat pass, then continued, my voice softer still. “Unless her rank is the problem? Then perhaps the crown is what stands in the way.” I reached up and began to remove my crown. Clean. Decisive. Caelian went rigid. Then he swept the goblet off the table. “Enough.” “You want to call that grace and virtue? Fine. Your place as queen stands — I owe you that much and I won’t touch it.” “By royal decree: Lina is named Shadow Consort. She will take residence in the East Wing. We are done here.” The moment Caelian left, the hall erupted. “A minor lord’s baseborn daughter, just because she shares the dead queen’s face — and now she outranks every woman at court?” “He never got over Sera. This new queen is furniture. She always was.” The whispers pressed in from every direction. I was still in my curtsy, my face perfectly still. A warm hand lifted me gently to my feet. Layne’s voice carried a note of something almost like concern. “Elara. Playing cold like this will only push him further away.” “Lina has no family, no allies. She can’t hurt you. I’ll be your shield — I won’t let her touch what’s yours, and I won’t let Caelian diminish you. You have my word.” “Then adopt her, Layne. Make her your ward.” His hand stopped. “What did you say?” I met his eyes steadily. “Those courtiers were right. Lina has no standing. A Shadow Consort without a family name invites gossip forever. But if you claim her as yours, no one will dare speak against her again.” Layne stared at me for a long moment. “Fine. If you’re so determined to push us both away — consider it done.” He turned and walked out, his robes cutting the air behind him. I watched them leave, one after the other, and smiled to myself. If Lina’s appearance hadn’t caused the mark to spike the moment she walked in, I might almost have been moved by their wounded looks. Back in my chambers, I stood surrounded by the gifts Caelian and Layne had sent — rare stones, silks, things with no name in common language. All of it turned my stomach. I had given my heart away twice before. The first time, I was still the Morne family’s true daughter, Layne’s most beloved sister. Then Sera came back from the countryside, and suddenly I was too loud, too rough, too often seen on battlefields instead of in drawing rooms. He forgot that I had nearly died getting him out of an enemy siege. When Sera fell gravely ill, and the healers said only the blood of her closest kin could draw out the poison, Layne bled me for three days until there was nothing left. The second time, I was wiser. I stopped pouring myself out for Layne and turned everything I had toward Caelian instead — the younger prince, the overlooked one, the one no one had bothered to love. I took blades for him. I spent every coin of my property greasing the wheels of his ascent. I walked beside him through the worst years and helped him claim the crown. And at his own father’s funeral, he saw Sera across the room and fell in love with her on the spot. I wept. I raged. He severed the tendons in my hands to make me stop. And then, because he wanted Sera to give him his first child, he had me drink the termination draught fifteen times. This time, I don’t want any of them.

Night fell. Ash slipped into my chambers, quiet-footed, and smoothed the covers across my bed. Then she drew something from inside her sleeve — a luminstone, pale and glowing. “His Majesty had it sent over, my lady. I’ve polished it myself. It’ll keep the room bright all night. Not a shadow anywhere.” I looked at the stone and felt something shift, briefly, in my chest. Caelian had crossed to the northern coast and dove for three days straight to find it, the first day I came back. I could feel the soul-thread then, as Ash moved around the room — warm and fine as a strand of silk pressed into the center of my palm, always there. Since the first time they threw me into the black tower, it was that thread that told me someone in the world still knew where I was. Then Lord Aldric stepped inside, head bowed. “Your Majesty. The king has called the Shadow Consort to his chambers tonight. He asks for the luminstone — he says Lina’s eyes are the same as the late queen’s, and he wishes to see her clearly. He thought the light might — enhance the evening.” Ash’s face went tight. “That stone was found for Her Majesty because she can’t bear the dark. If you take it, what does she have?” Aldric looked uncomfortable. “His Majesty said — more candles can be lit. Enough candles will do the same.” “Give it to him.” One look from me, and Ash pressed the stone into Aldric’s hands, her jaw set. That night, the candles burned high and the room was full of light — none of it reaching the place inside me that had been dark for years. Because once, they had thrown me into the black tower and left me there for three years, calling it madness, calling it necessary. The darkness without edges. The cold that lived in the bones. The feeling of one’s own soul tearing at the seams — these things do not leave a person, no matter how many candles burn. It wasn’t long before Caelian came storming in, knocking the nearest candle from its stand. “Elara. I sent Aldric for the luminstone. You sent back everything in the room. What is that supposed to mean?” I looked up at him. “Nothing complicated. I thought it cleaner to send everything at once. Saves the back-and-forth. Saves me from looking at it.” His anger shifted. Something underneath it softened. “Tonight was wrong of me. I only wanted to make you react. I wanted you jealous. I wanted you to be the way you used to be.” I said nothing. He stepped closer and took my face between his hands, turning it up toward his. “Lina is not Sera. I know the difference.” “You know who I love. Don’t you?” His voice dropped, and there was something almost small in it, something that had come a long way down from where he usually stood. Once, that look would have undone me completely. I would have pressed my face into his chest and swallowed every hurt and told myself it was enough. But now I could feel the mark at my wrist. Devotion index: 50. I took his hands from my face. “You should go back to her. Tonight is her night. If you stay here, by morning they’ll be calling me a jealous queen who can’t let her king alone.” The only sound in the room was the faint spit of the candle flame. He stood there looking at me. A long silence. Then he laughed — a short, self-mocking sound — and walked out. After that, Layne and Caelian seemed to reach some unspoken agreement. They began showering Lina with everything they had. Layne entered her into the family registry as a legitimate daughter. He elevated her father and brother in rank. Caelian commissioned a new wing of the palace for her. Gifts arrived daily, a continuous stream. It felt deliberate. Like they were staging it for my benefit. I couldn’t say when the performance became something real. The mark burned steadily warmer. Until the day it didn’t. Layne Morne’s devotion index has reached 100. The chamber doors crashed open. Layne strode in with his hand on his sword, fury written across every line of his face. “Elara. You vicious, scheming—”

The blade came up level with my throat. “You poisoned her cosmetics. You did this to Lina’s face.” I blinked at him, then let out a slow breath of a laugh. “Those were tribute shipments from the other provinces. I distributed them to every woman in the palace — every single one. If Lina alone was harmed, I genuinely don’t know why.” Layne didn’t move the sword back. “Don’t play innocent. You’re the only one in this palace who can’t stand her.” The hand gripping the hilt was shaking. His eyes were red. “You have everything. She isn’t even Sera. Why would you destroy someone who never did a thing to you?” I looked at his face — contorted, righteous — and I laughed again. “You’re right, I have everything. So why would I bother? Surely you don’t still think I care about whatever scraps of love you two have to offer.” Layne had grown up with me at his heels. He was used to me fighting for his attention, bleeding for him, burning with jealousy over every slight. My indifference broke something in him. “You’re jealous that she gets what you never could — from me, from Caelian, from everyone!” “A skinbinder in the city says all it takes is one good layer of skin. If Lina’s ruined face is your doing, then her restoration is your debt.” He turned the blade and drove it forward. A hand caught it bare — fingers wrapped around the edge, blood running down the steel. “Your Majesty—” Lina was already at Caelian’s side, her voice shaking, her veil shifting. “Are you hurt? Someone send for the physician, now—” Layne’s sword clattered to the floor. He dropped to one knee. Caelian turned slowly and looked at me. His expression was something I couldn’t name. “Was it you, Elara?” I met the expectation in his eyes. “No.” He read the coldness in my answer — not denial, just absolute indifference. Lina had begun to cry nearby, soft and continuous. “It’s my fault for being born this way. Of course Her Majesty finds the sight of me offensive. She has every right.” Then she looked at me through her tears. “If I trouble you, I’ll stay far from your sight. Please don’t let me come between you and your brother, or you and His Majesty.” Predictably, Layne was on his feet in an instant, finger pointed at my face. “You hear that? You hear how she speaks? Even now she defends you. What kind of person are you?” Caelian looked at me for a long moment. Then: “Apologize.” “No.” “Then I’ll have Ash dragged out and flogged until you do.” The room lurched. Caelian’s face had gone to stone, looking at me the way one looks at someone they’ve never met. “You’ve grown too comfortable since your return. Today I’ll remind you of your place — and remind you who it is that holds it.” The guards pulled Ash from the room. Sounds came through the wall almost immediately. “My lady — I’m all right — don’t apologize — you did nothing wrong—” Each sound landed like something against the inside of my chest. I broke. My knees hit the floor, and I pressed my forehead down again and again. “I was wrong, I apologize, please, let her go, please—” Layne made a contemptuous sound. “Groveling on the floor for a servant. You’re no daughter of this family.” Caelian had gone very still. He had held me, praised me, tried every approach to reach me — and I had given him nothing. Yet one servant’s life brought me to the floor, bleeding at the forehead, begging. Something wounded moved through his voice. “Elara. Am I worth less to you than a handmaid?” I didn’t answer. I kept going. Then a guard stepped back inside. “My lord. She’s gone.”

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I’d just set foot inside the Sterling estate when Chloe threw herself into my parents’ arms, sobbing. “Dad, Mom, please don’t make me call her my sister. I can’t.” She clutched Eleanor’s blouse, shoulders shaking. “She’s the transfer student spreading vicious rumors about me at school. She’s the reason I’m on antidepressants!” Eleanor cradled her, stroking her hair. Richard’s face turned to stone. He looked at me like I was something scraped off his shoe. “After everything it took to find you, this is who you turned out to be? A bully?” I stood frozen in the foyer, hands flying into frantic ASL signs. “Me? Spread rumors about her?” “I can’t speak!” …… Nobody was looking at my hands. “Get her out of my sight,” Richard said to the head butler. “The Sterlings don’t raise cyberbullies. She’s not welcome here.” My fingertips were still numb from the cold outside. Chloe buried her face in Eleanor’s neck, her sobs rising perfectly. “You don’t understand. Last month I scored second in our class. She told everyone I cheated. Said Dad paid off the teachers. Said I slept with the dean for my scholarship recommendation.” Every word landed. Eleanor’s hand on her back got firmer. Richard’s jaw locked. I opened my mouth. Only a thin hiss came out. I’d been unable to speak since birth. Damaged vocal cords, the doctors said. My whole life had been ASL and a notepad. I raised my hands to sign “That’s not true”— Grayson shot up from the couch. He crossed the room in three strides and loomed over me like I was trash on his designer rug. “Clara, cut the act. Chloe’s barely holding it together because of you, and you still want to play innocent?” I flinched. Grayson was the Sterling heir. Since I’d walked in, he’d been glued to Chloe’s side, his eyes soft for her and nothing else. The way he looked at me now made my skin crawl. “Grayson, don’t…” Chloe tugged weakly at his sleeve. Her voice was honey. “Maybe she just wanted to fit in so badly she didn’t know how else to get attention. I’m not angry. Really, I’m not…” “You’re too damn kind, sweetheart.” Eleanor pulled her closer, then turned to me with ice in her eyes. “Clara, we brought you home to give you a family. Not so you could play mind games with your sister. Whatever gutter tricks you picked up out there, drop them. Now.” Richard’s voice dropped to a lethal quiet. “You carry this family’s name. Do you understand what that means? And the second you walk through the door, you’re terrorizing your own sister. You’re a disgrace.” A cluster of maids hovered by the archway, whispering loud enough to carry. “Heard she grew up in an orphanage upstate.” “How could anyone be cruel to sweet Miss Chloe?” “Look at her waving her hands around. Probably faking being mute for sympathy. Attention seeker.” The words cut through me. I forced myself to breathe. I reached for my backpack. I had a notebook in there. I could write everything down. Make them understand. My fingers touched the zipper. Grayson grabbed my wrist. His grip was brutal. “What else are you pulling out to manipulate them?” I twisted and reached with my other hand, finally dragging out a sheet of blank paper. Before I could use it, Grayson snatched it away and tore it to shreds. White scraps drifted down around me. Some caught in my hair. I stared at him. The last warm thing inside me went cold. Chloe hiccupped on cue and buried her face deeper in Eleanor’s shoulder. “Grayson, don’t. She’s just—” “Just what? Look what she’s done to you.” His voice cracked. “Someone this twisted doesn’t belong in this family.” Richard didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “Throw her out. She is not my daughter.”

I spent the whole night curled up on the narrow bed in my dorm room. First period hadn’t started when my guidance counselor pulled me out of homeroom and sent me to her office. I pushed the door open. Chloe was already sitting across from her. Her shoulders hitched up and down in rhythm, a crumpled tissue in her fist, eyes swollen. The second she saw me, she looked up with the perfect mix of fear and hurt and shrank back behind the counselor’s chair. “Clara. Come in.” Ms. Harris’s voice was cold. “Tell me what you did to Chloe yesterday.” I didn’t move from the doorway. Chloe’s sobs started right on cue. “Ms. Harris, please don’t pressure her. Yesterday in the hallway she stopped me and said I was a gold-digging leech who’d stolen what belonged to her. She said she’d make sure I couldn’t stay at this school. I was so scared.” Her voice was quiet. Every word a small knife sliding under my ribs. Ms. Harris’s face darkened. She picked up the phone. “I’ve already called your parents. They’ll be here any minute.” The door opened not long after. My parents walked in. Richard’s face was iron. Eleanor went straight to Chloe, wrapping an arm around her. Richard’s voice was tight. “Ms. Harris. What happened? Did Clara hurt Chloe again?” Ms. Harris folded her hands on her desk. “Based on Chloe’s statement, Clara has been engaged in verbal harassment and spreading false rumors on school grounds for some time. She’s even threatened Chloe with expulsion. This school has a zero-tolerance policy on bullying.” Richard’s head snapped toward me. The disappointment in his eyes was suffocating. “How did the Sterlings produce something like you? Do you wake up every morning thinking of new ways to humiliate this family?” I opened my mouth. Only a thin hiss came out. I raised my hands, fingers starting the sign for “That’s not—” His palm cracked across my face. My head snapped sideways, ears ringing, cheek burning. I stared at him. Tears I’d been holding finally spilled. “You have the nerve to cry?” Richard’s voice was pure disgust. “You pull something like this and then cry? Milking the victim angle for sympathy now.” Beside him, Chloe whimpered into Eleanor’s chest. “Dad, Mom, please don’t yell at Clara. I don’t blame her.” Eleanor’s eyes swept over me, freezing. “You have no class. None. All you know how to do is terrorize my sweet Chloe.” The office door had cracked open. Students were peeking through the gap, whispers carrying in. “So she really was bullying Chloe…” “She seemed so quiet. Guess that’s the type.” “I heard her own parents didn’t even want her. Makes sense.” The words cut into me. I forced a breath. I raised my hands again and signed clearly: “I didn’t do it.” Ms. Harris cut me off halfway. “Clara, could you please stop with these ridiculous antics? If you have something to say, say it. Don’t put on a freak show in my office.” My fingers stopped mid-air. So even my silent defense was just attention-seeking to them. The door pushed open wider. A girl stood in the doorway. Her voice came out small. “Ms. Harris… she’s not putting on a show. That’s ASL.”

The room went still. Lily stood in the doorway, cheeks red, but she kept going. “I’m not making this up. My little brother was born deaf. I’ve been signing my whole life. What she just signed was ‘I didn’t do it.’” Ms. Harris narrowed her eyes. “You’re sure? This isn’t something to joke about.” Lily raised her head. “I know what I saw. I wasn’t guessing. And Clara’s never spoken a single word at this school. Everyone knows that.” The office fell silent. My parents’ expressions shifted. Eleanor looked at me. Her lips parted. Something close to guilt flickered across her face. Then Chloe sniffled. “Sis, even if you don’t want to admit what you did, you shouldn’t be paying someone to act it out with you. To pretend you’re mute.” Whatever guilt had been in Eleanor’s face sealed shut. Richard’s head whipped toward me, eyes burning. “Clara, congratulations. To avoid the consequences, you’d actually stoop to faking a disability? Dragging another student into your act? You’re rotten to the core.” My hands shook as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the disability certification I’d kept folded for years. I tried to show them. The second my fingers touched the paper, Richard snatched it away. He didn’t even look. He tore it in half with both hands. The paper became pieces in an instant. I stared at him. The tears broke. “Keep acting. Go on, keep it up.” Richard’s voice was pure contempt. “You know what? You need a lesson. Since you love pretending so much,I’ll send you to a boot camp for troubled teens. Let’s see how long the mute thing lasts when the people there get their hands on you.” Eleanor pulled Chloe tighter, looking at me with open disdain. “Clara, we were truly wrong about you. We never imagined you’d sink this low just to dodge responsibility. You’ve disappointed us beyond words.” Chloe leaned into Eleanor’s arms. The corner of her mouth curved up for a split second, but her sobs never stopped. “Dad, Mom, please don’t be like this. Maybe she just had a moment of bad judgment…” “A moment of bad judgment?” Richard laughed coldly. “This is who she is. She’ll never change. Keeping someone like this in the family only drags us down. I’m calling Carl right now. He runs the reform program. He can come pick her up himself.” Ms. Harris stood off to the side, her face shifting. She looked at me, then at my parents, and sighed. She waved Lily toward the door. “You should go back to class. We’ll handle this.” Lily opened her mouth, but Ms. Harris’s look stopped her. She gave me one long look, full of sympathy and helplessness. Then she turned and left. I stood there staring at the torn paper on the floor. And suddenly, I laughed. The innocence I’d fought with everything I had to prove was nothing but a ridiculous performance to them. In this family, I’d never meant anything at all. I slowly crouched down and began picking up the scraps, one by one. The edges cut into my fingertips. I didn’t feel them. Nothing could compete with what was happening inside my chest.

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The third time Ethan Holt burst through the door to catch me slept with a strange, I didn’t scramble to pull on my clothes or fumble for excuses the way I had the first two times. His company’s attorney, Vivienne Walsh, stood at the front of the group. “Ms. Calloway, this is the third instance of marital infidelity.” “Per the prenuptial agreement, you will leave this marriage with nothing, and you forfeit all custodial rights to the child.” Ethan had long since run out of patience. The look in his eyes when they landed on me was pure contempt. He threw the divorce papers down in front of me: “The first time, you said you didn’t even know the man.” “The second time, you said you had no idea how you ended up at that hotel.” “Third time’s the charm — so what’s your excuse this time?” He assumed I’d pull out another pathetic story. But I said nothing. I simply picked up the pen and signed my name on the divorce papers. Then I disappeared from his world. Only — why was it that the moment I finally gave him what he wanted, agreed to walk away with nothing and give up our child, he lost his mind? …… Vivienne immediately snatched the signed papers from the table. As though terrified I might change my mind, she turned to Ethan and said, “Mr. Holt, it’s signed.” Ethan stared at me, his brow deeply furrowed. Most likely because he hadn’t gotten what he’d expected the way he had the previous two times — me ripping up the divorce papers, then pressing my forehead to the floor until it bled, sobbing as I begged him: “For the sake of our child, please believe me just this once!” …… I capped the pen and set it back on the table. “I’ll clear out my things as soon as possible. As for visitation rights for the child —” “You have no right to call yourself a mother.” His voice was low and heavy as he cut me off. “You’re never to see the child again.” I didn’t look up. I only smiled faintly. “That’s exactly what I was going to say — I don’t want visitation rights either!” The coldness in Ethan’s eyes didn’t waver. He just looked at me a moment longer. As though he couldn’t quite read my sudden decisiveness. For the past four years, he and our child had been my entire world. I used to be upset for half a day whenever the little one called out “Auntie Viv” one too many times. And now I was letting go without a second glance. That wasn’t like me. “Shameless,” he said with a cold laugh, as though he’d finally found a reasonable explanation for my change of behavior. “You’d throw away your own flesh and blood for some man on the outside.” “Then what would you call what you did — going out of your way to get into my bed and getting pregnant to trap me?” I listened to him and felt not even the faintest urge to defend myself. The first time he’d caught me “in bed with someone” at a hotel, I’d been completely blindsided. I had begged him to listen, insisting I had done nothing to betray him. He had always been certain I couldn’t live without him. And because the man supposedly caught with me had long since fled — leaving only a blurry shadow on the hotel security footage — Ethan had grudgingly believed me. But he’d still taken our son from my side. Monthly visits had to be scheduled a week in advance through Vivienne. When I came to see him, she followed me around the entire time as a so-called “escort.” Even holding him a little longer required reading her mood. Every toy, every outfit I bought for the child had to be cleared with Vivienne first. Otherwise it would never reach him. The ordeal wrecked me mentally, and then came the accusations of a second affair. At the time, I’d taken a job to keep myself occupied. But on a business trip one day I somehow ended up at a hotel, dizzy and disoriented. When I woke, a heavyset man was lying beside me, snoring and drooling in my direction. I called the police. A female officer examined me and said I hadn’t been assaulted. The facts were right there, but Ethan still refused to believe I’d simply been set up before I could “commit the crime.” After that, I wasn’t even allowed to attend parent-teacher nights at the kindergarten. Whenever the school had something, Ethan sent Vivienne instead. He told me to stay home and “stop embarrassing everyone.” When our son pointed at me and called me a “bad woman,” Ethan stood right there and said nothing. And then came the third time I was “caught”… I was done playing this game. I was setting them free. And now he had the nerve to ask me why I was giving up even my own child?

Vivienne stepped quickly to Ethan’s side and lowered her voice to remind him: “Mr. Holt, even though the agreement stipulates she gives up custody… in all my years of practice, I’ve never once seen a mother give up her child this easily.” “Given that Ms. Calloway has had multiple affairs, she probably planned this all along — after all, a child would be inconvenient… There’s no point trying to talk her out of it.” She glanced up at me as she finished speaking, a flicker of something heavy passing through her eyes. I let out a short laugh. She seemed to have forgotten… Four years ago, this absurd prenuptial agreement — with its precisely predetermined number of “permitted affairs” — had been drafted by her. Ethan’s expression dropped another degree. “You’d better mean what you say. Don’t come crawling back to me later.” He left those words behind and turned to walk out. I watched his retreating figure and felt the corner of my mouth twitch. I won’t, Ethan. Back then, just to convince myself to accept you, I went to every tarot reader and psychic in the city. Every answer they gave me warned against us. Later, I flew five thousand miles to the old chapel in Florence, kneeling there for an entire day and night before I finally found the words I wanted to believe: Some loves are written by fate—never question where they come from. Who could have known that a heaven-ordained match would end up a cursed one. This time, my knees will not bend again. Vivienne looked at me, the faintest smile curling the corner of her lips. “Ms. Calloway, every second is precious — we won’t keep you any longer.” The moment the door shut, the room fell quiet again. I glanced down at the man still passed out on the bed. My stomach turned with revulsion. I had woken before him. I could have left without waiting for them to arrive. But I was tired of this cat-and-mouse game. So I’d waited. I put on my coat and walked out without looking back. The following evening I returned to collect my things. When I pushed open the master bedroom door, I found everything I’d ever used or worn was gone. The housekeeper shifted awkwardly, unable to meet my eyes: “Ma’am, your things were all moved to the storage room… Miss Walsh said the master bedroom… is about to have a new mistress, and it needed to be cleared out right away.” I smiled slightly. Four years of marriage, and I wasn’t even entitled to a proper goodbye. I turned and walked toward the storage room at the back of the property. When I pushed the door open, boxes were stacked on boxes, bags piled on bags. I crouched down and began sorting through them, piece by piece. Nothing else mattered. I needed to find my mother’s vintage brooch. It was an heirloom — passed from my grandmother to my mother, and from my mother to me… It was the only thing in this house that truly belonged to me. I finally found it at the very bottom of the last box. I clutched it in my palm and let out a long, slow breath. I was just gathering a few pieces of clothing to take when a small voice came from the doorway: “What are you doing?” I turned. Little Oliver Holt stood in the doorway, his small figure blocking the exit. He looked exactly like Ethan — but that imperious, top-down posture was pure Vivienne Walsh. “Taking my things.” I kept my head down and continued sorting. Any other time, even when he was being difficult, I would have gone to him with hugs and kisses. But this time, I was completely calm. “Those aren’t your things.” Seeing that I was ignoring him, he walked in. He stepped squarely on the clothes I’d scattered across the floor. “Auntie Viv said everything in this house belongs to Daddy. You can’t take a single thing.”

I paused what I was doing. “This is my own property.” “The money you spent was Daddy’s.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Daddy’s money belongs to the Holt family. The Holt family’s things have nothing to do with outsiders.” Outsiders? I lifted my head and looked at him. A four-year-old boy standing before me, looking at me the way you’d look at a thief. The coldness in those little eyes ran even deeper than Ethan’s. “I’m only taking one thing.” I tightened my fingers around the brooch and stood up. “Everything else, I’ll leave.” “No.” He moved to block the doorway in a single step, stretching both arms wide. “You can’t steal things from the Holt family.” “Oliver, move.” “No!” He raised his voice. “You’re a beggar! A thieving beggar! Auntie Viv said once you’re gone you can’t come back, and if you come back it means you’re stealing!” My temples throbbed. “I’m going to say this one more time. Move.” “No! Put it down!” He lunged at me and grabbed at the small velvet pouch in my hand. I instinctively pulled back. The pouch was ripped open in an instant. The brooch slipped free and hit the floor, shattering into pieces. I stood there, frozen, and heard my mother’s voice from the day she’d pinned it on me. She had said: “Hannah, this piece has been passed down through six generations of our family. One day you’ll pass it to your daughter, and if there’s no daughter, then a daughter-in-law…” I had no daughter. I had no daughter-in-law. I had only this brooch. Six generations. And here, in my generation, it was shattered by my own son. Oliver stood nearby and muttered under his breath: “Who told you not to let go…” I looked at him through burning eyes. “I told you — this was left to me by my grandmother.” “Do you even know why your grandmother is lying in that care home?” Oliver blinked and took a step back: “I don’t know any grandmother. All I know is some money-burning old woman…”

The blood rushed to my head. “Auntie Viv said so — she said that old woman has such a nice room, and she costs Daddy so much money, and she never gets better, so she’s just burning through it—” “Say that again.” My voice had changed. Even I couldn’t recognize it as my own. Oliver was startled by the look on my face. He bit his lip, then summoned his nerve and repeated himself: “She’s just a money-burning old woman, so what — ah!” I shoved him. He tripped over his own feet and landed hard on the floor. He blinked once, then burst into wailing sobs. “Daddy! Daddy!” I stood where I was, my palms numb. Watching my son kick and flail on the floor, that phrase “money-burning old woman” echoed and echoed in my ears. That “money-burning old woman” was my mother. His grandmother. The woman who had dragged herself out of a hospital bed, still healing from surgery, to hand-stitch him a little cotton jacket the month he was born. The woman who called from the care home every year on his birthday, asking the nurses to help her say “Happy Birthday, Oliver, darling.” And he called her a “money-burning old woman.” The sharp edges of the broken brooch cut into my palm. The pain cleared my head a little. Ethan burst through the door, took one look at his son sobbing on the floor, and scooped him up. “Oliver, what happened?” Oliver threw himself into his father’s arms, crying so hard he could barely breathe. “Daddy, she pushed me — make her leave, I want Auntie Viv…” Ethan held him and looked up at me. His eyes held nothing but icy displeasure. “Hannah, are you out of your mind? You hit the child!” “I didn’t hit him.” My voice was very quiet. “I pushed him.” “Is there a difference?” I looked down at the shattered brooch in my hand. “Yes,” I said. “Hitting him would have been a mother disciplining her child. Pushing him — he had it coming.”

Ethan faltered. He looked down at the son in his arms. Oliver, nestled against his father’s chest, had quieted his crying to a murmur. “I was only telling the truth… Auntie Viv said that old woman is just burning through Daddy’s money…” Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are you arguing with a child?” He glanced at me with a sweep of his eyes. “Vivienne is helping manage the household finances right now — she was simply stating a factual observation from a financial perspective, and the child overheard it. Don’t blow this out of proportion.” “You know how much she does for this family. You’ve always known.” He glanced at the brooch broken into pieces in my hand. Something in him softened slightly after all: “I brought the child over today on purpose — so the two of you could have a proper talk. But that matter — don’t tell him about it for now. It won’t do his development any good.” I knew he meant the divorce. I said nothing. Talk? Talk about what? In four years of marriage, the amount of time he and our son had spoken to me combined didn’t add up to half the time he spent talking to Vivienne. And yet it was he who’d pursued me back in university, step by step drawing me in. Getting me to travel to churches and tarot readers and mediums all over, searching desperately for a sign, not giving up until at last one fortune-teller and one reading gave me the answer I’d hoped for… Even without that so-called “accidental pregnancy,” I had already gathered my courage and was ready to set aside the difference in our families’ status to say yes to being with him. Looking back now — it’s just as well I never said it out loud. My mother was still in that care home, waiting for me to come visit. With those thoughts, I picked up my bag and walked out of the storage room. In the living room, Vivienne was crouched in front of Oliver, coaxing him softly. I walked past them without expression. Behind me, Oliver let out a wail: “Why isn’t that bad woman paying attention to me!” He stamped his feet, overcome with a sense of grievance. He was used to me running to soothe him after every tantrum, red-eyed and apologetic. Used to me saying “Oliver don’t be mad, Mama was wrong.” So when I didn’t even glance at him, he felt wronged beyond all measure. Ethan said nothing, but the coldness in his gaze hit my back like a blade. I didn’t stop. I was just reaching to open the front door when his voice exploded behind me: “Stop right there!”

I stopped. “Come here and apologize to Oliver.” His voice was low and suppressed. “You pushed him earlier and frightened him.” I hesitated for a moment. Thinking this might be the last time we saw each other, I felt no energy left to argue. I walked over and crouched down. “I’m sorry.” I looked into his eyes one last, genuine time. “Mama shouldn’t have pushed you.” Oliver sniffled, and then spat directly at my face. A glob of saliva landed on my cheek and slid slowly downward. In his babyish little voice, he said: “Disgusting woman. You deserve it.” Ethan only watched with cold eyes, adding in a mild tone: “You’ve been carrying on with other men, and even your own child can’t stand to look at you.” I slowly raised my hand and wiped my face. Then I laughed. “I’ve been carrying on with other men?” These so-called affairs, these supposedly caught-in-the-act moments — staged so clumsily — had he truly never seen the cracks? Perhaps he had. Perhaps he just didn’t want to expose it. If he was certain that’s what it was, then so be it. “For four years, you and she have been inseparable — four full years! You even had my child raised in her home. Ethan, who exactly has been carrying on with whom?” “Since we’re already divorcing, can you at least stop lying to yourself?” Vivienne’s face went pale. Her eyes immediately reddened. “Ms. Calloway, how can you slander me like that? Mr. Holt, I…” “Hannah, four years of this — haven’t you had enough?” Ethan’s gaze bore down on me. “Fine, if you think there’s something between us —” he took one step toward me, then another, “— then let me show you what truly improper looks like.” He had the nanny take Oliver away, then grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the bedroom. The moment the door shut, he bound my wrists with his necktie and threw me to the floor. Then he turned, pulled Vivienne toward him, and bent close to her ear. “Do you want this?”

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My Border Collie of eight years suddenly refused to leave the house. I didn’t waste a second. Listed the condo online, packed my bags—ready to drive a thousand miles by dawn. Everyone said I’d lost my mind. My husband blocked the doorway, face red, veins popping: “The dog doesn’t wanna go out? Fine! Don’t take him out! What the hell is wrong with you?” I clutched the leash so hard my nails cut into my palm: “We have to leave. Buddy’s blocking the door.” Mark ripped the leash right out of my hands: “You walk out that door, we’re done. Divorce. You hear me?” I nodded. “Fine. The condo, the car, the savings—all yours. I’ll leave with nothing…” “But tonight, we’re getting out of this city.” “Because the dog is blocking the door.” … Mark stared at me like I’d grown a second head. He obviously thought I’d snapped. Completely lost it. But I didn’t have time for his anger. I was stuffing documents and cash into my duffel bag with shaking hands. Buddy lived for walks. The second I touched his leash, he’d bounce three feet in the air. But now? He was planted like a fifty-pound slab of iron against the front door. His movements were sluggish. Heavy. I called his name—took him several seconds just to twitch an ear. He wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t look at Mark. Just stared northwest like something had possessed him. I tried to open the door. Buddy lunged—teeth clamped onto my pant leg, dragging me backward toward the deepest corner of the apartment. He was trembling. That bone-deep shaking traveled up through the fabric, into my ankle. “Amy, are you DONE?” Mark slammed his fist into the shoe cabinet. The vase on top rattled. “Buddy’s tired today! He doesn’t wanna go out, so let him REST! What is this insane overnight move? Running a thousand miles away?” I didn’t look at him. Just moved faster. “He’s not tired, Mark. He’s scared.” “Scared of what?” Mark’s face screamed *you’re being ridiculous*. He grabbed for my bag: “Do you even know I’ve got a client meeting tomorrow? This deal goes through and I make VP!” “And you want me to drive across state lines right now? Did you have a mental breakdown at work or something?” I stopped. Locked eyes with him. Of course I knew. Ten years ago, Mark and I moved to this city with nothing. We clawed our way up. Worked ourselves to the bone to build a life here. We finally had roots. A home. Stability. Outside the window, the city glittered. Ocean breeze drifted in, salty and damp. I turned away. Asked him one last time: “Are you coming with me or not?” Mark’s face went dark. He yanked the leash from my hand and snapped it in half: “I’m NOT going! And I’m not LETTING you go either!” “Amy, you walk out that door—we’re getting a divorce!” Buddy stumbled from the force. His claws scraped against the hardwood with a sound that made my teeth ache. I took a deep breath. Eyes burning. But logic told me—every second counted. No time for emotions. No time to explain. “Fine. I’ll leave with nothing—except Buddy.” Mark froze. He looked at me like I was an alien. Finally managed: “You’d throw away our whole life together… for a dog?” “Yes. Because the dog is blocking the door.” I shook off his grip. Scooped up seventy pounds of Buddy, practically stumbling backward toward the entryway. Buddy curled tight in my arms like a terrified child. But he still twisted his head, staring northwest. The elevator descent made me want to throw up. The underground parking garage at 1 AM was bone-cold. I shoved Buddy into the backseat of my sedan. My hands shook so badly I could barely get the key in the ignition. The second the car burst out of the garage, Mark’s call came through. I declined. He called again. Again. Again. Again. The dashboard clock hit 01:15. I floored it toward the freeway entrance. In the rearview mirror, beautiful, the bustling city shrank away. Buddy lay in the backseat, still curled in a ball, eyes fixed on the window. My hands trembled on the steering wheel. Grandpa’s dying words echoed in my head: “Amy, when a dog blocks the road, it’s showing you the way to live.”

The car tore down the freeway. I didn’t dare blink. The moment we crossed the city limits, the gray film over Buddy’s eyes started to clear. His pupils began to focus. He stopped being stiff as a board. Slowly blinked. Let out a soft whimper. When Mark couldn’t get through to me, he posted a video to social media—surveillance footage from our apartment. In the clip, I looked frantic, haggard, yanking the dog toward the door in a panic. Background: our trashed living room from the fight. His caption: [Five years of marriage can’t compete with a dog’s tantrum. My wife wants to sell everything and divorce me because the dog won’t go for a walk. Left in the middle of the night. Can anyone tell me what I’m supposed to do?] The comments exploded. People called me “mentally unstable.” Others said I was “hiding an affair and using this as an excuse to move assets.” The top comment, hundreds of likes: [This lady can’t have kids, so she’s treating the dog like her son. Brain damage much?] The replies piled on: [Right? Obsessed with that dog.] [Can’t get pregnant so she goes psycho.] I didn’t defend myself. Didn’t explain. Just kept my foot on the gas. By 3 AM, my mother-in-law, Martha, called. The second I answered, she started screaming. Clearly, Mark had filled her in. “Amy! You cursed woman! Can’t give me grandchildren, so you worship that animal!” “I’ve PUT UP with you long enough! Are you trying to DESTROY my son?” “He’s about to make VP, and you pull this insane stunt?” I hung up. Immediately, my mom sent dozens of voice messages, crying: “Sweetie, go back and apologize to Mark!” “You two worked ten years to build that life. You’re finally stable.” “You’re not getting any younger. Why can’t you talk things out? Running away over a dog?” “His mother already thinks you’re… just listen to me, baby. Stop this.” My best friend and coworkers flooded my DMs: [Amy, did something happen to you? Mark says if you don’t come back by morning, he’s filing a missing persons report and getting you declared mentally incompetent.] I looked at Buddy in the backseat. Then I blocked every single contact. Despair. Helplessness. It crashed over me. I knew what Mark was doing—weaponizing social pressure and family guilt to force me home. But he didn’t understand. Buddy didn’t block the door for no reason. He was saving us. I shut off my phone. Eyes locked on the road ahead. Minutes later, Mark’s final ultimatum came through: [Amy, I’ve been reflecting since you left. But I honestly can’t understand why you’re doing this. I’ve frozen your bank accounts. If you don’t come back, I’m filing for divorce.] Two minutes later—bank notification. Mark had reported both my debit cards as lost. He was cutting off my lifeline. He thought if he starved me out, I’d crawl back like a beaten dog. But he didn’t know—I wasn’t throwing a fit. I was running for my life. I stared in the direction of that city. Heart pounding. The dread kept building, like invisible hands closing around my throat. I tried messaging my friends in that city: [Listen to me. Leave the city tonight. As fast as you can.] The next second, I was kicked from the group chat. The admin posted: [Amy, stop spreading panic. Even crazy has limits.] I laughed bitterly. Turned off my phone. Slammed the accelerator to the floor. Tears finally spilled over. We were two hundred miles out now. Buddy had rolled over and stood up. He nuzzled into my neck. His reactions were faster. His eyes were bright and alert again. “Buddy, you’re the only one who believes me, aren’t you?” My voice cracked. Buddy whimpered softly. Eyes clear and sad. He understood more than any of them. I’d become the villain. The crazy woman in everyone’s eyes. The one who couldn’t have kids so she treated her dog like a child. But I glanced at the fuel gauge—half a tank left. Two hundred more miles and I’d hit the mountains. I’d be free of this city. And Buddy kept his eyes on the window. That direction—the way to survive.

5 AM. I had to pull into a rest stop. By now, Buddy was fully recovered. He hopped out of the car easily and drank some water. Looked tired but otherwise normal. Exhaustion hit me like a tidal wave. I dozed in the driver’s seat for two hours. But just as I was about to start the engine again— A familiar black sedan screeched to a stop right in front of me, blocking my exit completely. The sound of brakes woke half the rest stop. Then Mark stepped out of the car. Two of his built friends climbed out behind him. His eyes were bloodshot. Stubble shadowed his jaw. He looked exhausted and unhinged. “Amy, get OUT of the car!” He pounded on my window like he wanted to shatter the glass. Blood rushed to my head. He’d tracked me through the car’s GPS. I locked the doors. Gripped the steering wheel: “Mark, I’m NOT going back with you!” I shouted through the glass. “I don’t have TIME for this!” Mark turned to the crowd of onlookers gathering around: “Please, someone help! My wife has severe paranoid delusions—she thinks the dog is her child and she’s running away from home!” “She’s mentally unstable right now. I need to take her back for treatment!” Rest stop crowds love drama. Several people moved closer, pointing and whispering. “Poor thing looks normal, but I guess her brain’s fried.” “Just go home with your husband, hon. Stop making a scene.” “Can’t have kids so she’s obsessed with the dog… that’s sad.” Mark’s friends pulled out a rope. They were seriously planning to tie me up like I was insane. “I’m NOT crazy!” I shoved the car door open, holding up my phone: “Mark, you touch me and I’m calling the cops!” “You don’t have to come with me—that’s your life, your choice. But don’t you DARE stop me!” “Or I’ll report you for kidnapping!” Mark pointed at Buddy in the backseat. His eyes full of confusion and pain: “You’d have me arrested? Over a dog?” While I was distracted, he yanked open the back door and grabbed for Buddy: “Maybe if I get rid of this thing, you’ll snap out of it!” Buddy jerked away. A guttural growl erupted from his throat. His reflexes were sharp now—teeth locked onto Mark’s watchband. “You little shit! You’re BITING me?!” Mark flung his arm violently. I screamed and lunged forward with pepper spray, shielding Buddy: “BACK OFF! He’s trying to save your LIFE! He’s saving US!” “That city isn’t safe anymore—that whole city has a problem!” Chaos erupted. Mark pinned me against the car door. His strength was terrifying. I couldn’t breathe. “Amy, LOOK!” He pointed toward the horizon where the sun was rising: “That City is FINE! It’s 5:30 AM—people are out jogging right now!” “Nothing happened! When are you going to stop this?” I looked toward the distance. He was right. Dawn was breaking. Everything looked perfectly calm. The crowd murmured. For a moment, I doubted myself. Had my instincts been wrong? But then I looked down at Buddy. He was still crouched under the seat. Teeth chattering. Fur standing on end. Eyes locked northwest. No. Impossible. Buddy’s terror was identical to what I’d seen eighteen years ago.

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Ten years after I died, they finally caught the bastard. Thirteen murders. One of them — me. The trial is livestreamed to millions. He sits there, rattling off crime after crime. Victim locations. Body dumps. Cold, mechanical, bored. Then he gets to number nine. Me. He stops. Looks straight into the camera. And smiles. “This one — oh, this one was the saddest little thing. And she deserved every second of it.” His grin stretches wider. “You’ve got thirty minutes. Bring me her family. Every last one. Or I take it all back — every confession, every location. Gone.” “Good luck finding the rest of those bodies without me.” The internet loses its mind. My name is everywhere — trending, screaming across the live chat. Strangers are already posting, trying to track down my family. And Lucas Crane — my Lucas — rips off his cap and grabs his phone like he wants to crush it. “Nora.” His voice is ice. “You’ve been partying overseas for ten goddamn years. What — you still can’t let it go? You hate them that much?” “Paying off a serial killer to put on a show? That’s a new low. Even for you.” … Ten years. The shy rookie I fell in love with is gone. Detective Captain Crane now. All sharp edges and authority. Even when he’s furious, it barely shows — just his voice going dangerously quiet. “Tomorrow is my wedding to Audrey. I put up with your bullshit for a decade, and you pull this? Now? Today?” “Nobody’s falling for it, Nora. Not anymore.” God. If I were still alive, I’d already be tripping over my own words to apologize. But I’m not alive. I haven’t been for ten years. I can’t answer him. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service—” He freezes. Pulls the phone away from his ear. Stares at it. Right. I’ve been “overseas” for ten years. The number’s been dead almost as long as I have. All that rage — nowhere to land. Like screaming into a void. He picks up his cap. Puts it back on. Sits down. Locks his jaw. Back to the mask. Someone in the chat finally connects the dots. “Wait — Nora Sinclair? THE Nora Sinclair? The architect prodigy? She vanished right after the bridge project launched!” “Holy shit. She didn’t vanish. She was KILLED.” “She was twenty-four years old.” The chat floods with grief. For me. And Lucas — unshakable, by-the-book Lucas — suddenly can’t sit still. He’s on his feet. Practically shouting at the camera. “Nora didn’t vanish. Her real identity got exposed. She was a fraud. She ditched everything and ran off to live her best life abroad.” “She nearly tanked the entire bridge project by walking away.” “If Audrey Sinclair hadn’t stepped up — poured ten years of her life into finishing it — that bridge would be rubble right now.” The second Audrey’s name leaves his mouth, something shifts in him. His whole face goes soft. He sounds like a kid bragging about his first crush. Breathless. Proud. Stupid with it. I’ve seen that face before. The first time he got his commendation — Medal of Valor, youngest officer in the precinct — he grabbed my hand in front of everyone. Pulled me forward like I was the real prize. “Everyone — this is Nora Sinclair. Ashford’s most brilliant architect. And my fiancée.” “Half this medal belongs to her.” He unclipped that bronze pin from his own chest and fastened it to mine. His hands were shaking. The whole room erupted. Wolf-whistles, cheers, someone banging on a table. And Lucas — face red as a fire truck — kissed me right there. In front of all of them. That was then. Same man. Different woman. Every medal since, every award, every proud moment — they all belong to her now. Audrey Sinclair. The real daughter. The one who replaced me in every way that mattered. That heart of his — the one so pure it made me cry — he gave it away. Whole. Unbroken. To her. And now, when someone says my name, all I see on his face is disgust. “Nora — even if you paid a murderer to say you’re dead, I won’t buy it.” “Show your face and end this. Or I’ll have you arrested.” He turns on the killer. Eyes like knives. “Where. Is. She.” Every cop in that room drops their gaze. Nobody dares meet his stare. But the killer? He just laughs. “Officer.” Slow. Amused. “I already told you. Thirty minutes. Bring me her family.” He lifts one finger toward the clock. Something cold and ancient in his eyes. “Ten minutes gone. I’d hurry if I were you.”

The chat goes dead silent — then erupts. Everyone’s rattled by the killer’s threat. Within minutes, the internet is plastered with posts trying to find my family. “Don’t let Nora fool you!” Lucas is on his feet. Voice calm. Controlled. Already building his case against me before anyone else can think. “Nora’s jealous. She’s trying to wreck my wedding to Audrey.” “I made Audrey a promise — swore it on that bridge. The day the Ashford-Bridgeport Bridge opens, that’s the day I marry her.” “Nora timed this whole stunt to blow it all up.” He’s glaring at the screen like he wants to reach through it and shake me. I can practically hear what’s running through his head: Nora, you lived Audrey’s life for thirty years. What more do you want? “Lucas!” The courtroom doors slam open. Audrey staggers in, drenched head to toe from the storm. Lucas has his jacket off and around her shoulders before she takes two steps. “What are you doing here in this weather? I told you I’d come to you after work.” His voice is tight. Barely hiding the panic underneath. Like the thought of her suffering even a little bit is more than he can take. Then he turns to the camera. Hard. Cold. “Nora — you can see what you’ve done to Audrey. Are you satisfied now?” Audrey shakes her head, pale-faced, clutching his sleeve. “She has every right to resent me, Lucas. Please — don’t blame her.” She pulls out a folder, perfectly dry inside a rain cover, and holds it up to the camera. “Nora — if you’re upset about the bridge project, I’ll have the committee put your name back as lead architect at tomorrow’s ceremony.” “Just please stop making things harder for Lucas. He’s only doing his job to keep people safe.” Not a trace of anger in her voice. Not even close. Her eyes are actually glistening — on the edge of tears. Soaking wet. Trembling. The perfect picture of grace under fire. The chat flips instantly. “Nora is disgusting. Dragging the real daughter through this for her own ego.” “Must be nice living abroad. Rich enough to bribe a serial killer for attention.” But the bridge project? Audrey took it from me. The day she walked off with my blueprints, she didn’t even flinch. “Nora — you lived my life for over thirty years. Think of this as interest. Seems fair, don’t you think?” Just like that, the lead architect’s name on the internal system was changed to Audrey Sinclair. “Nora! Haven’t you done enough?” Lucas snaps the safety off his gun. Presses the barrel against the killer’s temple. His whole body is shaking with rage. “You like performing? Fine. Let’s keep the show going. Tell me — where is Nora’s body?” “Captain — stand down!” Officers scramble toward him, trying to wrestle the weapon away. The killer doesn’t even blink. He watches Lucas spiral — and laughs. “I’ve seen every face in that family photo of hers. Bring me all of them. Every single one. Or you get nothing.”

“What photo? What are you talking about?” Lucas looks completely lost. Obviously doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. He’s taken thousands of photos over the years — work events, award ceremonies, commendations. Why would he remember one unremarkable group shot? But that photo was my only family portrait. After Audrey was confirmed as the real Sinclair daughter, both families took one photo together. My adoptive parents and my birth parents — all smiles. All clustered around Audrey. Not one of them willing to stand within arm’s reach of me. But even that lopsided, heartbreaking picture — I kept it like treasure. Carried it with me for ten years. After I went back to my birth parents, they couldn’t even be bothered to smile at me. To be closer to Audrey, they gave up everything and moved to Ashford. Even when they came back to Bridgeport for the holidays — just one day a year — they’d sigh the entire drive, complaining about the three-hour detour. “If only there were a bridge connecting the two cities. Then we could see Audrey every day.” That one sentence. That’s all it took. I turned down an offer from a Fortune 500 firm overseas. Poured everything I had into getting the bridge project approved. The day it was greenlit, I walked out of the construction trailer I’d lived in for over two hundred days. Went home to tell my birth parents the good news — for the first time. I was so happy I didn’t notice the man following me. By the time I saw the knife in his hand — by the time I tried to run back inside — the front door had a new lock. A new code. My parents had changed it without telling me. I was locked out. I died on my own doorstep. That half-inch threshold felt like a mountain I couldn’t climb as I collapsed. “Oh, sweetheart — Mommy and Daddy are so sorry we’re late!” An elderly couple stumbles into the courtroom, wailing at the camera. “You’ve been overseas for ten years — do you really still resent us?” “Baby, just let it go.” I’ve heard that line a thousand times. Haven’t I let go enough? I let go of being the Sinclair heiress. Went home without a fight. I let go of my dream job overseas — threw myself into building that bridge. I let go of the blueprints I’d slaved over for months — handed the credit to Audrey without a word. And for Lucas, I let go of my life. What else is there left to let go of? Lucas slaps the table impatiently, glaring at the killer. “Talk. Now.” The killer glances at him with open contempt — then pounds the table so hard it shakes. “You’re trying to fool me with actors? Those aren’t her parents!” I freeze. Then laugh at myself. Ten years. I’ve forgotten what my own parents look like. I can’t even tell these are imposters. A vein pulses at Lucas’s temple. “Her birth parents are in Bridgeport! Her adoptive parents are in Ashford! The bridge doesn’t open until tomorrow and there’s a goddamn hurricane out there — how am I supposed to get them here?” The killer grins to himself. “Then thank you, Officer, for giving me a reason to recant.” “You’ve got six minutes.” The chat is furious on my behalf — calling Lucas heartless, cruel. Thousands of people across both cities start searching for my parents on their own. Lucas, terrified of the backlash spiraling further, has no choice. He calls in a police helicopter to fly both sets of parents in. “Thirty seconds left.” The killer props his feet up on the table, counting down with obvious pleasure. “Three…” “Two…” “One!” The courtroom doors burst open on the final second. Everyone exhales. But my birth parents and adoptive parents stroll in — unhurried, arm in arm. All four pairs of eyes go straight to Audrey. “Oh, baby girl — you came in the rain? Look at you, you’re soaked!” “Are you cold, sweetheart?” When someone mentions me, all they do is scoff. “Nora, dead? Please. She’s probably sunbathing on some beach abroad.” Lucas snaps. Grabs the killer by the collar. Roars in his face. “TALK!” The killer looks around the room — at all of them — and suddenly smiles. Quiet. Almost sad. “She really was pitiful…” The audience holds its breath. Then the killer lifts his head and finally says it: “Her body is inside the central pillar of the Ashford-Bridgeport Bridge. Sealed in concrete.”

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Five years later, I returned to Harbor City. The invitation to Mrs. Shaw’s birthday gala had arrived at my hotel three days prior—cream-colored card stock, the Shaw family crest pressed into the seal. I almost threw it away. But Julian had raised an eyebrow when he saw the name, and something in his expression told me he already knew I’d go. Because can not hide forever. But also not for Adrian Shaw’s shameless love acting. So I went. — The Shaw estate hadn’t changed. Crystal chandeliers, white roses, the same old money perfume that clung to the drapes.Every major family in Harbor City was in attendance. I stood near the terrace doors, a glass of champagne in my hand. I recognized most of the faces. They recognized mine. The whispers started before I’d made it past the foyer. I ignored them. Then Adrian Shaw walked toward me. He was still handsome. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin. His jaw was sharper than I remembered. In his hands, he held a garment bag. And even before he unzipped it, I knew what was inside. The wedding suit. The one I had designed for him with my own hands, twenty years of love stitched into every seam. The one he had ripped off and ground beneath his heel on our wedding day—in front of cameras, in front of reporters, in front of every person who had ever watched me love him. The room went quiet. “Elara.” His voice was low. Controlled. The voice of a man who’d rehearsed this. “I know I have no right to stand here. But I’ve carried this with me for five years, and I need you to hear what I have to say.” He held the suit out like an offering. “Marry me.” A gasp rippled through the crowd. Then whispers. I looked at the suit. At his face. At the tremor in his hands. And I felt—nothing. “Oh my God. He’s proposing. Adrian Shaw is proposing to Elara Su.” “After everything that happened? After the scandal? He must be losing her mind right now.” “Are you kidding? She loved him for twenty years. She’ll say yes. Of course she’ll say yes.” They remembered. Everyone remembered. This is the woman who spent ninety million dollars on a fireworks proposal over Harbor Bridge. The drones that spelled his name across the night sky. The LED screens on every building in the financial district—*I love Adrian Shaw*—for an entire month. Twenty-five-year-old Elara had loved with her whole chest. I had wanted the entire world to witness our love story. And the entire world had watched it burn. I set down my champagne glass. The clink echoed in the sudden silence. “Thank you for the kind gesture, Mr. Shaw,” I said. My voice was calm. Almost bored. “But I was young and foolish back then. I don’t have those feelings anymore.” The crowd went absolutely still. Adrian’s face flickered—shock, then disbelief, then something that looked almost like panic. “Elara, don’t joke with me. I know you’re still angry about what happened, but I can explain—” “There’s nothing to explain.” I smiled. Not warmly. “Five years is a long time. People will change. And I don’t have a habit of recycling trash.” He stepped closer, the wedding dress still hanging from his hand. ““You don’t mean that. You loved me. You followed me everywhere. You—” “I also forgave you once for wearing my wedding dress on someone else,” I cut in. “And I forgave your sister calling me a fraud. And I forgave you choosing her over me on our wedding day.” His jaw tightened. “Lily was my family. I had to protect her.” “You had to protect her from what? The truth?” The whispers turned sharper. “She’s really saying no. Elara Su is saying no to Adrian Shaw.” “After all that?” “Maybe she may has love another man.” Adrian’s expression hardened. He lowered the dress. “You’re still angry. I understand. But Elara, we had something real. You can’t just—” “I can,” I said. “And I did.” He stared at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lowered himself to one knee. The room gasped again. “Elara Su,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I love you. Five years I’ve regretted what I did. I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But I’m asking for one anyway.” He held up the wedding dress. “Elara Su—will you marry me?” I opened my mouth and ready to refuse. And then a small voice cut through the silence like a bell. “Mommy!”

The entire room froze. A tiny figure in a white lace dress broke through the forest of adult legs, dark hair bouncing, eyes locked on me with the single-minded determination that only small children possess.She crashed into my legs and wrapped her arms around my knees. Sienna. I caught her automatically, my body responding before my brain caught up. She smelled like baby powder and strawberries. “Mommy, Mommy! Daddy said to wait in the car, but I missed you!” Every eye in the ballroom was locked on us. On her. Adrian stared at my daughter like he had seen a ghost. His face went from white to gray. The wedding dress slipped from his fingers and pooled on the floor. “You… you have a daughter?” His voice was barely audible. I picked up my daughter and settled her on my hip. “She’s four,” I said calmly. “Born in April 2020.” Whispers exploded like a bomb. “A daughter? Elara Su has a daughter?” “Who’s the father? She never announced any wedding.” “She’s bluffing. Probably hired a child actress—” Adrian heard them too. Something desperate shifted behind his eyes—the first flicker of real fear. He squared his shoulders, and for the second time that night, lowered himself to one knee. “Elara Su.” His voice rang out—pitched deliberately for the room, for the witnesses, for the record. “I was wrong. I lost you through my own stupidity. But I am asking—in front of every person here tonight—for one more chance.” “Will you marry me?” The hall held its breath. I looked down at him. At the suit I had once stitched with trembling, lovesick hands. At the face I had once believed I would grow old beside. I didn’t answer right away. I felt Sienna’s small fingers curl into my collar. Her weight on my hip—warm and real. I kissed Sienna’s forehead, then looked at him. “March 2020. I held the ceremony overseas.” Adrian rose slowly to his feet. Whatever remained of his composure lay in ruins. His jaw was locked tight, his knuckles white around the wedding suit’s fabric. He stepped closer. His voice dropped—as though lowering the volume could somehow erase the audience of two hundred. “Elara, whatever game this is—whoever you married to punish me—it doesn’t matter. I’ll wait. However long it takes.” He lifted the suit again. The gesture that had seemed grand fifteen minutes ago now looked desperate. Fraying at the edges. “This was made for me. By your hands. That means something. That doesn’t just easliy disappear.” Sienna chose to look up at Adrian with the kind of withering disdain only a four-year-old could deliver with total sincerity. “Mommy,” she announced, loud enough for the nearest fifty guests to hear, “why is that man still talking? He’s very annoying.” A strangled laugh escaped someone nearby. Adrian’s jaw clenched. “Elara, I don’t believe you’ve moved on. I know you. I know what we had.” The crowd was watching us like a tennis match—heads swiveling, breaths held, waiting to see who would break first. Before I could respond, another voice cut through the murmur. “She doesn’t want to.” Every head turned. The crowd parted. Julian Sinclair walked through the gap like he owned the room. Navy suit. Cufflinks gleaming. His face was calm, but his eyes were cold—radiating the kind of cold fury that made people instinctively step aside. He came to my side and wrapped an arm around my waist. Possessive. Unapologetic. “Julian Sinclair.” He extended his hand toward Adrian, but his voice perfectly polite and perfectly lethal. “Her husband.” A collective gasp. “Apologies for the interruption, butI believe my wife already said no.”

Julian’s presence hit the room like a cold front. The whispers didn’t just die—they evaporated. Two hundred guests stared at the man who had materialized beside me, his arm around my waist, his gaze fixed on Adrian Shaw with the kind of quiet contempt that didn’t need volume to be devastating. Adrian was still stood there. The wedding suit pooled across his arms. His face had gone from white to gray. “Sinclair?” someone breathed. “Julian Sinclair is her husband?” ““Heir to the Sinclair Group?—that’s who she married?” “How is that possible? He’s been off the radar for years—” Julian didn’t acknowledge any of it. His attention shifted to Sienna, who was tugging at his sleeve with practiced urgency. “Daddy.” She pointed at Adrian with one small, accusatory finger. “That bad man tried to steal Mommy. He got on his knees and everything.” Julian crouched to her level. His expression was grave—the kind of seriousness he reserved exclusively for their daughter’s reports on injustice. “Did he scare you?” “No.” Sienna crossed her arms. “But he’s very annoying. And he made Mommy talk to him for a really long time.” “I see.” Julian straightened, one hand still resting on my waist. He looked back at Adrian. Adrian rose slowly. He stared at Julian—not with the hostility of a rival, but with the bewilderment of a man whose entire reality had shifted beneath his feet. “You—” Adrian’s voice was hoarse. “You’re her husband?” “And also the father of her daughter, her legal husband” Julian said smoothly. “Would you like to see the certificate? I carry it everywhere.” He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small booklet. He set it on the nearest table with a sharp *clap* that echoed through the silent hall. Adrian’s face went gray. Sienna—clearly sensing the moment required her participation—climbed down from my arms, marched to the table, and patted the marriage certificate with her small palm. “See?” she announced to the room at large. “Mommy and Daddy. It’s real. It has stamps and everything.” The tension fractured. Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd—disbelieving, unable to look away. Adrian stood frozen in the wreckage of his grand gesture. The suit lay at his feet like a shed skin. “This is—” His voice cracked. “This isn’t possible. You left the country and immediately—” I said flat. “Julian proposed. I said yes. It was remarkably uncomplicated.” “But—twenty years.” Adrian’s composure was in free fall. “Twenty years, Elara. The fireworks, the billboards, the chapel—everything we promised each other. You don’t just erase that.” Julian’s arm tightened around my waist—barely perceptible, but I felt it. I glanced up at him. His face hadn’t changed: cold, composed, utterly controlled. But his jaw was set in that particular way that meant he was approximately two sentences away from doing something that would require legal counsel. I turned back to Adrian. “The past,” I said. “It’s the past.” “Mr. Shaw, I designed that suit when I was twenty-four years old and very much in love with someone who no longer exists in my heart.” My voice was pleasant. Almost conversational. “If you’d like to keep it as a souvenir, you’re welcome to. But proposing with it in front of my husband is rather tasteless, don’t you think?” Adrian flinched as if the words had physical weight. Julian heard it. Something flickered at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but close. He picked up the marriage certificate from the table, slipped it back into his pocket, and turned to me. “Ready to go?” I nodded. He offered me his left hand. His right scooped up Sienna, who immediately wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his collar. On the whispers, the staring eyes, on Adrian Shaw standing alone in the center of a room that had, five years ago, watched him destroy me. We turned toward the exit. My heels clicked against the marble. Julian’s stride matched mine—unhurried, deliberate. Sienna hummed tunelessly against his shoulder. Behind us, Adrian’s voice followed—cracked, desperate: “Elara—” My footsteps didn’t falter. Julian’s hand found mine. Very Warm. We walked out together. The night air hit my face—cool, salt-edged, carrying the distant scent of the harbor. The valet had already brought the car around. Julian helped Sienna into her car seat with the practiced efficiency of a man who had done it a thousand times. Then he held the passenger door open for me. “You okay?” I nodded and slid in. He closed the door, rounded the hood, and settled into the driver’s seat. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The engine hummed. City lights blurred past the windows—amber and white, streaking through the dark like falling stars. Then Julian reached across the console and took my hand. His thumb traced slow circles across my knuckles—a gesture so familiar, so achingly gentle, that something in my chest unclenched. “Elara,” he said quietly. He didn’t look at me. His eyes stayed on the road, on the lights. “Those things—everything that happened back then.” His thumb paused on my knuckle. “Those things… from before…” He paused, searching for words. “You really let them go?” I didn’t answer right away. I looked at his profile—the sharp jaw, the dark lashes, the faint tension at the corner of his mouth that he thought he was hiding. “I don’t know,” I whispered. I looked down at our joined hands. “Tonight, when he knelt in front of me with that dress, I didn’t feel anything for him. Not love. Not hate. Just… tired.” He was quiet for a moment. Then he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles. “It will be fine,” he said. “I’m not asking you to delete them. I’m just suggesting if you’ve buried them deep enough that they can’t hurt you anymore.” I met his gaze. The sincerity there made my chest ache—not from pain, but from gratitude. “Yes,” I said. “I think so.” He smiled. “Good girl.”

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Nine years after Jesse Marlow’s mother had me raped and destroyed my family, I limp into the clinic to abort the rapist’s baby — and the half-blood Alpha-heir who let it all happen walks in wearing a doctor’s coat. I freeze for half a second. Then I keep walking. My left sleeve is empty. It’s been empty for nine years. I pin it up every morning like other women pin up their hair. Jesse looks up from the chart. His face does something — a flinch, a crack, gone before I can name it. “Wendy.” I don’t answer. I drop my appointment slip on his desk. “I’m here for an abortion. Today, please.” He doesn’t pick up the slip. He just stares at it like the paper might bite him. “Your body’s not strong,” he says quietly. “An abortion will hurt you. Are you sure?” His voice is the same. Soft. Careful. The same voice that told me I was a slut in front of our whole class. The same voice that walked away while his mother burned my life down. I look at him. Really look. He’s tall now. The half-blood thing they used to whisper about — it shows. His shoulders are too wide for the coat. His eyes are too gold for a human’s. So Crimson Fang Pack didn’t kill him after all. They just polished him up. “Yes,” I say. “I’m sure. The sooner the better.” He picks up the slip. His hand is shaking. He’s trying to hide it and failing. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “Your husband — he’s not good to you?” My husband. I almost laugh. He thinks I have a husband. He thinks some man somewhere wakes up next to me and calls me his. I don’t correct him. He’s nobody. After today he goes back to being nobody. “Just book the surgery, Dr. Marlow.” He flinches at his own name in my mouth. He examines me in silence. Cold stethoscope. Cold hands. Hands that used to be warm when I was seventeen and stupid and thought he hung the moon. “Today,” he finally says. “We’ll do it today.” They wheel me into prep. A needle slides into my vein. The room starts swimming. A nurse pokes her head in and whispers something to Jesse. He doesn’t even hesitate. He drops everything and walks out. Through the fog I hear the nurses talking like I can’t hear them. “Dr. Marlow’s so sweet to his girlfriend. She’s got a little cold and he runs.” “Yeah. Not like this one. Comes in alone for an abortion. No man. You can tell what kind she is.” My eyelids twitch. I can’t open them. I want to tell them. I want to say it. I’m not a slut. I used to be Jesse Marlow’s whole world. —

Three hours before I limped into that clinic, I was scrolling Facebook on a break at work. A post was going viral. Already thousands of shares. I scrolled because I was bored. I scrolled because my feet hurt and I had twenty minutes before the lunch rush. Then I saw it. “My son dated a normal little girl back in high school. I didn’t stop them. I just used a few small tricks and ruined the girl. My son watched his own girlfriend rot in front of him. He got disgusted. He broke up with her. Now he’s safe at home, doing big things. This is what every great mother does for her son.” Marlene. After nine years, she’s still bragging. The comments were a war zone. Thousands of strangers calling her a monster. Thousands more cheering her on. *Smart mom. Saved her son from a gold digger.* I read it twice. I waited for something to happen in my chest. Nothing happened. I turned off my phone. I went back to wiping tables. It used to take everything in me not to scream when I thought about her. Now I can read a public confession of what she did to me and feel — nothing. Just tired. That’s what nine years of pills and broken sleep does. It hollows you out. It takes the rage and the love and the fear and grinds them into the same gray dust. My boss looked at me funny. “Wendy. You okay?” “Fine.” “You still going to the clinic after shift?” “Yeah.” She nodded. She didn’t ask whose baby. She knew better than to ask. I finished my shift. I caught the bus to the clinic across town. The smaller one. The one nobody I know goes to. The one I used to come to all the time as a kid. I limped up the steps. I signed in. I sat down with the slip in my hand. A nurse called my name. I followed her down the hall to the exam room. I pushed the door open. The doctor had his back to me. White coat. Tall. Shoulders too wide. He turned around. And nine years of gray dust caught fire all at once. Jesse Marlow. Back in the same little human clinic he used to work at, before his father’s pack came in their black SUVs and took him away. He’d come back. Of course he had. The universe had one more joke to play on me. —

I was sixteen the first time I saw him. He was sitting on the curb outside the empty house next to ours. Skinny. Pale. A backpack with one broken strap. A bruise on his jaw that nobody had asked about. My mom watched him from the kitchen window for a week. Then she put extra food in my lunch tin and shoved it into my hands. “Take this to the boy next door, Wendy. Nobody’s feeding him.” That’s how it started. His name was Jesse. He was seventeen. He told me his father had “sent him out here for the summer.” He didn’t say why. The neighbors said why. “He’s the bastard. The Alpha’s bastard from over in Crimson Fang. The pack didn’t want him so they dumped him on the human side with his mother.” I didn’t know what an Alpha was. I didn’t care. He had a bruise on his jaw and my mom had made him dumplings. I brought him food every day for a month. By the end of that month he smiled when he saw me coming. Kids at school whispered. “His mom’s a mistress. He’s half-blood wolf. He’s dirty. Don’t sit next to him, Wendy.” I turned around in my seat. I said it loud enough for the whole row to hear. “Don’t talk about him like that. Jesse’s the best person I know.” I made it up a little. I had to. Somebody had to make it up for him. A girl elbowed me. I looked up. Jesse was standing in the doorway. His eyes were red. He’d heard every word. I got embarrassed and bolted. That night he caught up to me outside the school gate. He didn’t say anything for a whole block. Then his fingers found mine. “Wendy. Thank you. You’re the best person I know too.” I didn’t pull my hand away. We walked home like that. His palm hot against mine. My face hot against the cold air. My heart doing something it had never done before. We were a couple by Halloween. He told me he’d love me forever. He told me we’d go to the same college. Buy a tiny house. Get two cats. One orange, one black. I believed him. I was sixteen and his hand was warm and nobody had ever looked at me the way he looked at me, like I was the only safe thing in the world. On my eighteenth birthday I waited for him on the porch with a cake. He was late. When he finally came home, he wasn’t alone. A woman stepped out of the car behind him. Pretty. Soft voice. Smiling at me like she’d known me for years. “You must be Wendy. I’m Jesse’s mom.” —

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