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The syringe hits my neck before I can shift. Wolfsbane. Pure liquid silver. My knees buckle as Alpha Killian’s pack warriors pin me to the stone floor. “Hold her,” Killian orders. My body convulses. The shift rips through me—bones snapping, wings tearing from my shoulder blades. I scream as scales erupt across my skin in a wave of agony. This isn’t natural. I’m being forced into my dragon form against every instinct. “Killian—” I gasp. “Please—” He doesn’t look at me. He’s staring at Elena, his mistress, who’s coughing delicately into a handkerchief. “The Vital Scale,” Elena whispers. “It’s the only thing that can cure me.” Lies. All lies. But Killian nods. I’m paralyzed now, my dragon form sprawled across the Pack Stone. My wings twitch uselessly. My heart pounds against my chest—right where the Vital Scale sits, the scale closest to a dragon’s heart, rumored to heal anything. Killian kneels beside me. His knife gleams. “You know what this will do to me!” I scream through the haze. “We’re bonded! If you carve out that scale, I’ll—” “You’ll what?” He presses the blade to my chest. “Die? Good. I’m tired of your lies.” The knife sinks in. White-hot pain explodes through my chest. I feel the scale rip away, hear the sickening crack as he tears it free. My vision goes red. One hundred years of protection. Gone. I collapse, my human form returning in jagged bursts. Blood pools beneath me. Killian stands, holding the iridescent scale up to the light. “Only Grandfather believes your dragon guardian bullshit,” he says coldly. “You’re just a shifter who conned her way into this pack. Elena told me the truth—she’s the one who saved my life, not you.” He tosses the scale to Elena like it’s trash. I try to crawl toward him. My legs won’t work. Something’s broken inside me, something vital. “Grandfather Silas,” I wheeze. “Please… I need…” Silas appears in the doorway, his face gray with horror. “What have you done?” The old Alpha drops to his knees beside me. “Seraphina—the Dragon Pact—” “Is a fairy tale,” Killian snaps. “She’s been using you for years, Grandfather. Time to end the con.” My hair turns white in an instant, draining of color like ash. Silas grabs my hand, his weathered fingers trembling. “The protection,” he whispers. “The pack will fall without it.” I look up at him, tears streaming down my face. “Your father saved my life when I was a hatchling,” I rasp. “I swore a blood debt to protect the Thorne Pack for one hundred years. I diverted every disaster. I gave Killian my blood to pull him from his coma. I broke every sacred law for this pack.” My body starts to fade, wisps of smoke curling from my skin. “The debt is paid,” I whisper. “My physical form is destroyed. I can no longer protect you. Let me go.”

I wake up in the pack infirmary, but not for long. The wound in my chest hasn’t closed. Every breath is fire. The beta healer shakes her head. “Without the Vital Scale, your body can’t regenerate. You’re human now, Seraphina.” Human. The word echoes in my skull. Before I can process it, the door slams open. Killian’s servant storms in, dragging me out of bed by my wrist. “You’re not staying here,” he snarls. “Elena needs you.” He hauls me through the pack house, my bare feet scraping against the floor. Warriors watch with cold eyes. No one helps. When we reach his quarters, I hear them before I see them. Moaning. Gasping. Elena’s voice purrs through the door: “Now that I’ve swallowed that dragon’s Vital Scale, don’t you think my body moves like liquid? Did she seduce you like this too?” Killian laughs. “Liquid? Seraphina was never this desperate.” He shoves the door open. They’re on the bed, tangled together. Elena sees me first—sees my stark white hair, my hollow eyes—and shrieks. “Monster!” She clutches her chest, coughing violently. “She cursed me! Killian, she’s trying to kill me!” Killian’s hand cracks across my face. I hit the floor. “What did you do to your hair?” he roars. “Some kind of witch trick to make Elena sick again?” I press my hand to my bleeding lip. “It’s not a trick,” I whisper. “It’s what happens when a dragon loses her essence.” Elena sits up, wrapping the sheet around herself. Her eyes gleam with calculated malice. “Killian, I’m sure Seraphina didn’t mean it.” She coughs delicately. “But since the Vital Scale worked so well… wouldn’t Dragon Blood Soup work even better?” My blood turns to ice. “No—” Killian grabs my arm, dragging me toward the door. “Perfect idea, sweetheart.” He tosses me to the pack’s butler. “Take her to the kitchens. Bleed her. Make soup.” The butler’s grip is iron. I try to shift—to call my wings, my fire—but nothing happens. The power is gone. In the kitchen, they chain me to a chair. A blade opens my wrist. The pain is instant, searing. But worse is the heat that follows—my blood boiling in a pot on the stove, the scent of herbs and flesh filling the air. I feel every degree. Every simmer. I scream until my voice gives out. When they finally drag me back upstairs, Killian and Elena are at the dining table. The soup sits between them, steam rising. Killian looks at me with disgust. “Your acting is pathetic,” he says. “You stole Elena’s place as Luna. You stole her hundred-year lifespan blessing from the Dragon Pact. I took one scale and some blood. Do you really need to be this dramatic?” Elena spoons the broth to her lips, her eyes never leaving mine. She smiles. And drinks.

I collapse in the corridor outside Killian’s quarters. The burning sensation from the soup spreads through my veins like wildfire. I dig my nails into my thighs, biting down on my tongue to keep from screaming. Inside, they laugh. Killian’s voice drifts through the door: “You know, the Dragon Pact was supposed to grant the Luna a century of life. When I divorce Seraphina, that blessing transfers to you.” Elena giggles. “A hundred years with you? I can’t wait.” I laugh—a broken, bitter sound. They don’t understand. The Thornes were always cursed. Blood-soaked from generations of violence. Only my power held back the tide of disaster. And now that I’m broken, now that my last trace of dragon essence is being digested in Elena’s stomach— The curse will come for them all. I drag myself to my feet and stumble down the hall. Fifteen years ago, Grandfather Silas knelt at my shrine and begged me to save Killian from a coma. The boy was dying—a childhood death written in his fate. I gave him my blood. Breath by breath. Year by year. To save him, I broke sacred dragon law. I endured three days of divine lightning, nearly died, just to channel my essence into his failing body. When Killian woke, he found me collapsed at his bedside, barely breathing. He wasn’t afraid. He’d stroked my hair and whispered, “Seraphina. I’m going to marry you. I promise.” He said he didn’t care that I was a dragon. He begged Grandfather for permission. The pack whipped him with their ancestral cane until he couldn’t stand, but he kept his back straight, demanding to make me his mate. It was the first time in ten thousand years I’d felt my own heartbeat. After we mated, he treasured me. Brought me rare meats. Traced my scales when I shifted. But everything changed when Elena appeared. She’d planted a pill bottle under his bed—neurological medication—and convinced him she’d saved his life, not me. Killian threw the bottle at me. “I believed your superstitious bullshit! You’re just a gold-digger!” I reach the pack shrine now—the Treaty Site where my oath was sealed. And I smash the stone tablet with my bare hands. If I can no longer protect the Thornes, I will not accept their offerings. The stone cracks. Black smoke rises. Killian’s voice echoes behind me: “What the hell did you just do?” I turn. He’s staring at the shattered tablet, his face twisted with rage. “You destroyed the Treaty Site!” he roars. “You’re trying to curse Elena! Keep her from her hundred years!” I meet his eyes. “There is no blessing left,” I say quietly. “You destroyed it yourself when you tore out my Vital Scale.” He lunges for me.

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Chloe had perfected the art of weaponized incompetence. She’d stumble into class late, wide-eyed and breathless, clutching a Starbucks cup like it was a lifeline. “Oh my God, you guys, I’m so bad at mornings!” And just like that, someone would offer her their notes. Someone always did. Even Hayden—my childhood best friend, my first kiss behind the bleachers in eighth grade—would drop everything to help her. He’d smile that patient, indulgent smile and say, “Don’t worry about it, Chloe. I’ve got you.” He never questioned her. Not when she “accidentally” deleted his Google Drive folder senior year. And definitely not on the day she logged into his Common App account and torched his future. I watched it happen. I said nothing. Because in my first life, I’d tried to save him. I’d caught her red-handed, reported her to the Honor Council, and fixed his college applications with minutes to spare. And Hayden? He called me a jealous bitch. Said I was threatened by Chloe’s “sweetness.” Said I’d fabricated the whole thing because I couldn’t stand to see him happy. Two years later, when I was a graduate student at MIT, he destroyed me. He filed a false academic misconduct report. Forged emails. Planted evidence in my research files. The investigation was brutal. The hearing was worse. I was expelled, blacklisted, and facing federal charges for research fraud I didn’t commit. “What did you expect?” he said through the plexiglass during his one and only visit to the jail. “You tried to ruin Chloe. Did you really think I’d let that slide?” In prison, the violence was methodical. A woman named Reina ran our cell block, and she had very specific instructions: make it hurt, but don’t leave marks. I learned later that Hayden had paid her. Five thousand dollars to make sure I suffered. She earned every penny. I died on a concrete floor, my body shutting down from starvation and internal bleeding, clutching a shell casing my father had given me before he deployed to Afghanistan. He never came home. Neither did I. Until I did. I reborn. I woke up to the smell of industrial cleaner and the mechanical hum of desktop computers. My fingers were on a keyboard. The screen in front of me glowed with the Common App portal, a countdown timer ticking in the corner: 4 hours, 27 minutes until submission deadline. “Ava? You done yet?” The voice hit me like a fist to the sternum. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. My entire body locked up as footsteps clicked across the linoleum floor behind me. I didn’t need to turn around. I knew exactly who it was. Chloe. And I knew exactly what she was about to do. “Almost,” I managed, my voice coming out strangled. I kept my eyes on the screen, but my peripheral vision tracked her movement. She drifted toward the back corner of the computer lab—the one spot the security camera didn’t cover. I’d discovered that blind spot in my previous life, right after I’d discovered what she was doing there. This time, I was ready. My phone was already propped between two textbooks, camera lens aimed directly at that corner. Recording. Chloe glanced around, her ponytail swishing as she checked to make sure no one was watching. Then she slid into the chair, her fingers flying across the keyboard with the kind of confidence that didn’t match her “oops, I’m so clumsy” persona. She logged into Hayden’s account. He’d given her his password months ago—because of course he had. He trusted her completely. I watched her navigate to his application. Watched her delete MIT, Stanford, Columbia. Watched her replace them, one by one, with the local community college. Not even the good one. The one that advertised on bus benches. When she finished, she stared at the screen for a long moment. And then she smiled. It wasn’t the ditsy, giggling smile she wore around guys. It was cold. Satisfied. Surgical. “Chloe?” Hayden’s voice shattered the silence. I flinched so hard I nearly knocked over my water bottle.

“Hayden!” Chloe’s mask snapped back into place with terrifying speed. She bounded toward him, all bright eyes and breathless energy. “Oh my God, you scared me! I was just, like, checking my email and I think I clicked something weird? The screen went all crazy.” Hayden caught her by the shoulders, steadying her. “You’re fine. Just log out if something’s acting up.” She nodded, burying her face against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and for just a second, his eyes flicked toward me. The look in them made my blood run cold. He turned away, guiding Chloe toward the door with his hand on the small of her back. I sat frozen until their footsteps faded. Then I looked down at my phone. The video was crystal clear. Every keystroke. Every smile. Every lie. Last time, I’d run after them. I’d screamed. I’d begged Hayden to check his account. He’d looked at me like I was delusional. This time, I closed the recording and saved it to three separate cloud drives. Then I deleted the application I’d already filled out—Boston University, Finance major, the school Hayden had picked for me because he liked the idea of us in the same city. I typed in a new name: United States Military Academy at West Point. My father’s alma mater. The place I’d spent my whole childhood trying to forget. “I’m done running,” I whispered to the empty lab. The submit button glowed green. I clicked it. — The Common App portal locked at midnight. By the time Hayden’s mother found out, it was three days later. I was restocking shelves at the campus bookstore when I heard the screaming. “WHO TOUCHED HIS APPLICATIONS?” Mrs. White’s voice cut through the hallway like a siren. I peeked around the corner and saw her storming toward the administrative office, heels clicking like gunshots, a printout of Hayden’s college list clutched in her hand. The entire hallway went silent. Chloe was at her locker. I watched the color drain from her face. Her fingers twisted the hem of her skirt. “Mrs. White, I—” Chloe’s voice broke beautifully. Tears welled up in her eyes on cue. “I was trying to help. The system was glitching, and I thought—I thought I clicked save, but—” “You thought?” Mrs. White’s voice could have stripped paint. “You thought? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” In my first life, this scene had played out differently. I’d fixed Hayden’s applications before the deadline. Mrs. White had shown up angry, but ultimately relieved. She’d thanked me stiffly, then never spoken to me again. Hayden had called me a meddling bitch and told me to stay out of his life. This time, I stayed in the bookstore. My phone was recording from my jacket pocket. “Mom.” Hayden appeared in the hallway, his jaw tight. He put himself between Chloe and his mother. “I told her to do it.” The hallway erupted in whispers. I nearly dropped the book in my hand. “What?” Mrs. White’s voice cracked.

“I asked Chloe to change my applications.” Hayden’s voice was calm. Too calm. “Community college is fine. I don’t need some fancy name on a degree to prove I’m worth something.” He pulled Chloe against his side, his arm locked around her shoulders. “If I can be with her, that’s all that matters.” Chloe’s tears froze halfway down her cheeks. Mrs. White looked like she’d been slapped. And Hayden turned his head, just slightly, and looked directly at me. He smiled. It was the kind of smile that said checkmate. I turned off the recording and went back to stacking books. — The senior class dinner was held at Marcello’s, the kind of Italian restaurant with cloth napkins and candles on every table. Chloe wore white. Of course she did. She floated between tables, laughing and hugging people, her hand occasionally brushing Hayden’s arm. “Can you believe Hayden’s giving up everything for me? He’s so sweet.” She stopped by my table, leaning down so her hair fell across her shoulder. “Ava, I heard you got into West Point? That’s so… intense. Are you, like, trying to get away from us or something?” A few people laughed. I peeled a shrimp, methodical and slow, and didn’t look up. “Ava.” Hayden’s voice. Sharp enough that the table went quiet. I met his eyes. “Your dad died in the military, right?” He swirled his drink, ice clinking against glass. “Blown up or something?” My hands stilled. “You planning to follow in his footsteps?” He leaned back in his chair, his smile cruel and lazy. “Get yourself killed too?” Someone sucked in a breath. Chloe’s hand flew to her mouth, but her eyes glittered with something that wasn’t sympathy. “I mean, it’s kind of sad,” Hayden continued, his voice carrying across the restaurant. “No parents. No family. Just… desperation. You’re really going to some desert hellhole because you’ve got nothing else, huh?” The table was silent. I set down my fork. Picked up my glass of Coke. Raised it. “To you and Chloe,” I said evenly. “I hope community college is everything you dreamed of.” Hayden’s smile faltered. For just a second, I saw it—the flicker of recognition. The rage simmering beneath the surface. He knew. He remembered. “Cheers,” I said, and took a sip.

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The day my wife went to the airport to pick up her first love Damien Sterling—freshly returned from overseas—two children fell down at the same time. I helped our son Ryan first. I didn’t immediately rush to help Damien’s son, Adrian. She turned on her heel and had me and Ryan shipped off to a desolate monastery in the Alaskan wilderness. Said we needed to learn some compassion and humility. Life at Frostpeak Monastery was brutal—starvation, freezing temperatures, isolation. Three years later, Ryan was frozen to death. The day we buried him, my wife Victoria arrived at the monastery with Damien by her side. She said she needed Ryan’s bone marrow to see if it would match Adrian’s. The boy had leukemia. I told her Ryan was dead. She sneered. “Three years, and you haven’t changed one bit. Just because you don’t want to save Adrian, you’d actually curse your own son? You’d lie about something like this?” Her eyes flashed with contempt. “Let me tell you something, Ethan. I don’t care if Ryan’s alive or dead. Even if he really is gone, I’ll dig up his coffin myself and see if his bone marrow is still viable.” — I was forced to stand at the monastery gates, waiting for our “honored guests.” What I didn’t expect was that the guest would be Victoria herself—the woman who’d callously sent me and our son to suffer in this godforsaken place. Three years. Three whole years without seeing her. The first words out of her mouth? “So. Have you reflected on what you did wrong?” I stared at those cold, beautiful eyes. For a moment, I’d almost forgotten why we were here in the first place. Then it all came rushing back. Two kids had fallen. I’d helped Ryan up first. Victoria had just returned from the airport with Damien. She saw me helping our son while Damien rushed to comfort little Adrian. She’d frowned, furious. Told me I was petty. Small-minded. “Adrian’s only staying with us temporarily. Now that Damien’s back, he’ll take him home soon. I didn’t think you’d be this jealous. Can’t you be the bigger person for just a few days?” She’d looked so disappointed in me. “Take your son. Go to Frostpeak Monastery. Stay there until you’ve learned to be better. When you’ve changed, you can come home.” And just like that, Ryan and I were sent to this remote, freezing hellhole. We barely had enough to eat. The cold was unforgiving. Occasionally, wild animals would prowl too close. Victoria never visited. Not once. I pulled myself back to the present and gave her a flat “Yeah.” Her expression softened slightly. Then she got to the point. “Adrian has leukemia. I need Ryan to do a bone marrow compatibility test. Since it’s for Adrian, I’m being generous enough to come get you both myself.” I swallowed the bitter taste rising in my throat. “You can’t take him,” I said quietly. “As for me…” I let out a hollow laugh. “I’m staying here. With my son.” Victoria’s face darkened instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean? Adrian is dying, and you’ve become this selfish, petty shell of a man? This is a child’s LIFE we’re talking about!” She didn’t know it, but every word she spoke felt like a knife twisting deeper into my chest. Damien stepped forward, his voice dripping with false humility. “Ethan, I know you resent me and Adrian. I know Victoria sent you and Ryan here three years ago because of us. I’m sorry.” He lowered his head, the picture of contrition. “If you let Ryan do the compatibility test, I’ll do anything—anything—to make it up to you.” Victoria grabbed his hand, her voice soft and soothing. “Don’t apologize to him. He’s the one who was in the wrong! Ryan is MY son. I carried him for nine months, I gave birth to him. Ethan has no right to keep him from me.” She glared at me, eyes burning. I stared back, silent. She took a deep breath. Then she barked orders at her security team. “Search every inch of this place. Tear it apart if you have to. Find Ryan. NOW.” Her tone left no room for argument. The monks nearby exchanged uneasy glances. Father Thomas, the head of the monastery, stepped forward. “Ma’am, it’s not that Mr. Cross doesn’t want to help. It’s just… the boy—” “Just WHAT?” Victoria cut him off with a cold laugh. Father Thomas sighed heavily. “Young Ryan… passed away seven days ago. He froze to death.” Victoria froze for a split second. Then her face twisted with fury. “Ryan is dead?” Her voice was ice. “Is that what you’re telling me, Ethan?” I said nothing. My silence was answer enough. She swept her arm across the table, shattering a glass tumbler. “Three YEARS, Ethan! Three years, and you haven’t grown AT ALL! You’re so determined not to save Adrian that you’d actually curse your own son! You’d LIE about his death!” She leaned in close, her voice venomous. “Let me be clear. I don’t care if Ryan’s dead or alive. If he really is gone, I’ll dig up his coffin myself and check if his bone marrow is still usable!”

Victoria’s eyes burned with a determination that would accept no refusal. She couldn’t understand it. How had Ethan—gentle, kind Ethan—turned into this unrecognizable stranger? On the drive up to Frostpeak, she’d still been daydreaming about their future together. She’d planned to tell him the truth. Three years ago, sending him and Ryan away had been a desperate move. The Sterling Corporation was in chaos back then. To stabilize things, she’d had to pretend to be married to Damien. She couldn’t risk anyone finding out about Ethan and Ryan, so she’d made up an excuse and sent them somewhere “safe.” Remote, yes. But safe. She’d always planned to bring them back. But work got overwhelming. The company needed her. One day turned into another, and she kept putting it off. She’d convinced herself it was fine. Ethan was so sweet-natured, so forgiving. She’d just charm him a little, apologize, and he’d forgive her. He always forgave her. As for Ryan—sure, she’d been annoyed when he was born and started stealing Ethan’s attention away from her. But he was their son. Their flesh and blood. She’d make it up to him. She’d already commissioned a private playground to be built just for him. There was no way the kid could resist that. He’d forgive her for some toys and treats. She would make up for everything they’d suffered these past three years. But then Adrian got sick. Leukemia. When the doctors said Ryan’s bone marrow might be a match, she’d been overjoyed. Couldn’t sleep for days. Finally, she had the perfect excuse to bring them home. Except Ethan had changed. He was lying to her. Saying Ryan was dead. Frozen to death. What a joke. She’d sent supplies every single month for three years. Made sure they had everything they needed. That’s what made his ridiculous lie so infuriating. The rage boiled over. She grabbed Ethan’s wrist, gripping it hard. Staring into his eyes. “Give me back my gentle Ethan,” she thought.” He’s not supposed to be like this.” After a moment, her eyes reddened. She loosened her grip slightly, afraid of hurting him. “Just apologize,” she thought desperately.” Say you’re sorry and I’ll let this all go.” She watched him intently, her lips trembling. Ethan opened his mouth. And said: “Victoria, our son is really dead. You killed him.” “If you hadn’t sent us to this hellhole without a second thought, he’d still be alive.” Each word was a dagger to her heart. He wasn’t just lying—he was trying to blame HER. This man wasn’t the Ethan she knew anymore. She let go of his wrist and stepped back, defeated. When she looked up again, her eyes were cold and resolved. But before she could speak, one of her men came running over. “Mrs. Sterling! We found the boy!”

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I had thirty minutes to save his dying mother, but my husband smashed the only antidote because his mistress had a party. My mother-in-law had been poisoned and was dying. I was the only toxicology expert in the city who could save her. I hung up the phone and was about to leave when Silas blocked my way. “Today’s the grand opening of Bella’s Nightmare Estate. You walk out now, who’s gonna play the beggar NPC?” My face went cold. I told him the antidote window was thirty minutes. One second too late and his mother was dead. Silas just looked annoyed. “So your mom dies. She dies. I’ll toss a few bucks at the funeral home, problem solved. But you mess with my day and I will end you.” Bella threw herself onto him, laughing and wrapping around his neck. “Aw, is she in a rush to sneak off and ride some other guy? Look at that face, baby. She’s more worked up than you are when I’m on top of you. Isn’t that right, my man?” I could’ve laughed at how shameless these two were. Silas had it all wrong. He thought the one dying of poison was my mother.

“Fine. I’m not going.” I tucked the antidote serum back into my coat and kept my face perfectly still. Silas froze. He’d probably expected me to cry and beg, or to bolt for the door no matter what he said. He squinted at me. “Scared now, huh? Bella’s opening is worth a hundred of your trashy mother.” Bella gave his chest a playful smack and giggled. “See? My man’s got a real talent for training women.” “Speaking of which, baby, is that how you broke her in? In bed? Last time you tried that new position on me I couldn’t walk for three days.” The two of them were all over each other within seconds. I cleared my throat. Silas snapped. “What now, Elara? Your filthy, stinking mother dies, she dies. The woman reeks of piss and shit from head to toe.” “What, did she dig through another dumpster for food and poison herself?” “Why even bother going? To collect the body? Just flush her down the drain and be done with it.” I’d always told myself Silas was just being manipulated by Bella, that conniving pick-me bitch. That he was confused. That he wasn’t really this cold. But he actually thought the one dying of poison was my mother. And my mother’s life wasn’t even worth as much as the grand opening of Bella’s little haunted house. Disgusting. I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Sure. I’ll stay.” “Your fun matters most. Mom’s life is nothing.” Silas paused, and the contempt in his eyes deepened. “Smart girl. So even you know your stinking mother’s life is worthless.” Bella giggled and draped herself all over him. “Good for you, Elara, knowing your place. Your mom’s probably faking it to squeeze out some cash before she croaks. What, you wanna rush over and grab your cut before she flatlines?” Silas leaned back and let Bella’s hands wander wherever they pleased. “Let me make this real clear, Elara. I put three hundred million into the Nightmare Estate. It’s my gift to Bella.” “You ruin this for us and I won’t just let your mother die. I’ll wipe out your whole family.” Right then Silas’s phone rang and he hit speaker without even looking, irritation all over his face. “Mr. Vane? Your mother is fading fast. If Professor Thorne doesn’t get here with the serum soon, it’ll be too late.” Silas lost it. He grabbed me and shook me and the vial of serum slipped off me and hit the floor. “Don’t you dare compare Elara’s worthless old hag of a mother to mine. Let her die already! Call me again and I’ll blow your whole hospital to the ground!” The second he finished, he stomped down and crushed the serum under his heel.

Any chance of saving my mother-in-law was gone. My team had spent three full years in the lab developing that single vial of serum. Over a thousand failed attempts. Enough funding to buy ten Nightmare Estates. And that was the only finished dose. Silas hung up the phone with a smug grin still plastered on his face. “Go ahead and let your broke-ass mother rot in that hospital bed. If it weren’t for that face and the fact that you put in work between the sheets, you think you’d have ever set foot in the Vane household?” Bella stood on her tiptoes and kissed his jaw. “Honestly, Elara, your mom dying is a blessing. No more scheming for handouts. Last time she actually begged me to help her find a job sweeping parks so she could collect an extra twenty bottles a day. I almost died laughing.” I did laugh. The trust fund under my mother’s name generated enough interest every single year to buy ten Vane families. Who did they think they were? The Vane family’s entire business was a charity project I’d propped up because I felt sorry for him. After I was kidnapped as a child, the trauma stuck with me, and my mother made me hide my identity from everyone. And Silas turned around and used my money to buy Bella gifts, then mocked me to my face. Where did they get the nerve? “If someone’s dying and you don’t want to help, that’s your business. But insult my mother one more time and see what happens.” Silas whipped around, sneering. “Did you just threaten me?” “Your mother dying on opening day? That’s good luck for us. She should be honored.” His friends joined in. “Yo Silas, the opening’s tonight and we still haven’t tested that new extreme room.” Silas glanced at me and snapped his fingers at the bodyguards. “Since you want to run your mouth, you can be Bella’s test dummy.” I fought as hard as I could but they pinned me down on a surgical table inside one of the bio-lab themed rooms. The overhead light was a sickly green. Fake organs hung from the ceiling on hooks, swaying slightly in the air conditioning. Everything smelled like fresh paint and latex. Bella picked up an enormous syringe from the tray beside me. “Welcome to my horror laboratory!” “Today we’ll be conducting a thrilling live experiment!” Everyone burst out laughing. “Not gonna lie, the scare factor is insane. I’m streaming this. Tonight’s opening is gonna blow up.” Right then the phone in my coat pocket started ringing nonstop. Silas was clearly pissed that his little show was being interrupted. Then he saw the name on my screen, “CEO Thorne,” and smashed the phone straight into my head. “Look at you, Elara. Moving up in the world.” Bella jabbed a finger into his chest. “A CEO? Wow, Elara, you’re really something. Stringing along my man with one hand and hooking some rich old guy with the other?” “Bet you killed your own mother on purpose so you could scam some money and run off with this sugar daddy.” Bella moved closer as she talked, drawing a tube of strange liquid from one of the containers. “Let me teach this shameless little whore a lesson.” Silas was thrilled. “That’s my girl. When you’re done, strip her and lock her in a cage so every guest tonight can get a good look.” Bella grinned and drove the needle straight at my neck.

I broke free of the restraints in one move. All those years of escape training hadn’t gone to waste. I grabbed the syringe and jammed it right into Bella’s hand. Bella screamed. The skin on her hand started to corrode and dissolve, white smoke rising off the flesh. “My hand! My hand!” She shrieked in pure terror. Everyone around us panicked and stumbled backward. “What the hell? I thought that was a prop!” “Is that… is that real acid?” Silas lost it too. He saw the damage spreading up Bella’s arm and pulled her close, kissing her and cooing over her. Then he turned around and slapped me across the face. “You bitch! You hurt my Bella!” “Get on your knees and beg her for forgiveness right now, or I swear your mother won’t even have ashes left to bury!” Just then a commotion broke out near the entrance. “Professor Thorne! We’ve been calling you nonstop. We had to track your phone to find you!” “The patient was still hanging on, waiting for your serum, but on the way here…” A few of the staff members sighed. “She’s gone. We’ve brought the body to the family. You should start making arrangements.” Silas looked disgusted. “Your mother really doesn’t know when to quit, does she, Elara?” Bella’s face twisted with venom. “They brought the body here? What is this, a grand opening gift? One free corpse with every ticket?” The friends around them howled with laughter. “Holy shit, Silas! A real body delivered to the castle on opening night? Marketing genius!” “Kinda smells though. What is that?” Silas pinched his nose and kicked the stretcher over. “Disgusting piece of trash. Can’t even die in peace.” The body tumbled off and hit the concrete hard. The face was bloated and purple beyond recognition. Somewhere above us a prop skeleton swung on its chain, creaking. The green overhead light flickered once. Nobody was laughing anymore. But nobody was leaving either. Silas looked like he’d just found a new toy. He grabbed me by the hair and shoved my face down toward the corpse. “Get on your knees and bark like a dog for Bella, Elara. Apologize like you mean it and maybe I’ll spare your mother. Otherwise she becomes the Nightmare Estate’s first real ghost.” My scalp burned from the pulling. But all I could think was how perfectly this was playing out. I knocked his hand away. “You’re the one who loves barking. Go ahead. Let’s see how you little dogs sound.” Silas was livid. “You still have the nerve to talk back?” He lifted his foot and stomped down on the corpse’s head. I smiled. “Silas, all I said on the phone was that Mom had been poisoned and was dying.” “What if the head under your foot isn’t my mother’s? What if it’s yours?”

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The first rule of marrying a mob boss: never go through his pockets. The second rule: if you do, don’t let him see your hands shake. Mine don’t. I’m hanging up Garrett’s tuxedo jacket — the one he wore to the Bonanno christening last night — when my fingers close around something stiff in the inside pocket. A receipt. The Plaza. Two glasses of Dom Pérignon. One filet, rare. One lobster, butter on the side. A chocolate soufflé, for two. He sees me holding it. Doesn’t even blink. “Sit-down with the Sicilians. Vivian sang at the after-party. I left before dessert.” “Sure.” I drop the receipt into the trash. There are a hundred women orbiting the Cole family — showgirls, capos’ daughters, the redhead who runs the casino floor in Atlantic City. But there’s only one Garrett would sit through a three-hour dinner for. Only one who could make the Reaper of New York behave like a goddamn altar boy. Vivian Marsh. I used to fight him over her. Screamed. Threw a crystal tumbler at his head and split his eyebrow open. Almost walked out — twice. Then I took a bullet meant for him in a parking garage off Mulberry Street, crawled across the concrete with my own blood pooling under me, and dragged him into the back of his Lincoln before the second shooter could finish the job. He broke after that. Knelt by my hospital bed with his forehead pressed to my hand and swore on his father’s grave he’d never see her again unless it was family business. That was eighteen months ago. I walk out the back door to the woodpile. We have staff for this. I don’t care. I like the weight of the axe. I like the sound steel makes splitting something clean down the middle. I bring it down. Crack. Garrett follows. Stops a few feet behind me. “Scarlett.” His voice is too careful. “You’re not going to say anything?” Crack. “You’re not even going to yell at me?” I almost died for this man. And here he is — smelling like another woman’s perfume, asking why I’m not throwing a tantrum. I’m not, because somewhere between the ICU and tonight, I stopped loving him. I just hadn’t said it out loud yet. I split one more log. Stack them neat against the wall. Brush the bark off my palms and walk past him into the house. He follows. Of course he follows. “What the hell is going on with you, Scar?” I run cold water over my hands at the kitchen sink. There’s blood under one of my nails — not mine, from a soldier I sewed up in the safe-house basement two nights ago. It won’t come out. He hates my hands. He’s never said it, but I know. He told me once Vivian’s hands looked like they’d never touched anything ugly in her life. Mine have touched nothing else. I dry them on a dish towel and pick up the leather notebook on the counter. Three months of work. Every contact in the underground medical network from Boston to Miami. Every off-books surgeon, every safe-house pharmacist, every gunshot protocol I rewrote from scratch. My handwriting, every page. Last week, old Doc Warren came to see me. He’s the Family Doctor of Record — the one official, licensed physician the Cole family puts on retainer. Clean medical license. Townhouse on Park Avenue. A private practice that quietly doubles as a laundering front. Six-figure annual stipend signed off by the Don himself. Only one such seat in the whole organization. Warren’s stepping down at the end of the year. He told me, eyes wet, that I was his pick. Twelve years of basement surgery — and finally, a way out into the daylight. A real license. A real life. Clean hands. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I push the notebook across the island. “It’s done.” He flips through it. Doesn’t really look. “I’ll pass it up the chain when I get a minute.” He sets it down at the edge of the counter like it’s a takeout menu. I don’t say anything. I start the water for pasta. We eat in silence. Then he sets his fork down. “There’s only one Doctor seat, Scarlett.” My hand stops on the wine bottle. “I know.” “Baby. You’re the best off-books surgeon on the East Coast. With or without the seat, you’re set for life.” I look up. “But Vivian’s different. Her lungs are shot from singing six nights a week. The seat is her only way out.” I set the bottle down. “And?” He won’t meet my eyes. “I put her name in with yours. She tests better. Sacred Heart pre-med. Gold Star daughter. Big-city polish. Her file’s stronger than yours, sweetheart.” The blood drops out of my face. “Garrett. Doc Warren told me the seat was mine. A month ago.” His jaw tightens. “Nobody promises anything in this life. Best candidate gets it.” “Don’t —” “Don’t be petty, Scarlett. You’ll never want for anything. But Vivian goes back to that club, she’s dead in a year. You really want that on you?” I don’t answer. I can’t eat another bite. Upstairs, I lie on my side of the bed and stare at the ceiling. He comes in. Slides a hand around my waist. Lower. I push him off. He goes still. “What now?” “I’m tired.” “Christ, Scarlett. You’re impossible to live with these days.” He turns his face to the wall. I lie there in the dark with my eyes wide open. For the first time in five years of marriage to a man the rest of the world is terrified of — I’m not afraid of him at all anymore. I’m just done.

The next morning, I walk past the back garden of the Velvet Room. There she is — Vivian Marsh, draped across a wicker chaise with three cocktail girls in silk robes around her, sipping mimosas at eleven in the morning. She sees me. Her voice climbs three octaves on purpose. “Ugh, you know Gar. He’s just too good to me.” “I told him a girl like me has no business on Park Avenue. He wouldn’t hear it. Said my daddy bled for this family — and he stayed up half the night filling out my paperwork himself.” One of the girls coos. “You and the boss, Viv — it’s like a movie.” Vivian giggles into her mimosa. Eyes flick at me over the rim. “Stop. You’ll embarrass Dr. Reed.” She lowers her voice. Just loud enough. “You know how she is. South Boston girl. Bit of a temper on her.” I tighten my grip on my medical bag and walk straight past them. I go to Linda’s. Linda Hayes is the closest thing this family has to a queen mother — Don Hayes’ wife, the only woman in the inner circle who ever looked at me like a daughter instead of an outsider. She pulls me through the door before I’ve even knocked. “Scarlett, honey. You and Garrett fighting again?” I shake my head. “Linda. I need to know about the Doctor seat.” She sighs. “Oh, sweetheart. Garrett’s gone and made a mess of this one.” “That seat was yours. Doc Warren went straight to the Don and said so himself.” “Then Garrett went around him. Put Vivian’s name in over yours. Pulled every string his father left in this city.” She shakes her head. “The Commission doesn’t know what to do with him.” My stomach drops. So he didn’t just file her application. He fought for it. Against me. I walk out of Linda’s house and the sky over Long Island is dirty and gray. The wind off the Sound cuts straight through my coat. Dylan jogs up the path from the carriage house. My baby brother. Twenty years old and built like a brick wall. “Scar. You okay?” I can’t answer. “It’s that bitch, isn’t it. Vivian.” His face goes red. “I’m going down to the club.” “Dylan. Don’t.” I grab his sleeve. “It’s the family. You don’t —” “You took a bullet for that man, Scar. A bullet. You almost died on a concrete floor in Little Italy.” “And now he’s handing your seat to a lounge singer?” “He’s a piece of shit, Scar. He’s an ungrateful piece of shit.” I clap a hand over his mouth. “Stop.” That night in the parking garage is the one thing Garrett and I don’t talk about. He hates it when I bring it up. He told me once a real man doesn’t owe his life to anyone — and a real man’s wife doesn’t remind him she’s the one he owes it to. Dylan rips my hand off and storms down the gravel drive. My heart kicks. I run after him. By the time I get to the Velvet Room, it’s too late. Dylan is on his knees on the back patio. Two of Garrett’s enforcers pinning his arms. His lip is split. Vivian is crying — beautifully — clinging to Garrett’s chest. “Garrett, I swear — I just wanted to talk to her —” “Her brother — he grabbed me — he grabbed me —” Dylan thrashes. “I didn’t touch her!” “She’s lying!” Garrett doesn’t even look at him. Drives his boot into Dylan’s ribs. “You don’t put hands on a woman under this roof. Ever.” I throw myself between them. “Garrett — stop! He didn’t do it!” His eyes are ice. “This is the brother you brought into my house? You keep defending him, I’ll put you in the basement with him.” He turns his shoulder against me. Slides an arm around Vivian. Voice softer than he’s ever used on me. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” Vivian buries her face in his shirt. I stand in the wet grass and feel something behind my ribs go quiet. Like a light switching off. They take Dylan to the basement. Lock him in. Garrett tells the family the boy will take the fall publicly. A formal strike. By Christmas he’s out of the organization. No protection. No name. No welcome anywhere in the five boroughs. I go to his study that night to beg. He’s at his desk. Polishing his father’s old service revolver. Doesn’t look up. “It’s family law, Scarlett.” “He didn’t do it.” “Vivian said he did. Two of the girls said the same. Whose word — yours or theirs?” “Garrett. He’s my brother.” He finally lifts his head. His eyes are full of disgust. “I told you to keep him in line.” “Now there’s a mess. And you want me to bend the rules for your feelings?” He shakes his head. “You disappoint me, Scar.” He snaps the cylinder shut. Lays the revolver in its case. “The seat’s decided. Vivian. The Commission announces Monday.” A pause. “I’ll keep your brother out of the books. No paper. No whispers. But the basement stays. The strike stays. That’s the most I’m giving you.” Like he’s tossing me a coin. I walk out of his study. The whole world goes black.

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My wife spent seven years retaking the Bar Exam—working at our tutoring academy by day, studying by night. Year seven, she finally passed. I took time off to celebrate with her. We’d planned a trip. But the morning we were supposed to leave, she cancelled. Said she had a Summer Intensive Program to run. That afternoon, her assistant—Zane—posted on Instagram Stories. In the photo, Scarlett was leaning over a desk, walking a kid through geometry homework. His caption: “My wife’s a Bar-certified genius. She came home to tutor my little genius.” I laughed. Then I commented: “The son’s got his mom’s eyes. I bet he’ll be a lawyer too someday.” Our staff group chat exploded. Everyone speculating about when I’d finally snap. Scarlett called. Her voice was ice. “Julian. What the hell was that comment? Are you trying to humiliate Zane?” “We’re colleagues. I helped tutor his kid for one afternoon. Can you not be so petty about everything?” “Delete it. We’ll reschedule the trip.” I hung up without a word. The divorce papers finalize in three days. No way am I going on a trip with my ex. — The sun was brutal. I peeled my shirt away from my skin and stepped out of the concert queue. I’d lined up since seven in the morning—Scarlett’s favorite artist was playing tonight and she wanted front row. But now there was no point. I handed my ticket to a couple nearby who hadn’t gotten theirs in time. They gave me that look—the pity look. I walked away. I ducked into a convenience store to get out of the heat. The second the AC hit me, my phone buzzed. Zane had posted in the company group chat. “Just to clear things up—the Instagram Story was a joke. Benny is my son from my ex-wife. Not Scarlett’s. Don’t read into it.” I let out a tired laugh. Nobody responded. Until Scarlett did. “We all know it was a joke, Zane. No need to explain yourself. Only someone with serious trust issues would misread that.” That was all her staff needed. They piled on like they’d been waiting. “Exactly! It was so obviously harmless. Don’t sweat it, Zane.” “The one person in the group who couldn’t take a joke still hasn’t replied. Might want to reach out to him directly…” These people used to kiss my ass when my numbers were good. Now they were wiping Zane’s shoes. And here I was—the guy who had spent ten years building this woman’s dream—getting stomped on in the process. Even the senior staff I’d personally hired and promoted were circling Zane like he was already king. Because the person Scarlett valued wasn’t me—the silent partner who’d sacrificed everything—but a divorced single dad with two kids and an agenda. I felt cold. I left the group. I’d barely taken a sip of cold water when my phone rang. It was Amy, our scheduler. “Julian, I asked you to go pick up a student from the elementary school. He’s been waiting. What’s going on?” We ran a college prep academy. Our students came to us. What student needed picking up from an elementary school? “Which student?” I asked. “Benny,” she said, impatient. “Zane’s older kid. Fifth grade. Go pick him up and bring him here so he can do his homework.” I stared at the wall. “Why would I babysit Zane’s kid?” She sighed. “Scarlett’s orders. Zane had to go deal with something. Just go, he’s been waiting.” Zane hadn’t “gone to deal with something.” He was cornered at the academy by a furious parent whose kid had bombed the Bar Prep mock exams under his tutoring. I told Scarlett from the beginning—Zane never finished high school. He had no business teaching college prep. She hired him anyway. Now she wanted me to babysit his mess? “I’m not going,” I said. “Tell Scarlett to call me herself.” I hung up. I wasn’t about to go fetch the other man’s kid while his hands were wrapped around my marriage. I downed the rest of my cold water and waited. Three minutes later, Scarlett called. I picked up. “What do you want.” Her voice was a blade. I could practically see the vein in her neck. “Julian. Have I been too easy on you?”

“Did you call me just to threaten me?” I asked, leaning against the counter. “Or to ask why I haven’t picked up your boyfriend’s kid yet?” “I made one mistake,” she snapped. “And you’ve been milking it ever since. You have ten minutes to get to that school, or we’re done. File for divorce. I mean it.” I was gripping my phone so hard. I started counting in my head. This was the fourth time in two years she’d thrown the word “divorce” at me to get what she wanted. I was about to say something when I heard it—laughing, clattering, the sound of people having dinner. She was with Zane’s family. Making meals. “Funny,” I said quietly. “You’re at his parents’ place making meals, and you’re still managing to yell at me on the phone. Aren’t you worried his folks will get the wrong idea?” “Oh right. I forgot. Only petty people like me get the wrong idea.” She erupted. “You have NO IDEA how hard it is for Zane to raise two kids on his own! Supporting a colleague is normal! You acting unhinged about it is the problem!” A beat of silence on her end. Then Zane’s voice, soft and close: “Scarlett, the diner was ready. Come eat.” Her tone shifted completely. Warm. Almost tender. “Give me a second, I’m sorting out a work thing.” Then back to me, cold as ever:”Julian. Tutor Benny tonight. If he doesn’t pass the middle school entrance exam next year, you’re fired.” She hung up. I sat with it for a moment. Scarlett wasn’t the same girl who used to blush when she saw me. She wasn’t the woman who once skipped dinner to save money so I could have a decent meal. She’d stopped being that person the first time she chose Zane over me. And she’d made that choice over and over again. I went back to my hotel room and checked my phone. My name was trending on Twitter. Headline: “Child left waiting five hours as tutor ignores student.” Thousands of people were posting about me. Calling me unprofessional, cold, heartless. Strangers on the internet demanding I apologize to Zane. I laughed out loud. The divorce papers finalize in three days. Let them post whatever they want. I closed Twitter and submitted my resignation through the company portal. HR was surprised. Said they’d need to loop in Scarlett. I was fully prepared for a confrontation. Instead, fifteen minutes later, there were two company-wide announcements. One reprimanding me. One terminating me. Scarlett had cut faster than I expected. Good. Whatever was left of my feelings died with those two notifications. I spent three days doing absolutely nothing productive—good food, late nights, long walks. Then I flew home. When I unlocked the door to our apartment, I was hit with the smell. Stale and cold. Neglected. Scarlett had been spending most nights in the staff housing near the academy. This place barely counted as home anymore. I thought about the apartment my parents had wanted to buy us when we first got married. I’d talked them out of it—said we needed to be frugal to fund Scarlett’s Bar prep. We bought a secondhand two-bedroom instead. I cooked for her every night back then. Drove her to the library on weekends. Paid for the best tutors I could find. And every year she’d fall just short. Every year, she’d take a trip with Zane to “clear her head.” I thought I was being patient. Building toward something. Turns out I was just waiting to be discarded. She passed the Bar. And the first thing she did with her new life was sharpen a knife for me. I tore the photo off the wall—us at some waterfall upstate, back when we still smiled like that. I called a realtor and listed the apartment. It wouldn’t sell for much. But I didn’t want a single thing in this apartment anymore.

The next morning, I went to the academy to finish my handover. One last session with my students. After class, one of the boys lingered. “Mr. Caldwell—are you really leaving? I can’t book sessions with you anymore.” I nodded. Word had apparently spread fast. He noticed the framed photo on my desk and lit up. “Wait—is that this year’s Bar exam top scorer? She passed number one!” He pointed at my travel mug. “She has the same mug. Is she your wife?” My hand froze on the mug. Then I heard it crack. I’d squeezed too hard. I tossed both the photo and the broken mug in the trash. “We were just colleagues,” I told him. He left. Seconds later, Zane walked in with Benny. “Julian,” Zane said, voice sharp. “Were you deliberately avoiding picking up Benny? Is this your way of targeting me?” The nerve of this guy. I didn’t even look at him. Just picked up my bag and headed for the door. “Julian! You’re leaving? You actually quit?” he called after me. I glanced back. “Yeah. Got fired for not babysitting your kid. You’re welcome.” Zane’s face tightened. But he recovered fast, tilting his chin up. “Per company policy, you need to formally apologize to Benny and his father for the inconvenience you caused.” I stopped walking. Turned around slowly. “Apologize to you.” I pointed at my own chest. “Me. Apologize to you.” I almost laughed. “If this were another century, I’d have already made you regret saying that.” “Now get out of my way.” I stepped around him. But as I passed, Zane suddenly grabbed Benny’s hand and dropped—both of them—dramatically to the floor. A theatrical groan. I stared at them on the ground, completely baffled. Then Scarlett came rushing in. She helped them up with trembling hands, her face pale—and then she turned to me with murder in her eyes. “Is this what you do when I’m not around? You push children?” Zane looked up with glistening eyes. “I just wanted an apology for Benny. I didn’t think Julian would…” Scarlett pointed at me, her whole body rigid. “Apologize. Right now. Then write a formal statement. Or so help me—” “Or what?” I cut her off. “You’ll fire me again? You did that yesterday.” She froze. Blinked.

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I watched the executioner’s blade slit my mate’s throat once. So when fate gave me a second chance, I had to walk away before he could love me again. And now the Mating Choosing was about to begin. Again. . . . Inside the Territory’s great hall, young females buzzed with excited chatter, their voices rising like birds at dawn. I stood among them, but my mind was somewhere else. Somewhere dark. And cold. Sera leaned close. Her hand touched my arm, trembling slightly. “Elara, look—is my hair still in place?” I looked at her. Really looked at her. *She’s alive.* And then I understood. I had come back. In my past life, I had thought her question was just about vanity. About honor. An Alpha’s daughter couldn’t afford to look anything less than perfect. I never once imagined what was really hiding behind that nervous smile. A girl’s quiet hope that *he* would choose *her.* The ache hit me so hard I nearly choked on it. “You’re the most beautiful female here, Sera,” I said softly. “You’ll become the wife of the Elder Orin’s grandson. I’m sure of it.” She swatted my arm, cheeks flushing. “Don’t tease me!” I reached up and unclasped the silver claw clasp from my hair—the only thing I had ever truly owned. The only treasure from my nameless orphan days. I pinned it carefully into her pale gold hair. Sera blinked at me, confused. “What are you doing? Isn’t this the one thing you’d never let me touch?” I smiled. *Yes. The only thing.* But I owed them everything. Ten years of food, shelter, love. [Flashback] Ten dry seasons ago, Alpha Aldric of the Leopard Clan found me half-dead beneath a tree outside the Family Territory. I was a snow leopard cub far from any mountain I belonged to—white where I should have been gold, gray where I should have been spotted. A nameless stray. The Leopardis took me in anyway. They raised me beside their daughter, Sera, fed me, taught me, and never once made me feel unwanted. Then Alpha Orin of the Lion Clan came to choose a mate for his grandson, Silas Kane. Out of every daughter in the Enclave, Silas chose me. Three suns later, Sera was found dead beyond the territory walls. No one blamed me. Not then. I married Silas. I thought I had finally found a place to belong. Until the morning the healers confirmed I was carrying his cub. My brother – Darius dragged Silas before the High Command Tribunal on charges of treason. I watched the Enforcers’ silver blade open my mate’s throat. He said I had stolen Sera’s future. That my happiness had cost our family everything. So I climbed to the edge of the Gorge and let myself fall. But now—now I was back. I pressed my hands to my face, forcing the memories down. I was the stray they took in. I was never supposed to have more than what they gave me. That kind of debt doesn’t just disappear. …… “It suits you,” I said. “They say Elder Orin’s grandson is honorable. And handsome. A perfect match for our Sera.” Her face went pink and she shoved at my shoulder. The sound was light and bright. Then the doors at the far end of the hall began to open. The crowd hushed. Elder Orin stepped in first. Broad-shouldered. Silver-maned. His lion’s presence filled the room like a storm rolling in off the plains. Behind him walked a younger male. Taller than the rest. Golden mane cropped short. Amber eyes scanning the crowd like none of them mattered. Silas Kane. My chest seized. I caught the carved post beside me before my knees folded. *In my past life, he had been dragged before the executioner’s blade. His throat slashed open on false charges. His blood soaking the dry earth while I screamed from inside my swollen belly.* I knew that face. I knew the warmth that once lived behind those cold eyes. And I knew what it cost to love him. “Elara? What’s wrong?” Sera’s voice was suddenly sharp with worry. “You’ve gone the color of bone. Let me take you to the healer.” “No.” I pulled my arm from her grip. “It’s nothing. I just need air. If Father and Mother find out we both skipped the Choosing, they’ll skin us.” She hesitated, then pinched my cheek. “Don’t be long.” I turned and pushed through the crowd, toward the back gate. Behind me, the murmurs shifted. Excitement rippled through the hall like wind through tall grass. *He’s here. The lion prince is here.* I couldn’t help myself. I looked back. Silas stood in the center of the room, scanning the females with an expression of barely hidden boredom. But his gaze had landed on something. On someone. On a bright silver claw clasp gleaming in Sera’s pale gold hair. He walked forward. Step by step. Past the dressed-up daughters of warriors and chieftains. Past the perfumed nobles who smiled and preened. He stopped directly in front of my sister. “You,” he said, loud enough for the whole hall to hear. “I choose you.” I closed the door behind me. And pressed my hand hard against my chest. It still hurt. Gods, it still hurt. But I had seen the blush on Sera’s face. The shy, surprised joy in her eyes. *She’s alive. He’s alive. That’s enough. That’s the only ending that matters.* I turned to walk back inside—and ran straight into someone. Darius. His eyes were wrong. So wild. He stared down at me like I was something rotten he’d just stepped on. “I was still too late,” he whispered. “And you already did it, didn’t you.”

I stared at my brother’s face and felt the ground tilt beneath me. But not here. Not yet. Not in this life. “What are you talking about?” I kept my voice light. “Elder Orin’s grandson chose Sera. They’re inside celebrating right now. You should go in. Be happy for her.” I gestured back toward the hall. He froze. For a long second I watched him try to read my face, looking for the lie. Then, without another word, he shoved past me and disappeared into the hall. The cold wind hit me the moment I was alone. I started trembling. Not from the chill—but from the weight of everything I’d just walked away from. . . . The next few days passed like a dream I wasn’t fully in. Mother and Father bustled around Sera. Measuring her for ceremony robes. Negotiating bonding gifts with Elder Orin’s emissaries. The whole Territory talked of nothing but the upcoming union. My elder sister, Sera, would become the mate of a lion prince. Everyone smiled. Except Darius. He watched me constantly. Whenever I crossed the courtyard, his eyes followed. Like he expected me to strike at any moment. One evening, Mother called me into her quarters. She took my hands in hers—warm and calloused. “Once Sera’s settled into the Kane household, your father and I will find you a match too. Don’t you worry. We won’t pick anyone less than what your sister is getting.” She squeezed my fingers and sighed. “I just worry about that girl. She’s so headstrong. What if she wears poor Silas out with her wildfire temper?” Her words hit me like a fist to the ribs. I smiled anyway. “I don’t want to marry, Mother. I’ll stay here. Take care of you and Father for the rest of my days.” The words had barely left my mouth when a cold laugh cut through the doorway. “Bonding ceremony’s days away. Everything is set.” Darius leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “Or are you still dreaming about the male who was never meant for you?” Mother’s face darkened. “Darius! Don’t speak to your sister like that.” He pushed off the door and walked inside, his golden eyes locked on me. “I know exactly what you’re doing, Elara. And it’s not happening. Tomorrow I’m finding you a male. Any male. A denscavenger, if that’s what it takes.” His voice dropped. “You’ll bond with whoever I pick. And you’ll stay away from Sera’s mate.” I stared at him. The hatred in his voice was real. Raw. It wasn’t suspicion born of nothing—it was the frantic terror of someone who had seen the future and was trying to claw it into a different shape. He had no way of knowing I had already made the same choice. Sera appeared behind him, a bowl of fruit in her hands. She shoved it into my arms and glared at her brother. “Stop being so mean! Elara’s done nothing wrong. And she’s still young—there’s no rush.” She picked up a slice of something sweet and held it to my lips. “Here. Try this. It’s really good.” Darius knocked the bowl from my hands. Fruit scattered across the floor. “You don’t know what’s in her head, Sera.” His voice was a snarl. “What happens when she takes your mate? What then? You gonna smile and wave?” Even Mother looked horrified at that. Sera burst out laughing. She linked her arm through mine and leaned her head on my shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous, brother. If it weren’t for Elara’s silver clasp, Silas might have walked right out of the Choosing. He even asked me where I got it. He said it was… special. That it suited me.” Her cheeks went pink as she said it. Darius went still. Then he turned and walked out without another word. . . . The next morning, Silas came to the Territory bearing gifts. I hadn’t expected it. None of us had. I’d been in the back garden, planting moonflowers along the border wall the way Mother had asked. My hands were caked with soil up to my wrists, my hair half-falling out of its tie. I heard footsteps. Too heavy for a leopard. I looked up. Silas stood over me, his amber eyes fixed on my face. For a long, suspended second, neither of us moved. “You,” he said slowly. “I didn’t see you at the Choosing. Who are you?”

I opened my mouth to answer— Behind me, footsteps slammed across the courtyard. And Darius was there, shoving himself between us like a shield. “She’s the nameless orphan we took in ten years ago.” His voice was tight. Clipped. “Nothing important. Forgive her appearance—she doesn’t know how to greet guests properly. Pay her no mind.” Then he turned and snapped over his shoulder. “Go wash yourself. Now. Don’t you dare shame this family.” I bowed my head and walked away. As I passed Silas, I heard him whisper to himself—so soft I almost missed it. “An orphan? That doesn’t…” There was confusion in his voice. Something deeper than idle curiosity. I didn’t stop. . . . Behind me, I heard Sera rush out to greet him. She pulled Silas aside, her shoulders curled the way they always were when she was nervous. Speaking quickly. Looking up at him through her lashes. I couldn’t hear what they said. But after a few moments, whatever Silas told her made her face light up. The tension melted from her shoulders. She laughed, soft and bright, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Beside me, Darius let out a long, shaking breath. The hard line of his jaw finally eased. He didn’t look at me when he spoke. “I was out of line yesterday. I’m sorry.” I blinked. I hadn’t expected that. He kept his eyes fixed on the two of them in the courtyard. “You see how happy she is?” He nodded toward Sera, who was laughing, showing Silas her new ceremonial beads. “They’re good together, Elara. So I’m asking you—begging you—don’t come between them. Please.” And just like that, I understood everything. The reason for his rage that first night. The way he’d watched me. The hatred in his eyes that hadn’t yet had time to grow. Darius had come back too. He remembered everything. Every ugly thing he had done. And now he was trying, in his broken way, to undo it by keeping me away. I drew in a slow breath. “You don’t have to beg, brother,” I said quietly. “I only want to repay Mother and Father’s kindness. I want Sera to be happy.” His shoulders sagged. “Good. That’s good.” He swallowed. “Then we can all… we can all have the ending we deserve.” I nodded, and turned, and walked back to my room. . . . Outside, I could hear the courtyard come alive again. Sera’s laugh, bright and unburdened. Silas’s low voice, steady and warm. The clink of porcelain as Mother poured tea for the guests. I lay down on my bed and pulled the cover over my shoulders. *Let it go, Elara. They’re alive. All of them. That’s the only ending that matters.* I listened to my sister laugh until the sound dissolved into something soft and far away, and somewhere in there, I drifted off. I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep. The world was still dark when my door slammed open hard enough to crack against the wall. Darius stood in the doorway. Eyes burning red. Chest heaving like he’d run the length of the Territory to get here. He crossed the room in two strides and yanked me up by the front of my clothes. The slap landed before I’d even fully opened my eyes. My head snapped sideways. My ear rang. “You’re a liar.” His voice was shaking. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t let it go.” I couldn’t breathe. My cheek was on fire. His grip tightened. “Where is she?” he snarled. “Where did you take Sera?”

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In the Moretti family, there’s no such thing as divorce. There’s only death. Tonight, my husband holds his hand flat on the altar and lets the Don drive a blade through it — just to throw me away. Three years of marriage, and Dante is on his knees in the family chapel . He’s begging the Don to let him walk away. Because she’s back. The girl he was supposed to keep safe. The one everyone told him was dead. Those hands — the ones that used to cup my face in the dark, are sliding annulment papers across the table like I’m a deal gone bad. And he has the nerve to look like he’s the one hurting. “She was mine to protect. My father put her life in my hands, and I let them take her. I have to make that right .” I hold Lily so tight she squirms. ” What about our daughter?” He can’t even look at me. A long silence. “Sera can’t have children. She can’t even be reminded I have one.” “Lily has to disappear. From the registry. From my life. From everything. I’ll place her with a family far away — somewhere no one will ever connect her to me.” My own husband. Talking about erasing our baby. And just like that — it hits me. Christmas Eve. Three and a half years ago. That masquerade. The riddle he whispered in my ear. Funny. I thought it was romantic. Should’ve taken the hint. I take the papers. Fold them. Slip them inside my coat. “Fine. I’ll sign. But Lily’s mine.” “From tonight, we’re gone. Don’t look for us. Don’t send your people. Don’t even say her name. My daughter and I are dead to you. ” The chapel goes so quiet I can hear Lily breathing against my neck. Every single person in that room is staring at me. The capos. The uncles. The Don. His wife. All of them. I hold Lily tighter. She’s so small. She’s the only reason I’m still standing. Dante is staring too. And there it is — a flicker of shock behind his eyes. He expected screaming. Begging. The full performance. The kind of breakdown a wife is supposed to have when her husband tears her apart in front of his whole family. I didn’t give him the satisfaction. His mother gets to me first. Grabs my arm hard enough to bruise. “Elena — have you lost your mind?” “He doesn’t get to do this! The code won’t allow it — we won’t allow it!” The Don is on his feet. Shaking. I’ve never seen a man that old tremble with that much rage. He points at Dante, and his finger won’t hold still. “You ungrateful piece of— She gave you a daughter. She gave you everything a man could ask for. What did she do wrong? !” “You want to throw your wife and baby out like garbage? You’ve lost your goddamn mind!” The uncles are shaking their heads. The old consigliere — the one who’s been with the family since before Dante was born — leans forward. His voice sounds like it’s been dragged over gravel. “Dante. A hundred years. A hundred years of Moretti blood. No man in this family has ever thrown out his wife and child.” “You want to be the first? Fine. But you pay for it. Right here. Right now.” Dante doesn’t flinch. His back is straight. “Father. Mother. Everyone. This is my fault. Every bit of it.” “My father entrusted her to me. I was her only protection, and I pushed her away. The Volkovs took her because of me. Everything that was done to her — I carry that. I won’t carry it and do nothing.” He turns toward me. His eyes catch on Lily — asleep against my chest, and something in his face cracks. Just for a second. Then it’s gone. “Lily… I can’t keep her. Sera can’t have children. She can’t stand the reminder that I do.” “Once Lily’s off the registry, I’ll find her a good home. She’ll be safe. She’ll be—” The Don laughs.Not a real laugh. “Fine. Bring me the knife.” A blade is laid on the altar. Dante peels off his jacket. Drops to his knees. Lays his right hand flat on the marble. The Don picks up the blade. It punches through the center of his palm with a sound I’ll hear for the rest of my life. Blood hits the white stone. Someone behind me gasps. Dante doesn’t make a sound. The Don pulls the blade free. Flips it. And drags it across his son’s chest — slow, collarbone to ribs. Blood rolls down Dante’s torso and pools around his knees. He sways. His face goes the color of ash. But he doesn’t fall. The Don hurls the knife across the marble. It skids and clatters against the far wall. “Get out of my sight. And don’t you dare come back inside until you’ve come to your senses.” It’s pouring rain outside. Dante gets to his feet like a man twice his age. Blood is running down his arm, dripping off his fingers, mixing with the rain the second he steps through the doors. His face is white. His lips are going blue. Rain hits the open wounds and thins the blood out — long pink streaks running down his chest, pooling in the stone around his knees. And he just keeps saying it. Over and over. Teeth chattering. “I’ll die right here before I change my mind.” I watch him from the chapel doorway. This man. Bleeding out in the rain. Willing to die — for her. And my chest splits open. Because I remember. He knelt in this exact same spot for me once. Looked the Don in the eye and said he’d marry no one else. Took a beating for it. Bled for it. Didn’t flinch. That was a different man. Or maybe it was the same man . Back then he was the golden heir. The crown prince. The name everyone in New York whispered with respect. And me? I was nobody. The daughter of a mid-level accountant who used to keep the books clean for one of his uncles. Wrong neighborhood. Wrong tax bracket. Wrong everything. His whole world told him he was crazy. He married me anyway. Gave me the kind of wedding people in this city still talk about. On our wedding night, he lifted my veil. Candlelight on his face. And he whispered: “Elena. I’ll be good to you. For the rest of my life.” I believed every word. How the hell did we end up here? Yesterday. Lily’s christening. The compound packed with people — champagne, white roses, the kind of laughter that only happens when powerful men feel safe. That’s when she showed up. Sera. Thin as a ghost. Clothes torn. Eyes hollow. Standing in the doorway like something the rain dragged in. “Dante.” And the man I married came apart at the seams. His champagne glass hit the floor. He shoved past three people , nearly knocked a waiter down , and crossed the room like the building was on fire. Pulled her into his arms so hard her feet left the ground. I have never seen him lose it like that. Red eyes. Cracking voice. Saying sorry like it was the only word he knew. “It was my fault, Sera , I never should have turned you away . ” Three hundred people in that room. And not a single one was breathing. His men — capos, lieutenants, the guys who help him run half of Manhattan — they just shook their heads and muttered. “Knew he never got over her.” “She’s finally back.” And me? I stood in the corner. Holding our newborn daughter. Watching my husband hold another woman like she was the only thing keeping him alive. I told myself it was fine. He felt guilty. That’s all. He loved me. We had Lily. Our family was solid. I was wrong. Last night he came to my room. Sat on the edge of the bed. Didn’t speak for a long time. Then: “Elena. I want a divorce.” “I’m sorry. Sera was taken because of me. They held her for years. They did… things. She can never have children.” “My father gave me one job , keep her safe. I didn’t. That debt , I’ll spend the rest of my life paying it.” The air left the room. “A divorce.” I heard my own voice from somewhere far away. “And Lily? What happens to our daughter?” He wouldn’t look at me. “Sera can’t handle knowing I have a child. Lily has to go. Removed from the family. Placed somewhere she’ll never be tied to me again.” I hit him. Punched his chest with both fists, screaming, sobbing, asking him how he could do this — how any man could do this. He took it. Every hit. Never moved. Never blocked me. Just stood there with his jaw clenched and agony in his eyes — and never once took it back. By the time the sky started getting light, I had nothing left. No fight. No tears. Nothing. I said fine.

The blade wounds and the cold finally take him down. Dante collapses in the rain. His men drag him inside. A doctor comes. I stand in the courtyard with the rain soaking through my clothes, watching shadows move behind the windows, listening to his mother cry. I don’t feel anything. Back in my room, I start packing. Three years in this house. I’m amazed at how much I’ve accumulated. Jewelry. Dresses. Art he bought because I admired it once in passing. All of it worthless now. Every piece a reminder of a life I’m walking away from. I’m folding Lily’s things into a bag when I hear footsteps behind me. Dante. Propped up between two of his men like a puppet with half its strings cut. He looks like death warmed over. Bandages peek out from under his shirt — already spotting red. “Elena. This is all on me. I know that.” His voice is wrecked. I don’t turn around. “I’ll make sure everyone knows it was my decision. I’ll tell people it was mutual — not a casting out. Your reputation won’t take a hit.” He pauses. Swallows. “You’re still young. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ll meet someone who deserves you. And I’ll make sure you have enough to start over — more than enough.” I stop packing. Turn around. Look at him. He’s standing there with guilt plastered all over his face. So earnest. Like he really, truly believes he’s being a good man right now. I almost laugh. “Dante. Stop pretending this is about me.” He blinks. I walk toward him. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat. “You’re not doing this for my sake. You’re doing it so you can sleep at night. So you can marry Sera without the guilt eating you alive.” “You keep saying you can’t lose her again. Fine. But what was I? What were these three years? What was any of it?” His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Elena… I never wanted it to end like this. But I can’t undo what happened to her. And I can’t be two people.” I stare at him. At that beautiful face I used to love so much. At the careful, practiced sorrow he’s wearing like a mask. “So three years of marriage and a baby daughter — we’re still worth less than your regret.” I hear my own voice — flat, dead — and barely recognize it. Something breaks behind his eyes. But all he says is: “I’m sorry.” I turn my back on him. Go back to packing. But my mind won’t stay in this room. It keeps pulling me backward. Christmas Eve. Three and a half years ago. A masquerade in midtown Manhattan. One of those obscene parties where the chandeliers cost more than most people’s houses. Champagne I couldn’t pronounce. Masks that cost a month of my father’s salary. I’d slipped away from the crowd , and found a little fortune teller’s booth tucked in the corner. A card on the table. A riddle written below it in gold ink: I’m born the moment you look, and I die the moment you touch. I stared at it. Drew a blank. Was still frowning when a voice came from right beside me , a little amused. “A reflection.” I turned. A man in a black mask. Dark suit, perfect fit. The kind of posture you can’t fake. And behind the mask — eyes like honey in firelight. He tilted his head. Half-smile. “I believe the prize is a dance. Would you like to claim it?” I couldn’t speak. I just nodded. He held out his hand. And that was it. Every rumor I’d ever heard about Dante Moretti — brilliant, impossibly elegant, untouchable — stopped being a rumor and became the man holding my hand on a dance floor. The second time was a hotel uptown. Some charity event. A storm knocked the power out — guests stranded, hallways dark, everyone panicking. He found me sitting alone in a corridor. Didn’t say a word. Just handed me his room key, told me his driver would be waiting in the morning, and disappeared. I found out later he spent the night on a chair in the lobby. Third time — outside a restaurant in SoHo. Two drunk sons of a rival family decided I looked like easy entertainment. They had me cornered against a wall when Dante appeared. He didn’t yell. Didn’t threaten. Just stood there and looked at them. They left. He walked me to my car. Didn’t say a single word the entire way. Then there was the garden party at the Moretti estate. I knew exactly what it was — his mother parading potential brides in front of him like a fashion show. I was there as a courtesy invite. Background decoration. I sat in the corner of the garden, miserable, trying to figure out how to leave without being rude. He found me. “Hiding in the corner at my mother’s party. Bold move.” Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the late afternoon light doing something impossible to his face. Maybe I was just tired of pretending. “Because I know I don’t belong here. And I know I’ll never be good enough for someone like you.” He went still. Just… studied me. Like I’d said something he wasn’t expecting. Then he smiled. Slow. Quiet. The kind that makes you forget where you are. “That’s funny. I was just thinking the opposite.” He married me three months later. Against his mother’s wishes. Against the consigliere’s advice. Against every unwritten rule about who a Moretti heir is supposed to end up with. Everyone in the city said Dante Moretti was a man of principle. That he married for love, not leverage. I believed them. I believed him. I believed we’d grow old in that house. Turns out I was just the intermission.

The first two years, Dante was the kind of husband other women invent in their heads. He’d trace my eyebrows with his thumb while I was still half asleep. He walked out of sit-downs when I had a cold. When I got pregnant with Lily, he turned into a different person entirely — softer, careful, like I might break if he breathed too hard. I thought: this is it. This is what forever feels like. And then one afternoon, I knocked over a picture frame in his study. It had been facedown on the shelf. I figured it had fallen. I picked it up. An old photograph. Sera — maybe fifteen, sixteen. Standing in the back courtyard of the estate. Wild grin. A pistol in one hand, aimed at the sky like she’d just fired it. And Dante beside her. Young. Unguarded. Laughing — this open, reckless laugh I had never once seen on his face. I was still staring at it when the door opened behind me. “Who told you to touch that?” I froze. Not because of the words — because of the voice. Cold. Hard. A voice he had never once used with me. He crossed the room in two steps, almost knocked me out of the way, and snatched the frame from my hands. I caught myself on the desk. Stood there. Staring at his back. He was checking the glass for cracks. Running his fingers over the frame. Holding it the way you hold something irreplaceable. “Get out.” He didn’t turn around. “Who is she?” Silence. A long time. “Someone I grew up with. Serafina.” And then it came out. All of it. Sera’s parents were family allies. Good people. They were killed when she was eight — a Volkov hit. Don Moretti took her in. Raised her under his roof. And gave his son one order: She’s your responsibility. You protect her. You train her. You keep her alive. So Dante did. He taught her to shoot. To fight. To read people. To survive in a world that eats little girls whole. Day after day. Year after year. She was his shadow, and he was her shield. “She told me she was in love with me.” His eyes were closed. His voice was barely there. “I shut her down. Told her it was never going to happen. My father put her life in my hands — crossing that line would’ve been the worst kind of betrayal.” That night, Sera left the compound alone. Got drunk. The Volkovs picked her up off the street. She was gone. Dante’s voice broke when he told me the rest. “Three years. I tore the whole Northeast apart looking for her. Called in every favor. Burned every bridge. Everyone told me she was dead.” He turned around. Took my hands. He looked wrecked. “Meeting you — that’s when I finally stopped looking. You’re the reason I stopped drowning, Elena.” We fought that night. The worst fight of our marriage. I screamed until my throat was raw — if he never stopped loving her, why the hell did he come after me? Why drag me into this? Why let me fall for a man who was already gone? He couldn’t answer. Not really. In the end, he grabbed the photograph and threw it into the fireplace. Right in front of me. I watched the flames eat her face. Her grin. That reckless, wild-girl joy. He pulled me close. Whispered I’m sorry until the words lost their shape. Said there was only me now. Only us. I believed him. God help me, I believed him. After that, he was even better. More attentive. More gentle. Like he was trying to prove something — to me, or maybe to himself. Everyone in the city envied me. Elena Moretti. Luckiest woman in New York. I thought the photo was ash. I thought the past was dead. Then Sera walked through our front door. Said his name once. And three years of marriage went up in smoke. That’s when I finally understood something I should have known all along: Some things don’t burn. They just go underground. And they wait.

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Cameron and I started dating in college. Eight years together. With the wedding weeks away, he finally said what he’d been holding back. He wanted his first love, Jade Sullivan, to move in with us. He wanted a wife and a mistress under the same roof. I kept my voice steady through the rage. “So you want Jade to be your mistress?” Cameron shook his head. “She’s not the mistress, Vicky. You are.” I stared at him, unable to process what I’d just heard. Had he lost his mind? Did he seriously think he could make the only heiress of the Ashford Group the other woman? — Seeing my silence, Cameron mistook it for hesitation. His voice softened into something coaxing. “Jade’s gentle. She doesn’t have family money or connections — if she’s not my wife, she’ll suffer for it.” “So your solution is to make me suffer instead?” The fury hammered at my temples, but my voice came out ice-cold. Cameron frowned, visibly annoyed by the pushback. “Vicky, this isn’t what I want either. But Jade has no one. I have to look out for her.” “You’ll both be mine — I’ll treat you equally. Jade is sweet. She won’t make your life difficult, I promise.” When he was pursuing me, he swore I was the only woman he’d ever want. Now, with the wedding right around the corner, he wanted to play house with two of us? So ridiculous. A mistress was just a secret kept in the dark — so what exactly did that make me? I stepped back and looked at him like something I’d scraped off my shoe. “Mr. Holt, I think you should leave. If your heart belongs somewhere else, there’s no wedding to plan.” Cameron let out a long-suffering sigh, watching me the way you watch a child throwing a tantrum. “Victoria. Both families have sent out invitations. The venue is booked. If you back out now, what does that do to your reputation? Don’t say things you don’t mean.” I was shaking with fury. Jade had been circling him for years, and she’d timed this perfectly — right before the wedding, when she calculated I’d be too trapped to walk away. “So by your logic,” I said, “should I actually be grateful? That you didn’t just show up on our wedding day and surprise me with her at the church?” Cameron’s expression darkened. “It’s just a title. You’re an Ashford — no one would dare disrespect you. Why does it matter so much?” “Besides, what successful man settles for one woman? I know how big your heart is. Don’t act like those bitter, jealous girls. That’s beneath you.” I closed my eyes. Counted to three. Didn’t make it. I slapped him across the face — full force. His cheek went red and swollen instantly. Cameron grabbed his face, staring at me like I’d detonated something. “Victoria! Have you lost your mind!” “Every guest in Chicago knows you’re about to marry me. If you walk away from this engagement, no one will touch you — ever.” “You hear me? This wedding is happening whether you like it or not.” “And if you want any future in this family, you’ll go home and tell your parents you voluntarily stepped aside.” I studied him for a long moment, expression frozen. So that’s why he came today. My parents were away on a business trip to Europe. He’d timed it. He wanted me cornered. Wanted to walk away clean while I took the fall. Then it hit me, and I almost laughed. “What’s my full name?” I asked. Cameron blinked. “Victoria Ashford? Have you completely lost it?” I raised my hand. The security team that had been waiting at a distance came jogging over immediately. “When we were dating, I didn’t mind you calling me Vicky.” The memory of his nerve made something between fury and laughter rise in my chest. “But from this moment on — you address me as Miss Ashford.” “Throw him out.” Two of my guards hooked him under the arms and started dragging him toward the door. Cameron twisted around, face disbelieving. “You dare? I’m going to be her husband!” I let out a short, contemptuous laugh. “Why wouldn’t we dare? If I wanted to, I could line up every eligible man in Chicago from here to the airport. Cameron Holt — who exactly do you think you are?” “Let me show you exactly why I run this city.” I looked at my guards and said it again, slower. “Throw him out.”

Cameron stormed back to his family home and walked straight into his mother, Eleanor, who’d heard the news and come rushing in. Eleanor took one look at his expression and opened her mouth, but Cameron cut her off, barely containing his anger. “This is all your fault. You’re the one who pushed me to bring Jade in. Now look what happened — I went over there and got humiliated.” Eleanor listened to the whole story, her opinion of me souring by the minute. She made a private note to put me in my place once I was officially her daughter-in-law. For now, she kept her voice gentle. “Vicky’s just spoiled. Nothing like sweet Jade. Everyone in Chicago knows she has a temper. She should be grateful to marry into this family.” “She’s young. She doesn’t know better. Give it a few days.” “I’ll personally send her an invitation to come over and have a proper conversation about why having Jade here benefits her.” “Once she understands, she’ll come back and apologize on her own.” The moment I kicked Cameron out, I had my assistant put through an international call to my parents, who were still in Europe scouting projects. Then I got in the car and drove up to my grandfather’s estate on the hill to vent. I assumed that would be the end of it — the Holts and I, done for good. Then, a few days later, I received an invitation to their cocktail party. My secretary and assistant both begged me not to go. I refused. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Why should I hide?” I’d barely stepped out of the car at the Holt estate when a woman in a white dress materialized in front of me — soft features, practiced fragility. Jade Sullivan. She tilted her head, brows delicately furrowed, voice honeyed and barbed at once. “Miss Ashford, everyone here tonight is someone important in Chicago. Did you really come dressed like that?” “Even if you’re upset with me, you shouldn’t embarrass Cameron and the Holts in front of their guests.” I gave her one cold look and kept walking. In this city, I wear what I want. No one tells me otherwise — not unless they share my last name. I pulled out my phone and dialed. “Mr. Walsh? Tonight’s Holt cocktail party — they’re using the ballroom at one of our Ashford properties, correct?” “Clear the venue. Now. Bill any damages to my account.” Jade went white. Cameron came rushing out from inside, catching the tail end of the call. He looked at Jade, eyes soft with pity as she trembled on the verge of tears, then turned on me. “Victoria! Jade came out here to welcome you, and this is how you treat her?” I looked at the crowd already forming around us. “Welcome me?” I said, voice carrying cleanly. “In what capacity, exactly? As the future lady of the Holt house? Because from the outside, it looks like she’s already moved in.” The murmurs started instantly. “Isn’t that the woman who’s always at Mr. Holt’s side? When did she become official?” “Even a girlfriend doesn’t get to receive guests on the family’s behalf. The etiquette here is…” “His actual fiancée is standing right there. And she’s already playing hostess?” Cameron’s face shifted. He stepped toward me and reached for my hand. I moved away. “Enough,” he said under his breath. “Do you have to push this far? Do you want to ruin Jade’s reputation?” Eleanor materialized from inside, swooping in with her damage-control smile. “Goodness, can’t this be settled inside? Why are we making a scene at the front door?” She turned and gave Jade a performative scolding. “And you — Vicky can wear whatever she likes. Who asked for your opinion?” Jade’s eyes flickered with something raw, but her face smoothed back into gracious contrition. She dipped her head toward me. “I overstepped, Miss Ashford. Please don’t hold it against Cameron.” The display made Cameron’s heart ache with sympathy for Jade and harden further against me. He was already deciding: after the wedding, he’d make me feel it. Eleanor tried to reframe the entire confrontation as a lovers’ quarrel, nothing more. A few guests began to play along, murmuring for peace. “Miss Ashford, let’s call it even — do me a favor, let it go.” Someone else lifted their chin in quiet judgment. “A little grace goes a long way, Miss Ashford. No need to be so unforgiving.”

I laughed and let my gaze move slowly across the crowd before settling on Eleanor and Cameron. “Perfect. I’d like everyone here to be my witnesses.” “Mrs. Holt. Cameron. Last week, you came to my home and asked me to step down as his wife.” “You wanted a three-way arrangement — and you wanted me to be the one at the bottom. Did that happen or not?” I didn’t come to any cocktail party. I came here to burn it down. Eleanor’s face drained. She shot a vicious glance at Jade, suddenly understanding someone had been running their mouth. “That’s absolutely not true,” she rushed out. “The Ashford-Holt union is a partnership between two great families. There was never any—” I watched Cameron and Jade’s eyes slide to the floor, and smiled without warmth. “Oh? So even the Holts know how outrageous this is?” “I was starting to think you’d decided the Ashford name was something you could step on.” All three of them went pale. Cameron’s voice lost its edge. “Vicky, you misunderstood. The Holts never intended—” “Didn’t they?” I raised an eyebrow. “So the request for me to become the other woman — that came from nowhere?” “It was a misunderstanding, all a misunderstanding—” Eleanor began to insist. I pressed forward. “And Jade receiving guests at the door as though she owns this house — that was a misunderstanding too?” Silence. Cameron grabbed my wrist, grip tight enough to hurt. “Victoria, you’ve made your point. After the wedding you’ll be a Holt — if this family looks bad, you look bad. Know when to stop.” Jade’s eyes glistened on cue, her expression the very portrait of wounded endurance. I felt nothing. I had known from the start that Cameron carried a torch for someone else. For years, I’d felt sorry for Jade’s situation — every holiday, I sent her designer bags, high-end perfume, the kind of gifts that required real thought. Even when Cameron gave her more of his time and tenderness than he ever gave me, I never said a word. I told myself he felt sorry for her. Turns out, they’d been at it behind my back for years. And I’d been playing the fool. Then Eleanor did what she always did when losing: she cried. “This is all my fault. Blame me.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Jade has been on her own since she was a girl — no parents, no safety net.” “She’s getting older, and I couldn’t bear to see her with no future.” “So I asked Cameron to bring it up with you. A place in this home, after you were married. That was all I wanted for her.” She turned and gave Cameron a theatrical glare, blaming him for the framing, then continued. “I assumed Vicky was generous enough that she wouldn’t refuse.” “I let Jade begin learning how things run here, so she could be useful to you, so no one in this house would look down on her.” “I wanted to give a good girl some dignity, not cause her suffering.” “If Vicky isn’t comfortable with it, we drop it entirely. I only worry for Jade. She may spend her whole life alone.” The crowd shifted. Sympathetic eyes drifted toward Jade. The looks aimed at me turned cold.

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At her son’s birthday party, the host asked him his biggest wish. He grabbed the mic, face lit with anticipation. “I want Genevieve Sinclair to be my mom.” The guests roared with laughter. Every glance aimed at me was barbed. Mocking. Hungry for a scene. Genevieve was Nathaniel Whitmore’s assistant. This wasn’t the first time my son had tried to replace me with her. I didn’t want a public meltdown, so I let it slide. Then the party photos arrived. My face had been edited out. Genevieve’s face was in my place. I asked around. My son had demanded it. And Nathaniel had allowed it. In that moment, I felt hollowed out. A bone-deep exhaustion that drowned every flicker of rage. That night, I told him I wanted a divorce. He sat in his study, in that leather chair, and didn’t even lift his eyes. “Over a photo?” “Yes. Over a photo.” *** “How many times is this, Catherine? Stop threatening divorce every time we hit a rough patch.” Nathaniel pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked like a man dealing with an unreasonable subordinate, not his wife of eight years. “This time it’s real. Nathaniel, let’s end this.” I held his gaze. His mouth twitched, dismissive. He looked back down at the papers on his desk. “I don’t have time for this. The board meeting is this afternoon. My father will be there in person.” Genevieve was waiting at the study door. She cradled Nathaniel’s bespoke suit jacket in her arms like a sentry on duty. “Mrs. Whitmore, the chairman himself will be at this meeting. It wouldn’t look good for Nathaniel to be late.” Her eyes held a veiled reproach. Like I was the one being unreasonable. The anchor dragging my husband down. The fury ignited and burned through every rational thought I had left. “Did anyone ask you?!” “Catherine!” Nathaniel slammed his palm on the desk. The coffee cup jumped. Dark liquid splattered across his documents. Genevieve’s eyes welled up instantly. Her voice quivered. “Nathaniel, it’s fine. Please don’t fight with your wife because of me.” Right in the middle of this standoff, her phone rang. She answered it. “Accidentally” hit speaker. A thick Boston accent exploded into the room. “Gina, where’s your man? Still not out the door?” “Don’t tell me the wife’s got him on lockdown again. Jesus.” “Honestly, Nathaniel should just get the divorce and be with you openly. You two actually look right together.” I knew that voice. Marcus. Nathaniel’s best friend. He used to call me Cassie, sweet as pie, every time he saw me. “Marcus, stop it. We’ll be right there.” Genevieve fumbled to hang up. But the flush creeping up her ears was unstoppable. “Sorry, Mrs. Whitmore. Marcus just jokes around. Don’t take it to heart.” I ignored her. I pinned my eyes on Nathaniel. “So this is how your friends see me? In your social circle, I’m just a joke? Publicly. Openly.” Nathaniel rubbed his temple, exasperated. “Catherine, can you please stop fixating on things like this?” “I can’t control what other people say.” He grabbed his papers and moved to walk past me. As he brushed by, a scent hit me. Cedar and juniper. Exactly like the fragrance clinging to Genevieve. A silent declaration. That scent snapped my last thread of sanity. I stepped in front of him and screamed. “Sign the divorce papers! Now!” Nathaniel’s face went rigid. His knuckles were bone-white. “Over a retouched photo? Are you serious?” “I already told the photographer to rush the original negatives. We’ll hang the real one back up. Okay?” “Owen wanted the picture changed because you’re always busy. Gina’s the one raising him most of the time. Is it a crime for a kid to want a photo with the person he’s close to?” “Maybe you should reflect on that.” Genevieve’s eyes were brimming. She cut in at the perfect moment. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Whitmore. I’ve gotten too close to Owen. But Nathaniel has been preparing for this board meeting for two weeks. I’m begging you. Please don’t do this to him right now.” I looked at them. One playing the martyr, delicate and wronged. One seething with rage, hiding behind his moral high ground. And I was the only unreasonable person in this room. But they made me this way. Step by step. My marriage to Nathaniel was a business deal. My father was a founding partner at Kensington Capital, a private equity firm in Boston. The Whitmores needed to partner up for a prime commercial real estate acquisition in the Seaport District. The elders of both families sealed the deal in the boardroom. I was part of the package. The second year of our marriage, the SEC launched a surprise investigation into my father. Securities fraud. Conspiracy to commit money laundering. He never even got the chance for bail. Federal prosecutors took him straight into custody. His company’s management was purged overnight. The man who took over was his lifelong enemy. The Whitmores panicked. Less than forty-eight hours after my father was taken away, they were already pushing Nathaniel to divorce me. It was my father who begged him. In the visiting room of the federal detention center. Begged him not to abandon me then. I only found out about that later. At the time, I thought Nathaniel stayed because he had feelings for me. Then I got pregnant. They made me sign a brutal marital property agreement. I waived any claim to the Whitmore family trust. I gave up my say in my child’s education and inheritance rights. In exchange, my child would be acknowledged by the family. After I gave birth to Owen, they took him to the old estate on Nantucket. They said my “mental state made me unfit” to raise him. I was allowed to see my son once a week. Supervised by the housekeeper and a lawyer. Like a prison visit. Years later, Owen finally came back to live with me. But by then, his grandparents had taught him everything. He’d learned to despise me the way they did. He never called me Mom. Just Catherine. He introduced me to his classmates as “my father’s wife.” At one family dinner, he told Genevieve in fluent French that she should have been his mother. Then he turned to me, all innocence. “Sorry. Forgot you don’t speak French.” I wanted so badly to repair things with him. I turned a blind eye to every insult, every dismissal. I kept trying to win him over. But he only had warmth for Genevieve. Before the birthday party, I’d heard him tell his friends a hundred times. He wanted a Jellycat bunny. I bought it. I was going to give it to him when he blew out his candles. But when the host asked for his wish, he shot me a look full of spite and screamed it out. “I want Genevieve Sinclair to be my mom.” It felt like ten thousand knives stabbing into my heart at once. The guests’ laughter flayed me alive. And Nathaniel let it all happen. I swallowed the hurt and humiliation. I forced a smile. I greeted every guest like nothing was wrong. In the end, I wasn’t even allowed to have my own face in my own family photo. This time, I was truly done. I just wanted to escape this suffocating nightmare. “Nathaniel, you’re not leaving this house until you sign.”

I locked my fingers around Nathaniel’s arm. My nails bit into the fabric of his tailored suit. “Catherine! Are you trying to drive everyone insane?!” He seized the crystal paperweight off his desk and hurled it to the floor. The shatter echoed through the entire house. “Ah!” Genevieve screamed, cowering in place. Nathaniel rushed to her instantly. He shielded her behind him, patting her back, murmuring reassurances. He didn’t notice the shards of glass that had sliced open the top of my foot. Blood trailed down my ankle. It dripped onto the dark walnut floor. “Nathaniel,” Genevieve’s voice cracked. “I should’ve never gone to that birthday party. I never imagined it would cause this much trouble between you and your wife.” “It’s not your fault. This is on me.” Nathaniel’s gray-blue eyes were thick with guilt. “I should have handled this.” Genevieve shook her head, a delicate sob escaping. She tugged at his sleeve. “The most important thing right now is to calm Mrs. Whitmore down.” One sentence. That was all it took to bring Nathaniel back to cold focus. He ordered the butler to bring Owen down. A few moments later, Owen trudged down the stairs. The second he saw Genevieve, he tore free from the butler and ran into her arms. “Auntie Gina, I missed you so much.” Genevieve scooped him up, patting him affectionately. “Auntie missed you too, sweetheart.” Owen noticed the tear streaks on her face. He waved a tiny fist in the air. “Why are you crying? Who hurt you? I’ll punch them!” From start to finish, Owen didn’t spare me a single glance. I forced the words out. “Owen. Come to Mommy.” Owen finally turned his head. He looked at me with a calm far too old for his age. “Please don’t act like this in front of guests, Catherine. It’s unbecoming.” A dull blade. That’s what it felt like. Sawing slowly, cruelly, through my heart. “Owen! That’s no way to talk!” Nathaniel’s reprimand had almost no weight behind it. Just going through the motions. “He’s just a child. Give it time.” Genevieve’s voice was butter-soft. Owen immediately clung to her like she was his fortress. “Auntie Gina is the best. Not like some people. Always giving Dad trouble.” “Owen!” Nathaniel’s face finally hardened. But I knew. It wasn’t to defend me. He just didn’t want the situation to get uglier. “Apologize to your mother. Or she’s really going to leave.” Owen’s eyes lit up. Pure, unfiltered joy. “She’s really leaving?” He turned to me, his face bright with victory. “Then I apologize for my wording. You can go now.” My heart was being carved out piece by piece. Was this truly the child I’d carried inside me for ten months? Nathaniel’s brow furrowed hard. “You do not speak like that! Apologize properly to your mother!” Owen had inherited Nathaniel’s stubbornness. Stubborn as a mule. His eyes went red. He shook his head violently. “I already apologized. If she won’t accept it, that’s her problem.” Even Nathaniel was powerless against him. It was Genevieve who crouched down. Her voice was a soft coo. “Sweetheart, be good for Auntie. Say a proper sorry to your mom. Okay?” Owen bit his lip. He hesitated for a long moment. Then, impossibly, he gave in. “Sorry. Is that good enough?” Nathaniel exhaled in relief. “He apologized. Now can you stop this?” “Enough is enough. I’ve done everything I can.” Right then, Genevieve’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it and typed a reply. Immediately, Owen’s Apple Watch lit up. For the next two minutes, the phone and the watch vibrated in a steady rhythm. A secretive little smile played on Owen’s lips. He shot me a furtive glance. My stomach dropped. I realized they were chatting. Privately. About me. My fingers trembled uncontrollably. Before rational thought could stop me, I lunged forward and ripped the watch off Owen’s wrist. “That’s mine! Give it back!” Owen shrieked and flew at me. His small fists rained down on my face and neck. I barely felt the pain. I stared at the screen. Owen, Nathaniel, and Genevieve had a group chat. The name blazed at the top: The Dream Team ✨. Owen: She’s got that sour face on again today. I can’t stand her. Genevieve: Sweetie, that’s not nice to say~ But Auntie hates seeing you so upset too 🥺 Owen: Why doesn’t she just move out? Then Owen can be with Auntie Gina forever! Genevieve: Darling, we keep those thoughts right here in our hearts, okay? Saying them out loud might make Mommy sad… My vision blurred. Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. My husband. My son. And another woman. Their “Dream Team.” What a monumental joke. The watch hit the floor. The screen shattered into pieces. “You broke my watch!” Owen was shaking with rage. “Do you know Auntie Gina gave me that?!” He scooped up the broken pieces and hurled them at my head. A sharp burst of pain. Warm liquid trickled down. I touched my fingers to the wound. They came back red. “Owen. Enough.” Nathaniel finally reached out to stop him. He pulled a few tissues from the side table and handed them to me. “Sometimes when your child isn’t close to you, you need to look at yourself.” “You’re always this aggressive. Who would want to be near you?” “Alright. He apologized. You should be satisfied now.” The blood soaked through the tissues fast. I stood there in silence, looking at the three of them. My husband. Shielding Genevieve. My son. Glaring at me from the space between them. And Genevieve. Clutching Owen with such tender concern. What a blissful little family they made. “Sign.” My voice came out eerily calm. “This marriage is over.”

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