My flight to London was supposed to leave in two hours. I found out at the gate that my first-class seat had been canceled. I called my assistant, and he stumbled over every word. “Ms. Kensington, I booked you the earliest first-class departure, but Preston’s new assistant — Genevieve — flagged it as unnecessary extravagance and switched it to a red-eye economy seat. Four hours later.” I didn’t say anything for a moment. Then I started asking questions. What I learned made my blood run cold. Ever since Genevieve Laurent walked into Kensington Enterprises, she’d been on a crusade. She killed the office espresso machines. She axed the catered Friday lunches. She slashed overtime Uber stipends down to nothing. People were coming out of pocket just to show up and do their jobs. The complaints from the floor had been building for weeks. Furious, I bought my own ticket, flew to London, closed the billion-dollar acquisition, and called Preston the moment I landed back on the tarmac. He brushed me off. “Genevieve is only trying to cut costs. She means well. You should actually be thanking her.” I laughed. I genuinely laughed. “If she’s so focused on saving money,” I said, “then I’ll save even more — I’ll fire both of you and cut two salaries at once.” The line went dead. Preston had hung up on me. I stared at my phone. The broke, disgraced son of a collapsed Wall Street dynasty — and he had the nerve to hang up on me. Three years ago, his father’s firm imploded overnight. The man jumped from the fourteenth floor. Preston had nothing left but a faded last name and an agreement my grandfather had made with his. Out of respect for the dead, I honored it. I brought him into the company, gave him a VP title, and let him rebuild whatever was left of his pride. This was how he paid me back. I booked the next flight home and opened my company Slack. What I found there was worse. One thread after another. My employees, venting in a channel they thought I never checked. “Genevieve literally stood over me while I printed contracts and counted the pages. I reprinted one sheet by accident and she docked $200 from my paycheck.” “No more Uber reimbursement after 9 PM. I’ve been splitting cabs with strangers to get home.” “Sales team is done. She capped client dinners at $15 per person. You can’t close a seven-figure deal over McDonald’s.” Kensington Enterprises wasn’t just a company. My grandfather built it from nothing over fifty years ago. Three generations of my family had poured everything into it — and the reputation we’d earned, with clients and employees alike, was the one thing money couldn’t manufacture. People trusted the Kensington name. That trust took decades. And Preston was letting this woman burn it to the ground. And then I found the one that stopped me cold. Preston and Genevieve had expensed a full week in Aspen — a “ski resort feasibility study.” Presidential suite. Private instructor. Michelin-starred dinners every night. Total damage to the company account: well over $200,000. And buried in the line items, charged to the company emergency fund — a $150,000 Bvlgari necklace. He used my money to buy jewelry for another woman. I closed my laptop. The flight home was eleven hours. I didn’t sleep for a single minute of it. The rage started as something almost laughable — my own fiancé, my own money, my own company. The sheer absurdity of it. By the time the wheels touched down in New York, I had made up my mind. Every single person who had played me for a fool was going to pay for it.

I didn’t call ahead. I walked into the Kensington Tower lobby in the same clothes I’d worn on the plane, and two men I had never seen before stepped directly into my path. “Badge or QR code,” the bigger one said. “No entry without Genevieve’s clearance.” I looked at him. “I’m Sloane Kensington. This is my building.” The two of them exchanged a glance. Then they laughed. “Sloane who? We answer to Preston and Genevieve. Nobody else.” Before I could respond, I heard heels on marble. Genevieve Laurent walked out of the elevator carrying a Starbucks cup, wearing a Chanel suit that I was fairly certain had been expensed to the company account. She moved through the lobby like she owned it — easy, unhurried, performing for the room. I watched her. And then I saw it. A small birthmark just below her left collarbone. The size of a coin. My mind snapped back ten years — to a manila folder on my desk, a charity trust application, a photograph of a teenage girl from a trailer park outside Odessa, Texas. Father in and out of prison. Drug debts. A caseworker’s note that said if funding didn’t come through, the girl would likely be sold off to cover what her father owed. I had approved that application without a second thought. I had been funding her anonymously ever since. The Ivy League tuition. The apartment deposits. The “fresh start” money every time she asked for it. That was no French socialite standing in my lobby. That was Brandy Jenkins.

“Brandy.” One word. I said it quietly. She froze mid-step. The Starbucks cup stopped halfway to her lips. I watched the color drain out of her face in real time. “That’s not my name,” she said. “Brandy Jenkins,” I said. “Odessa, Texas. Your father owed $40,000 to a local dealer and was three days away from handing you over to cover it. You were sixteen.” The lobby had gone completely silent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was steady but her jaw was tight. “The Halo Trust Fund,” I said. “Anonymous donor. Except I’m the donor. I have every wire transfer, every tuition invoice, every lease co-sign going back ten years. The nose job. The veneers. The name change.” I tilted my head. “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own investment?” Something shifted behind her eyes. The socialite act cracked — and what came through wasn’t embarrassment. It was rage. “You want a thank you?” Her voice came out sharp and ugly. “Is that what this is? You write a few checks and you think you own my whole life?” “I think you walked into my company under a fake identity,” I said. “That’s what I think.” “I earned everything I have.” She was shaking now. “Every single thing. You were born in a penthouse and you have no idea what it feels like to survive on someone else’s pity. Every dollar you sent made me sick.” “You want the truth? I’m glad I took it. I’d do it again.” She took a step toward me, chin up, voice dropping to something vicious and triumphant. “And I don’t need you anymore. I have Preston now. And when he takes over this company, everything you built — everything your precious grandfather bled for — is going to be ours.” I looked at her. “You think Preston can take my company.” “I think he already has.” She smiled. “You’ve been gone a month, Sloane. Look around.” I looked around. She wasn’t entirely wrong. New security at every entrance. New faces at the front desk. The espresso machines were gone, replaced with a sign about “wellness-aligned beverage policies.” Three employees I recognized from the senior floor were sitting in the lobby with cardboard boxes on their laps. “Get her out,” Genevieve said to the guards, like she’d been giving that order for months. “She’s trespassing.” “I am the majority shareholder of this building,” I said flatly. “And I have a restraining order filed this morning citing workplace harassment.” She pulled out her phone and showed me the document. “Preston signed it. Your name is on it. You come within fifty feet of this office, you’re in violation.” She tilted her head, mimicking my earlier gesture. “Did you really think he wouldn’t prepare?” The two guards grabbed my arms. I didn’t fight it. One of them twisted hard — too hard, deliberately — and I felt my knee buckle as they shoved me toward the door. The marble step caught me wrong and I went down, both palms hitting the floor, the impact cracking up through my wrists. I stayed there for a moment. On my knees. On my own floor. Around me, my employees looked away. Genevieve crouched down to my level, voice soft enough that only I could hear. “This is my house now, Brandy was a girl who needed saving.” She stood back up. “Genevieve Laurent takes what she wants.” The guards grabbed my arms again to drag me the rest of the way out.

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Every siren High Priestess has a Heart Core. The queen swallowed my sister’s. But she forgot about the second one.” They gut my sister like a fish in front of me. She’s thrown into a basin full of pearls, her massive tail thrashing, casting this sick blue glow across every face in the room. Soldiers shove their hands all over her — rough, careless — tearing off her scales like they’re peeling bark off a tree. Blue scales scatter across the stone like broken glass. Then they slice her open. A man rams his fist inside her belly, roots around like he’s digging through a sack of grain, and pulls out a Core — glowing, pulsing, beautiful. And just like that, they stop. Got what they came for. All because some queen heard a bedtime story. Somewhere deep in the Endless Sea, there’s an ancient race — sirens. And inside every siren High Priestess, there’s a Heart Core. Swallow it, and you’ll be irresistible. Forever young. Forever beautiful. Queen Seraphina heard that and lost her goddamn mind. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Had to have it. So her husband — the great and mighty King Aldric — sent his army to the bottom of the sea to make his wife happy. They butchered everyone. Every siren they could find — ripped open, left floating belly-up in water so red it looked like sunset. My aunts. My cousins. My elders. All of them. Split open and thrown away like garbage. And my sister — my Caelia — they dragged her out and cut her apart while she was still breathing. I’m hiding beneath a reef, watching the whole thing. Blood in my eyes. Blood in my mouth. And every tear that rolls down my face turns hard — crystallizes into a tiny gem before it even hits the water. Siren tears do that. They turn into jewels. Mine are stained red. The last thing I hear is Caelia’s voice — soft, steady, even now — whispering to me from behind the rock where she shoved me to safety. ““Don’t cry, little one. Just… stay alive. Survive.”” Here’s the thing the world doesn’t know. They think there’s only one High Priestess per generation. One Core. But this time, there were two of us. My sister got the beauty. The grace. The Core that grants eternal youth. I got something else. I got blood that breeds monsters. Mindworms — thousands of them — born from my own flesh, fed on my own bone. Creatures that burrow into your brain and make you see things, feel things, dream things that aren’t real. Creatures that can fake a pregnancy. Creatures that can eat a man alive from the inside out. I drag myself to shore. The Ancient Siren Rite — splitting your tail into legs — is supposed to be agonizing, and let me tell you, that’s an understatement. It feels like someone’s taking a serrated blade to my spine and just pulling. But I do it. Because Caelia told me to stay alive. And I’m not staying alive to hide. I spend three months feeding the swarm. My blood. My bone marrow. Everything I have goes into breeding these things until a small silver-white serpent — barely the length of my forearm — coils around my wrist. It’s eaten every other creature I’ve raised. Thousands of them. It’s the last one standing. I call him Fang. And then I walk to the capital. I disguise myself as a dancer, bribe my way through the castle gates with a handful of Siren’s Tears — gems made from my own crying — and I buy every scrap of information I can get. King Aldric’s schedule. His habits. His weaknesses. His routine walks by the lake. That night, the moon lays itself across the water like a sheet of silver. I dance barefoot at the edge of Sunset Lake, my toes barely kissing the surface, sending ripples through the light. The scent that rises off my skin — it’s a siren thing. Sweet. Heavy. The kind of smell that makes you forget where you are. Hundreds of fireflies come spiraling out of the dark, drawn to it, swirling around me like I’m the center of the universe. I know he’s there. I can feel him watching from the bank. I keep dancing. When I finish, I turn — and our eyes meet. I let my face flood with surprise. My heart is hammering, but not for the reason he thinks. I scramble for my shoes like I’m about to bolt, and right on cue, his voice cuts across the water. “You — are you one of the court dancers? That was… I’ve never seen anything like it.” I keep my eyes down. Play dumb. “It’s a dance from my homeland, my lord. Most people haven’t.” The spring air has a bite to it. I let myself shiver — just a little. He notices. Of course he does. He takes the pale cloak off his own shoulders and drapes it over mine. Gentle. Almost careful. I look up at him with wide eyes. Let the blush come. It’s not hard — the cold does half the work. That scent thickens between us. The air turns warm and close. I catch the flash of something in his eyes. Fascination. Hunger. Then he straightens up and clears his throat, all business again. “The Queen loves dance. Her birthday’s coming up. You’ll perform this piece for her.” I drop to my knees on the cold stone. “Forgive me, Your Majesty — I had no idea who you were.” He waves it off, but his eyes won’t leave my face. “Get up. You’re fine. Just don’t let me down.” I thank him. Accept the assignment. Watch his back disappear into the night. Then I twitch my finger. A Mindworm — tiny, almost invisible — wriggles off my skin and burrows into his. By morning, every corridor in this castle is buzzing with the same story: the King met a dancer by the lake last night. A knock on my door. A stone-faced matron I’ve never seen before. It’s starting.

I’m brought straight to Queen Seraphina. The Gilded Hall is exactly what you’d expect — dripping with silk, gold everywhere, jewels stacked on jewels. And there she sits, alone on a raised platform like she’s holding court. Crown pins. Gemstone earrings. Rings on every finger. This is the woman who wiped out my bloodline because she wanted to look pretty forever. This is the woman who killed my sister. She takes one look at me and her face crumples with disgust. Presses her lacquered nails against her lips. “This ugly little thing is supposed to dance for me?” Before I came, I dotted my face with fake freckles. Dark ones. Clusters of them. Covered every inch. Because I know what Seraphina is. She’s the kind of woman who’d slit your throat for being prettier than her. If she saw my real face right now, I’d be dead by dinner. I kneel on the stone floor, nails biting into my palms so hard I almost bleed. Every cell in my body is screaming — kill her, kill her now — but I press it all down and make my voice small. “Your Majesty, I’ll wear a veil during the performance. You won’t have to see my face.” She snorts. “Well. You’re certainly no threat to anyone looking like that. If the King wants to send me a pet dancer, fine. I’ll take his little gift.” She flicks her wrist. The matron drags me out. I’m barely through the door when I nearly slam into Aldric. He glances at me — and I see the confusion flash across his face. This freckled, plain-looking girl is nothing like the moonlit beauty from last night. But the scent doesn’t lie. He knows exactly why I did it. He knows that if Seraphina had seen my real face, he’d be stepping over my corpse right now. Something dark crosses his expression. His jaw tightens. And for the first time — just barely — I see anger toward his queen flicker behind his eyes. I let the corner of my mouth lift. Just a fraction. That’s all it takes. One tiny seed of doubt. One hairline crack. It’ll sit in the back of his mind and fester — grow roots, spread, until it’s something he can’t dig out no matter how hard he tries. And when that day comes? All of Seraphina’s power, her family, her precious position — it’ll just mean she’s got further to fall. I go back to my room. Wash the fake freckles off. Seraphina. You wanted supernatural beauty? Eternal youth? I’m going to make sure everything you stole turns to dust in your hands. Fang slides up my wrist. I stroke his tiny head. “Soon,” I whisper. “She goes first. Straight to hell. To apologize to my sister in person.” The day of Seraphina’s birthday, the castle goes all out. Water lilies have bloomed overnight across the entire surface of Sunset Lake — which everyone takes as some kind of divine blessing. Lucky omen. Great sign. Aldric stands at the shore with Seraphina on his arm. She’s beaming. “So — my gift. When do I get it?” He nods. The music starts. I step onto the lily pads. Each step barely touches the water — light as breathing, precise as a blade. That scent rolls off me again, and the fireflies come pouring out of the darkness, hundreds of them, spiraling around my body like a living constellation. Every single person watching has gone slack-jawed. Frozen. Like they forgot how to blink. Every single person except Seraphina, who’s digging her nails into her own palms hard enough to draw blood. Mid-spin, my veil slips. And there it is. My real face. No freckles. No disguise. Just — me. I turn toward Seraphina and smile. The hatred in her eyes is so raw it’s almost a living thing. The dance ends. Nobody moves. Nobody makes a sound. Until I kneel in front of Aldric. “For the Queen’s birthday, this humble dancer offers her best. May your reign with the King be long, and may your joy never fade.” “Long live the Aurelia Empire!” I don’t know when Aldric let go of Seraphina’s hand. But it’s gone now. He reaches down toward me. His voice is soft. “Rise. You didn’t disappoint.” Seraphina’s jaw is clenched so tight I’m shocked her teeth don’t shatter. She forces a smile. “What a charming gift, my lord. I love it.” “Good,” Aldric says, barely looking at her. The Mindworm’s been doing its job — pulling his attention, stirring his emotions. But it’s too risky to leave in much longer. I curl my finger, ready to call it back — And that’s when a voice slices through the crowd. “Your Majesty — how about you give this beauty to me? Consider it a peace offering between our kingdoms.”

Aldric’s head snaps toward the voice. “Who said that?” “The Crown Prince of Valdris, Your Majesty,” Cedric murmurs from his side. A man steps forward — tall, broad, dressed head to toe in foreign finery. He moves like someone who’s never been told no. “King Aldric. I’m Prince Kaelen of Valdris.” “Hand her over, and I’ll guarantee a hundred years of peace. Not one drop of blood spilled between our nations.” Dead silence. Then gasps. Because this is insane — in the best possible way for everyone except me. One dancer for a century of peace? Any king with half a brain would take that deal in a heartbeat. Seraphina jumps in immediately. “My lord, surely this would be a wonderful opportunity for the girl. A prince’s consort — what more could she want?” Aldric hesitates. And I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. Logic says do it. Strategy says do it. Every political instinct he has is screaming take the deal. So why can’t he? I lift my face and look at him. Just look. Today I’ve painted shimmering marks near my eyes — they catch the light and make everything about my face more intense, more devastating. But right now, those devastating eyes are filling with tears. Something cracks inside him. I see it happen. “You’re too late,” he says. “She’s already mine.” Seraphina chokes. “My lord?!” Kaelen bows — disappointed but graceful — and backs away. My back is drenched in cold sweat. Thank god. Thank god I didn’t pull that Mindworm out in time. Without it nudging his emotions, he would’ve handed me over without blinking. No king in history turns down free peace for a girl he met two days ago. That afternoon, he declared me his in front of the entire court. That evening, the royal decree shows up at my door. I am now the Lady of the Moon. I leave the dancers’ quarters and look out over the castle grounds. In my chest, a vow settles like iron. Everything they did to you, Caelia — to our people — I will repay it. Every last drop. When I reach Moonstone Hall — my new chambers — Seraphina is already there. Waiting. She looks at my face and smiles. Poison dripping from every syllable. “You lied to me.” “If I hadn’t — would I have lived long enough to dance today?” She laughs, stroking the cat in her lap. “Fair point. You do know me well.” The smile vanishes. “But let me make something very clear. Title or no title. King’s bed or not. I will kill you whenever I feel like it.” I hold her gaze. Steady. Calm as still water. “So you’ve already picked how I die?” “A fire. A tragic accident. The Lady of the Moon, burned alive in her own chambers.” She leans forward. “Aldric and I go way back — childhood sweethearts. My father and brother fight his wars. You think he’ll shed a single tear over one dead mistress?” Her men grab me. Bind my hands. Bind my feet. Throw me to the floor. Oil splashes across the walls. The floor. My dress. The first spark drops and Seraphina laughs — loud, wild, free. “He’s drunk tonight. Dead drunk. No one’s coming for you, sweetheart.” I watch her walk away through the growing flames. My face doesn’t move. The fire erupts. The guards at my door grab their throats — blood gushing from their eyes, nose, mouth, ears — and crumple. Dead before they hit the ground. I step through the fire with Fang curled around my arm. My little insects have already laid a trail. I follow it — running, running — until I crash headfirst into someone’s chest. I look up. Wide eyes. Trembling lip. The terror on my face is flawless. Aldric crushes me against him, staring at the blaze over my shoulder. “Who the hell did this? Find them. NOW.” I bury my face in his chest and say nothing. He knows who did it. We both know he knows. But he’ll pretend — because Seraphina is his childhood bride, and her family has an army. He’s not going to punish her. Not for me. Not for a girl he barely knows. “I’m scared,” I whisper, pressing closer. Making myself as small and soft as possible. He’s really drunk. Flushed. I can smell the wine on every breath. And I’m a siren. Every part of me is designed to make men lose their minds. Add the Mindworm stoking his desire, and the look in his eyes shifts from concern to something much, much darker. He scoops me up and carries me straight to his chambers. It won’t take long for Seraphina to hear about this. And she will absolutely lose it. Right on schedule — I’ve barely settled in when her steward drops to his knees outside the door. “Your Majesty — the Queen is feeling terribly unwell. She’s begging to see you.”

I’m draped in nothing but a silk slip, looking up at Aldric through heavy lashes. My voice comes out low and sweet. “Are you going to go to her?” His eyes are glazed over. He stares at me like the rest of the world just… stopped existing. “With you right here… I can’t even remember her name.” I press my hand to my mouth and laugh — quiet, teasing. It’s just us in this room. Just candlelight and him looking at me like I’m the only real thing left. His breath is hot against my neck. His fingers trace my collarbone. And then — just like that — he’s out cold. On his forehead, a pale pink Mindworm is still wriggling its way deeper. I roll him onto the bed. Pull the blankets up to his chin. “Sweet dreams, Your Majesty. I made this one special.” Then I slide the pin from my hair and prick my fingertip. A few drops of blood onto a silk cloth — the rest goes straight into his mouth. Can’t waste the good stuff. This amount won’t kill him. Not yet. But give it time — night after night, drop after drop — and it’ll eat him from the inside like rust on iron. And here’s the beautiful part: no healer in this world can cure it. Only me. The moon’s directly overhead now, pouring silver through the window. I sit on the edge of his bed, counting minutes. A scratch at the windowsill. A spider — no bigger than my thumbnail. One of the thousand tiny spies I’ve seeded throughout this castle. She’s coming. I stand. Smooth my clothes. Walk outside. Seraphina is standing at the foot of the steps with what looks like half the castle’s staff behind her. Servants, stewards, guards — a whole damn army. This isn’t a jealous wife checking on her husband. This is a siege. I stand above her on the steps. Slowly — deliberately — I sweep my hair to one side, baring the fresh red mark on my neck. Moonlight on my skin. A smile on my lips. Sweet as sugar. “The King’s asleep. Maybe try again tomorrow?” Her face twists into something barely human. “You filthy — I will kill you with my bare hands!” I point — lazy, casual — at her belly. “Careful, Your Majesty. You don’t want to upset the baby.” She freezes. Mid-scream. Like someone hit pause. Here’s the thing about Seraphina. Aldric once promised her — give me a son, and I’ll make you the most powerful woman in the kingdom. Official. Permanent. Five years of marriage. Nothing. Not even a scare. She’s tried everything. Every healer, every remedy, every folk cure in every corner of the continent. Nothing works. And if she can’t produce an heir soon, that promise dies. “Guards! Drag this whore out of my sight and BEAT HER TO DEATH!” Yeah. I hit a nerve. I shake off the hands grabbing at me. “Your Majesty — take a breath. Maybe call a healer? Have them check?” I pause. Let the silence build. “Because this baby? I’m the only one who can keep it alive.”

Seraphina’s lying on a chaise in her private chamber. Half a dozen healers are on their knees in front of her. She’s propped up on one elbow, exhaustion carved into every line of her face, patience clearly gone. “Well? Am I pregnant or not?” “Without question, Your Majesty. Every sign points to a healthy pregnancy.” They say it in unison. Like a chorus. Seraphina shoots upright. Her eyes go glassy. “Really?” Her voice is shaking. Tiny. Careful — like she’s holding something so fragile that breathing wrong would break it. And I think — huh. So even someone like her can look this small. She turns to me, remembering my words. “And? Is it stable?” “Strong and steady, Your Majesty. Nothing to worry about.” She smiles. For one second, it’s genuine. Then she looks at me and the smile turns to murder. “Now that I’m carrying the King’s heir, I really shouldn’t have blood on my hands.” Pause. “But God, you make me want to.” She snaps her fingers. Her men lunge at me, fingers digging into my arms. I twitch one finger. Seraphina doubles over screaming, clutching her stomach. The healers rush in. Check her pulse. One by one, their faces drain white. They hit the floor. “Your Majesty — please — we’re losing the baby —” She goes dead pale. She just found out she’s pregnant. How can she already be losing it? She looks at me. All the venom’s gone. All the cruelty’s gone. What’s left is raw, naked terror. “Do something! Now!” “If you lose this baby — I’ll kill everyone you love.” My nails are buried in my palms. Everyone I’ve ever loved. That’s the funniest thing she’s ever said. They’re dead. All of them. She killed them. I’m the only one who crawled out of that grave. And I crawled out for her. I step forward. Dab a tincture on her wrists. Her color slowly comes back. The healer checks again. Stable. Crisis over. Here’s the truth: I don’t know the first thing about medicine. And Seraphina isn’t pregnant. The night she tried to burn me alive, I slipped a Mindworm inside her. A special one. It mimics every sign of pregnancy — fools every healer, even produces kicks in the later months. But it also feeds. Day and night. Draining the host from the inside out. And it answers to me. If I want her dead, she dies. One thought. That’s all it takes. But just Seraphina? That’s not enough. The men who actually butchered my people — they were her father and brother. Her brother. Duke Seraph. Those thick, greasy hands of his running up and down my sister’s tail. Ripping off scales like he was shucking corn. Scales and blood raining down while Caelia’s face twisted in silent agony. She never screamed. Not once. She clenched her jaw so hard she cracked her own teeth. By the time she died, they were shattered. I look at Seraphina’s happy, hopeful face and feel something cold settle in my chest. Every second of pain my sister felt — you’re going to pay back a hundred times over.

I get back to Aldric’s chambers. He’s still out cold. I slip off my outer gown, slide in beside him, and stare at the ceiling. I wonder what his face is going to look like when he finds out Seraphina’s pregnant. Because here’s the thing — he’s the one who had her poisoned. Years ago. Secretly. Made sure she could never conceive. The Ashfords are too powerful. Too much military muscle. If Seraphina produced a male heir, her father could use that kid as a puppet — stage a coup, take the throne from the inside. Does Aldric care about Seraphina? Sure. A little. Childhood sweethearts and all that. But the crown comes first. Always. He wakes up and stares at me for a long, dazed moment. That dreamy look — still swimming in last night’s visions. My Mindworm dreams are very good. I flutter my eyes open under his gaze. Shy smile. Little stretch. I’m reaching for his robe when Cedric’s voice comes through the curtain. “Your Majesty — the Queen’s sent word. The healers confirmed it this morning. She’s with child.” The smile dies on Aldric’s face. Just — gone. Like someone blew out a candle. “Has the news gotten out?” “She’s already sent a rider to Lord Commander Ashford.” I start to get up — give him space, play the considerate mistress — but he catches my hand. “Stay. You’re exhausted from last night. Rest here.” His thumb traces circles on my wrist. “I’ll find you somewhere better to live.” I thank him. Lie back down in his bed. Watch him walk out the door. Seraphina’s pregnant. The Ashfords are circling. Aldric’s buried in politics. Nobody’s paying attention to the dancer with no last name. Perfect. Prince Kaelen of Valdris — that’s my blade. I don’t just want a handful of deaths. You wiped out my entire species. I’m going to tear your kingdom apart from the inside. I write a note, let Fang carry it in his mouth, and send him to find Kaelen. Days pass. I move into nicer chambers. Things are quiet. Then Seraphina’s steward shows up at my door. “The Queen’s in terrible pain. She needs the Lady of the Moon. Immediately.” I run my fingers over Fang where he’s coiled on my desk. Tuck him into my sleeve. Head to the Gilded Hall. Inside, the incense is so thick it burns my eyes — but underneath it, I can smell the blood. So. Aldric made his move. Too bad. There’s nothing real in her belly. He can poison her all he wants — all it does is make her hurt. Nobody knows I saved her “pregnancy” that night. Aldric has no idea. I stand over Seraphina’s bed, watching her face crumple with pain, and pull out my silver needles with a calm, practiced hand.

The Mindworm doesn’t care about Aldric’s poison. Inside Seraphina’s belly, it keeps growing. Multiplying. Getting fat. “My baby — is it going to be okay?” The words barely come out.” She can barely get the words out. I make a show of checking her pulse. “Yeah. But it’s going to hurt.” Even half-dead, she can’t help herself. “If you’re lying, my father and brother will make you beg for death.” I slide the first needle in. Slow. Inch by inch. All the way in until it disappears under her skin. The pain must be unreal — I can see it eating her alive — but she can’t scream. Can’t move. All she can do is stare at me with those bloodshot eyes, shaking with rage. Her father and brother. Right. I’d love to see them try — considering they can barely keep themselves alive right now. I gave Kaelen a handful of Mindworms weeks ago. Told him to get them into the Ashfords’ food. Father and son both command the border army. Once the worms take hold, they get reckless. Aggressive. Stupid. They’ll overplay their hand, and when they do, their soldiers will lose faith. An army that doesn’t trust its generals is just a mob with swords. Ten whispers. One for each finger. I stop. Seraphina passed out three whispers ago. I wave toward the door. “Send the healers in.” But it’s not just healers who walk through that door. Aldric’s right behind them. The healer checks Seraphina through the curtain. Aldric and I stand side by side. His eyes are ice. “I didn’t realize you had hidden talents.” “A village remedy, Your Majesty. Nothing grand.” He doesn’t smile back. Just stares at the curtain. I wrecked his plan and he’s pissed. I’m still trying to figure out how to spin this when the healer speaks. “The Queen’s pregnancy is stable, Your Majesty.” Aldric’s face goes dark. But he walks over to Seraphina, takes her hand, and plays the loving husband. “You’ve been through so much, my love.” She gives him a weak, grateful smile. “For you and our child — it’s nothing.” I stand off to the side, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. He doesn’t look happy. He looks like someone forced him to swallow glass. “I should thank Lyra,” Seraphina says sweetly — so syrupy I nearly laugh. She knows she’s falling apart. Every healer in the kingdom couldn’t keep her pregnancy stable. Only I can. Aldric turns to me. The cold in his voice could freeze the lake solid. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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It’s Christmas Eve, and my Alpha’s maid is on the phone—thanking me for giving her dying mother the donor heart that was supposed to keep me alive. “Thank you, Luna. You’re so generous. If Marcus hadn’t broken the rules for me tonight, if he hadn’t pulled the newest heart for my mom, I don’t know how I’d get through this.” I freeze. “You’ve got the wrong wolf. Marcus is visiting another pack tonight. He left before Christmas even started. And he’d never break pack law for anyone. He’s not that kind of Alpha.” Cassie’s voice doesn’t waver. “No mistake, Luna. The second Marcus saw my post on the pack feed begging for a heart, he was at the infirmary in five minutes. Straight from the airfield.” The line goes dead. A key turns in the front door. Marcus walks in. My voice shakes. “You said… you were visiting another pack tonight.” He’s silent for two long seconds. “I had a trip planned. But Cassie’s mother was dying. I couldn’t just leave her.” His voice drops lower. “And… that donor heart you were waiting for. I had it sent to Cassie’s mom.” “You’re younger than her mother. You can wait a little longer.” My eyes flood. I have heart failure from a silver wound. He knows. He knows how rare a matching donor is for a Luna whose heart was sliced by a silver blade. And he just—gave it away? When my parents begged him to pull strings months ago, he told them life was equal. No favors. No exceptions. Now he breaks pack law for his maid? It takes me forever to find my voice. “Marcus. I’m rejecting you. And I’m reporting you to the Council of Elders.” I turn to leave. He grabs my wrist. His face is cold. “Ivy. Don’t be ridiculous. I know you’re sick. I know you’re scared. I’m your Alpha, your mate—I’m more scared than you are. But Cassie’s mom is old. She couldn’t wait. Have a little compassion.” I stare at him. Then I howl it out of me. “Her mom couldn’t wait? What about ME? I do a silver purge every week, Marcus. I’m halfway in the grave. Who’s having compassion for ME? You KNOW if I don’t get this surgery I’m DEAD.” He frowns at me like I’m being dramatic. “Stop talking like that. You have me. You’re not going to die. The next heart comes through, it’s yours.” I look at him and something inside me dies quietly. “I’ve been on this list three years, Marcus. Three years. When my parents knelt on this floor and begged you—do you remember what you said?” Tears spill over. I can’t stop them. “You wouldn’t even look at them. You yelled at them. You said life is equal. You said taking shortcuts would dishonor you, that they were trying to drag you down. And I believed you. I told myself you weren’t cold, you were just honorable. I told myself I should be proud to be your Luna.” “So why does Cassie post once on the pack feed and the heart is hers?” My voice is shaking so hard I can barely get the words out. “Where did ‘life is equal’ go, Marcus?” His eyes slide away from mine. “Cassie’s only got her mother. No father. No pack family. If her mom dies, she has no one. I felt for her. I made a quick call.” I can’t breathe. “So because she can’t lose her mother, you trade my life for hers?” My whole body is shaking. “Your quick call cuts off MY life? I’m going to the infirmary right now. She’s giving that heart back.” “ENOUGH.” His hand cracks across my face. My head snaps. The room spins. My cheek burns like fire. I stare at him. Marcus’s face goes white. He reaches for me. I jerk back. I try to swing at him but my legs give out. He catches me, panicking now, dragging me to the bed, fumbling for my meds. His phone rings. He looks at the screen and answers without hesitation. A few low words. Then he looks at me, jaw tight. “Ivy, Cassie’s mom is rejecting the transplant. I have to go. Stay here. Don’t do anything stupid.” He grabs his keys and runs. He never even finishes finding my meds. The room is empty. I crawl off the bed. I drag myself along the wall to the medicine cabinet. I swallow the pills with shaking hands. Tears run down my face. This time, my Inner wolf goes silent. Something between us is dead.

Marcus is gone three days. No call. No mindlink. Nothing. I know exactly where he is, though. Because Cassie won’t stop posting on the pack feed. While I’m collapsed in bed shaking with fever, Marcus is at the infirmary holding Cassie’s hand all night. She posts a photo of their fingers laced together. Caption: Because of you, I have the strength to fight fate. While I’m dragging two slices of moldy bread out of the fridge, Marcus is taking Cassie out for a feast. Nine photos of food. Caption: He heard I’d never been to a real restaurant as a pup. So he said he’d take me to every one in the territory. While I’m rolling on the floor in pain, Cassie posts from a moon shrine. Caption: Someone came with me to pray for my mom. But honestly, I should thank the Moon Goddess for sending me this guardian angel. The pain comes in waves. Then I realize—today is my silver purge day. Marcus forgot. Of course he did. He’s too busy with his maid. When I took that silver blade meant for him and almost died in his arms, Marcus cried into my chest. He swore that if I died, he’d follow me into the next life. He wouldn’t break pack law for me, but he’d remember every dose, every appointment, every wave of pain. When did it change? When Cassie became his maid. He used to roll his eyes when he mentioned her. “Dumb little thing. Can’t do anything right. Cries every time I correct her. Exhausting.” Then it shifted. “Poor pup. Just her and her mom. She’s clawing her way up from nothing. Tough situation.” Then the corner of his mouth would lift when her name came up. “My maid—not the brightest, but she’s got grit. You know what I love about her, Ivy? She’s so full of life. I come home every day to a Luna who can barely sit up. It’s rare to see someone who—” He caught my eyes. “I didn’t mean you, Ivy. Don’t take it like that. Once you’re healthy again, you’ll have all that energy too.” He said that. And then he started coming home later. And later. And later. Too busy. Always too busy. Too busy doing pack rounds. Too busy training Cassie. Too busy to spend Christmas with his mate. But not too busy to pull strings for Cassie’s family. Not too busy to give away the heart I’d waited three years for. I drift in and out of consciousness. At some point I think I hear Marcus’s voice. Ivy, are you feeling any better? A girl peeks out from behind him. I jolt awake. It’s not a dream. Marcus is home. He brought Cassie with him.

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Five years had passed. I ran into my former fianc└e, Vivienne Holt, again at the awards ceremony for the Paralympic Games. When I reached out to accept the trophy, she stared at my six missing fingers, her voice edged with panic. “Ethan ！ what happened to you?” She couldn’t have imagined it. The legendary NYU hockey champion, the man who had once ruled every rink in the city, now couldn’t even claim a complete body. “You were released early ！ why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t come home?” Her assistant stepped forward, bristling with indignation. “The day you walked out of Rikers, Ms. Holt stood at the prison gates in her wedding dress and waited for you all morning. The whole city knew how much she loved you. And yet you’ve been hiding in this nowhere town, letting her look like a fool!” Hearing those words, I felt nothing but contempt. She couldn’t live without me? If it weren’t for her, I would never have been forced into that marriage with that Mafia lunatic ！ then my fingers cut off, my legs taken, my face carved up, my kidney harvested. I would never have been framed for murder, never spent five years rotting in a cell for a crime I didn’t commit. But, for revenge, I didn’t mind dancing with the lunatic again, as long as I could drag them all down to hell.

Vivienne finally tore her gaze away from my scarred and ruined face, her voice sharpening with anger. “No matter how angry you are, you can’t just vanish like this. Whatever misunderstanding there is between us, we can talk it through.” She snatched away my crutch in frustration, then bent down to help me up. But without the support, I pitched forward and crashed hard to the ground. The stumps where my legs had been were already raw and swollen from weeks of intense training. The impact sent white-hot agony straight through me. The color drained from my face. Vivienne stared at the empty, folded fabric of my trouser legs. She stood there, rooted, helpless. “Your legs ！ where are your legs?” Just then, a man walked in leading a boy of about five or six years old. Looking at a face that was once my own, it took me a long moment to recognize him� Connor Ashby. Vivian arranged surgery to give Connor my facial features, and I with his face, my fate was changed to a darker version. He glanced at Vivienne. “Vivienne has been turning this whole city inside out looking for you.” The little boy broke away and ran to Vivienne. “Mommy! I missed you!” Vivienne lifted him naturally into her arms. “Mommy missed you too, baby.” I looked coldly at Vivienne, but directed my words at Connor. “She’s been so busy hunting for me ！ still found time to have a child with you?” Vivienne’s expression stiffened. I didn’t look at her. I braced my crutch to stand. Seeing my struggle, she set the boy down and moved toward me. “Let me help you up.” I swept her hand away with my crutch. “Get away from me.” Vivienne’s face darkened. “Do you want your parents to see you like this too?” I hauled myself upright. Connor picked up the boy and came closer. “Say hi to your Uncle Ethan.” “Ethan, take the mask off. Let us see your face.” Before I could stop them, my ruined face was exposed for all to see. “Mommy ！ a monster! I’m scared!” The boy buried himself in Connor’s arms, wailing, screaming that he wanted to go home. My mother rounded on me. “Cover that face of yours right now!” My father hurled a stack of banknotes at me. “Take it. Get some plastic surgery. Stop frightening my grandson.” “Refusing to come home, showing up at this pathetic little sideshow ！ you’re trying to humiliate us, aren’t you? If Connor hadn’t told us you were here, God knows how much shame you’d have put us through.” The crisp edges of the fresh checks sliced across my scars. Tiny threads of blood welled up and fell. My knuckles, trembling and bloodless, betrayed the fury I was fighting to keep buried. I bowed to them. Smiled. Thanked them. “Thank you. You’re both very generous people. May you live long, healthy lives.” My father heard the venom beneath my words ！ heard, too, that I hadn’t called them Mom or Dad ！ and ground his teeth together in rage, cursing me as an ungrateful son. My mother told me to watch myself, then left with Connor and the boy. I lowered myself on my crutch and began gathering the scattered checks from the floor. Vivienne seemed unable to watch. She pressed her hand over mine. “What happened back then ！ I owe you for that.” “I’ll marry you, Ethan. I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.” The hand gathering checks went still. Behind my eyes, hatred surged like a tide. “All right,” I said. “Give me time to finish what I’ve started.” Vivienne wanted to come back with me to my place and help me pack. Just then, Connor called her. “Vivienne, the boy’s been crying. He won’t stop asking for you.” I gave a cold laugh. “Go.” “I don’t have legs anymore. Where am I going to run?” Vivienne left her number and told me to call whenever I needed anything. The moment she was gone, I blocked her contact, called uber, and left. I reached out to a man I’d done time with, and moved into the room he was renting. Only when I heard no trace of Vivienne searching for me did I finally begin to breathe.

I worked from a corner of a farmers’ market. I was just starting to think about renting a proper room and settling in when Vivienne found me. “Come on,” she said softly. “Come home with me.” When I refused, she turned to the vendors and shoppers around us, appealing to them for help. “Please ！ talk some sense into him.” “I genuinely want to marry him. I want to spend my life taking care of him.” Everyone in the market had already noticed the Rolls-Royce she’d arrived in. They pressed in from all sides. “You’ve got a beautiful, wealthy woman like this wanting you ！ and you’re still out here as a labor?” “She’s not bothered by your face, she’s not bothered by the missing fingers or the legs ！ what are you throwing a tantrum about?” “Stop being difficult. Go home with her!” I was furious, but I refused to show it. I made an excuse ！ said I needed to say goodbye to my former cellmate ！ and slipped away under his cover. This time I traveled for five days before reaching a small city two thousand miles south. With missing fingers and no legs, it took genuine effort to land even a menial job at a butcher stall. But I didn’t have time to feel relieved. Vivienne found me again. “Ethan, you can’t run from me forever!” The butcher, dripping with sarcasm, chimed in: “You’ve got a woman that rich willing to marry you and look after you ！ what are you doing out here punishing yourself? Go live the good life!” I looked at Vivienne with contempt. “Good life?” The exhaustion of days of running and the hatred coiled deep inside me finally overwhelmed my self-control. “Vivienne ！ why won’t you leave me alone?” “You’ve already turned me into something less than human. Can’t you at least let me go?” Vivienne’s face fell, her eyes genuinely confused. “Marrying you is what you need most right now. And it’s a promise I made to you. I’m trying to help you.” I laughed bitterly. “Help me? The way you helped me lose my fingers, my legs, and five years of my life?” “It was Connor who got tangled up with that lunatic woman. But you killed our child, manipulated the surgery so I’d end up with his face, shipped me off to her ！ and she hacked off my fingers, dismembered my legs. I served five years in prison for the two of you.” “Did you sleep well, these five years? Any nightmares?” Vivienne sighed, her face drawn with what looked like genuine pain. “What’s done is done. Tearing it all open again won’t fix anything.” “I told you ！ I’ll marry you.” I looked at her coldly. “And what does that make Connor? What does that make your son?” Something flickered ！ guilt ！ in her eyes. “What happened with Connor and the boy was an accident.” “As for Connor, I’ll compensate him another way.” Looking at the certainty in her expression, I asked, in a voice like ice: “Your way of compensating ！ is it me on odd days, him on even days?” The guilt in her eyes confirmed it. I’d guessed right. Revulsion rose in my throat. “Vivienne ！ keep dreaming.” Vivienne’s patience finally ran out. Her voice cracked like a whip. “Ethan Grayson, a marriage certificate is the greatest dignity I can offer you.” “I don’t want your dignity,” I said flatly. “Give it to him.” “I just want the two of you as far from me as possible.” I moved to leave. Vivienne’s warning came from behind me. “Ethan ！ keep pushing me, and your old cellmates may find their peaceful lives coming to a rather abrupt end.” I stopped. I turned back, jaw set. “Vivienne ！ you make me physically sick.”

It had taken me five days to reach that small town. The flight home took five hours. I arrived at the house just in time for the welcome-home party my parents had apparently organized in my honor. Connor stood in the middle of it all in a perfectly tailored suit, looking every bit the groom ！ every bit the man of the house. My father gave a contemptuous grunt. “So the prodigal son deigns to return.” My mother sighed. “At least the boy has no blood connection to you. Otherwise, even his career prospects would be ruined.” “Step over the fire pit before you come in. Don’t bring your bad luck and misfortune into this house.” The neighbors and relatives, seeing me with my mask and my crutch, whispered to one another: “Why did they even bother bringing him back? Isn’t there enough shame already?” “I heard that while he was with Vivienne, he was sleeping with some Mafia woman on the side. Had surgery to look like the woman¨s first love, even pressured Vivienne into terminating their baby.” “If you ask me, having his fingers cut off, his legs taken, his face carved up, his kidney harvested, and five years in prison ！ he brought every bit of it on himself.” Connor stepped in and cut the neighbor off. “Ethan made serious mistakes, but he’s served five years. Not every dog is beyond redemption. We believe Ethan won’t make the same mistakes twice.” I watched this kangaroo court, tailor-made for me, and felt nothing but cold, nauseating contempt. Then Connor carried over a fire pit. He added fresh charcoal to it. “The bigger the fire, the brighter the future.” The new coals popped and spat sparks. You could feel the heat from ten feet away. He gave me a challenging look, a mean little smile. “Step over it. Start your life over.” Before I could react, he grabbed me and dragged me toward it. Then someone shoved me hard in the small of my back. I had no balance. I pitched straight forward. I managed to knock the pit aside, but the tipping coals scattered across my body and ignited my synthetic clothing. “Help ！ please！” I screamed, but no one moved to help. In the end, it was Vivienne who tore the burning fabric from me. Connor followed with a bucket of cold water poured over my head. The mask came off. Hair matted, clothes destroyed, knife scars crossing every inch of my back. The crowd recoiled, breath hissing through teeth, from the wreckage of my face. My father pointed at my half-naked body and swore at me. “How long are you going to keep humiliating this family? Get back to your room!” Connor, seeing Vivienne move to go find me fresh clothes, flashed me a cold smile. He reached into the dog kennel, pulled out the blanket from under the old retriever, and draped it over me. “Use this to cover yourself for now.” I tried to pull free. Connor held me down, hard. I smiled. Let go of the struggle. This whole spectacle had been designed for me. All they wanted was to see me broken enough. Only when I’d been broken enough would they finally leave me alone. I looked at Vivienne. “Satisfied?” Vivienne glanced at Connor, something flickering in her eyes. “A dog blanket is better than being completely exposed.” Connor’s eyes lit with quiet triumph. He made a show of offering to help me up. I shook him off. “Keep your filthy hands off me.” Without looking at my parents’ curses or the neighbors’ stares, I hauled myself on my crutch toward the house. Connor’s voice drifted after me: “Mom and Dad said the good rooms will be tainted by your bad luck. You’re in the attic.” I made the slow, agonizing climb up the stairs. When the door closed behind me, my eyes burned against my will. I pulled away the dog blanket. In the mirror: a body mapped in scars, and fresh burn blisters rising in patches across my skin. These wounds ！ some from the Mafia woman’s knife, some from prison ！ cut deep enough to show bone. I hadn’t forgotten a single one. I was waiting for the right moment to return every last one of them. That night, Vivienne knocked on my door. I didn’t open it. Sometime after midnight, sounds drifted up from the balcony below: “You bastard ！ you said tonight was our wedding night.” “It is. Did you like what I wore today?” “I loved it. The moment I saw you, I wanted you to！” What followed were the low, intimate sounds of a man and a woman. Only then did I understand. The red balloons plastered across every room and across the yard ！ they weren’t for my homecoming. They were for a wedding. Theirs.

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Lucius said. “You’re still the one I love.” Those words were all it took. I zipped the dress back up. I decided to give him one last chance. What I got instead was a phone call. “I’m sorry, Miss Ashford. Mr. Hayes said the wedding is canceled. Miss Chase had a heart attack. She’s in the emergency room.” The bouquet slipped from my hands. Something inside me cracked clean in half. I ran out of the hotel. All I saw was the taillights of his car disappearing into the distance. I called him, my voice breaking. “Lucius! If you go to her today, I swear I’ll go to the hospital tomorrow and make sure you never see your child again.” He was silent for a moment. Then he hung up. The dial tone droned in my ear. I stood at the hotel entrance in my wedding dress. Guests whispered around me. The emcee stood frozen on the stage, microphone in hand, not knowing what to say. Lucius’s mother hurried over and grabbed my hand. “Nora, come inside. You’re making a scene.” I looked at her. “The wedding is over, Madam Hayes.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” Her voice dropped. “Vivian could’ve died, for God’s sake. He didn’t have a choice and you know it.” “So he could go to her, but not to me?” “You’re the woman he’s marrying. You need to be understanding.” I smiled. I pulled my hand from hers. “Then I won’t be Mrs. Hayes.” I turned and walked toward the back, lifting my skirt so I wouldn’t trip. “Nora Ashford!” she called after me. “If you walk out that door today, I’ll make sure my son doesn’t marry you!” I didn’t look back. In the dressing room, I took off the wedding dress and put on my own clothes. The makeup artist carefully removed my hair accessories. “Miss Ashford, your makeup…” “Leave it.” I picked up my bag and left. Outside, the sky was gray. I hailed a taxi. “Graystone General Hospital, please.” My phone buzzed in my bag. Jensen. Lucius’s assistant. I didn’t answer. I knew what he would say. *Mr. Hayes is dealing with an emergency. It’s not his fault. He’ll explain later.* Ten years of the same damn excuses. I could’ve recited them in my sleep. Vivian Chase was Lucius’s responsibility. Her brother, Leo, had died saving Lucius five years ago. I used to think it was right—that he should look after her. That it was the kind of man he was, and part of why I loved him. It took me until today to understand. Some debts never get paid. They just turn into a leash — you can’t tell who’s holding the other end. The taxi stopped at the hospital. I paid and walked into the emergency building. Lucius sat on a bench outside the resuscitation room. Head bowed. Elbows on his knees. Hands buried in his hair. His suit jacket crumpled on the seat beside him. I walked toward him. He heard the footsteps. Looked up. When he saw me, he stood. His eyes were bloodshot. “Nora. You came. I’m sorry about today—” “How is she?” I cut him off, my eyes cutting to the closed ER doors. “The doctor said acute heart failure. She’s still being resuscitated. It’s not good.” I nodded. “I see.” I turned to leave. He grabbed my arm. “Nora, don’t be like this. Leo died because of me. I can’t not take care of Vivian. She has no one left in this world.” I pulled my arm free. “Lucius. I’m not being anything. I just realized our wedding seems to matter less than a sister you’ve known for five years.” “That’s not true! You’re the most important person to me, Nora. But she could have died.” “The doctor didn’t say she would die,” I said quietly. His lips moved, but no words came. The doors of the ER swung open. A doctor stepped out. “Family of Vivian Chase?” Lucius stood immediately. “That’s me.” “Patient’s heart rate spiked due to acute emotional distress. We’ve stabilized her. No immediate danger. We’ll move her to a regular ward for observation. Two days, just to be safe.” Lucius exhaled in relief. He turned to me, his eyes carrying a trace of reproach. “See how fragile she is? Can’t you be more understanding?” I said nothing. The bed was wheeled out. Vivian lay there, pale, eyes closed. As the gurney passed me, her eyes opened just enough to find my face, tears welled up immediately. Lucius hurried to her side and took her hand. “Vivian, don’t be scared. I’m here.” I turned and walked out of the hospital. The cold wind hit my face. It was only then that I realized my heart was pounding— Not from grief, not from rage, but from something I hadn’t felt in ten years of loving Lucius Hayes. It was the cold, clean feeling of finally seeing him for what he was.

The next morning, Lucius didn’t come home. The wedding suite sat exactly as it had been prepared. Champagne on ice, now flat. Rose petals scattered across the bed, now wilting. The air still faintly sweet with gardenias. I called a real estate agent before noon. “I need it sold quickly,” I said. “Are you sure, Miss Ashford? This property just closed escrow three months ago—” “I’m sure.” I hung up and started packing. He showed up around four. Still in yesterday’s suit, tie loosened, shadows carved beneath his eyes. “Nora, I’m sorry. Vivian asked me to apologize for her. She didn’t mean to cause trouble yesterday.” “Can’t she apologize herself?” He hesitated. “She’s still weak…” “Lucius. About us. About the wedding.” I set down the dress I was folding. “How do you plan to explain this to three hundred guests?” He rubbed the back of his neck. Quiet for a moment. “Let some time pass. When things calm down, we’ll hold another ceremony.” Reschedule. I repeated the word in my head like it tasted strange. “You think this is something you reschedule?” I said. “Like a dentist appointment?” “Then what the hell do you want from me, Nora?” His voice sharpened. “It’s done. I can’t undo it. Vivian almost flatlined on a table—and you’re standing here making it about a damn party?” “That’s not fair.” “No,” I said quietly. “It’s not.” I stood up. Walked into the bedroom. Pulled a suitcase from the closet and started packing my things. Lucius followed. “What are you doing?” “I sold the house.” His face darkened. “You what?” “You heard me.” “Nora Ashford, you’re being irrational.” “I’m thinking clearly. And speaking clearly.” I folded a sweater. Placed it in the suitcase. “This isn’t our home anymore.” He grabbed my wrist. “You can’t sell it. This is our home.” “It stopped being a home the second you walked out on it for her.” Rage flared in his eyes. “You’re impossible.” His phone rang. He answered, and his voice softened immediately. “What’s wrong? Another nightmare? Don’t be scared. I’ll be right there.” He hung up. He looked at me with a flicker of impatience he didn’t bother to hide. “Nora, I have to go. Vivian’s still fragile—her emotions are unstable. We’ll finish this when I get back.” He reached for his keys. “If you walk out that door,” I said, “don’t bother coming back.” He paused. Hand on the doorknob. He turned. Looked at me. And for a moment, I thought I saw something—hesitation. Or guilt. Then his expression hardened. “My patience has limits, Nora.” The door closed behind him. I stood in the hallway, listening to his footsteps fade down the corridor. I put the last piece of clothing into the suitcase and zipped it shut. And I left. I went back to my studio—a small converted loft downtown. Design workspace below, a narrow bedroom above. I’d kept the lease even after moving in with Lucius. Now I was grateful for it. The first three days were quiet. Lucius didn’t call. I didn’t call him. The silence between us stretched like a wire pulled taut—vibrating with everything unsaid. On the fourth day, Madam Hayes called and asked to meet. She chose an upscale café near the Hayes estate. When I arrived, she was already seated. Posture perfect. Pearl earrings. A cup of tea she hadn’t touched. She slid an envelope across the table the moment I sat down. “What’s this?” “Open it.” Inside was a check. Six figures. More zeros than I’d ever seen on a single piece of paper. “Leave Lucius,” she said. “Take the money and move on.” I looked at the check. Then at her. “Madam Hayes. This isn’t about money.” “I know.” She picked up her cup. Took a sip. Her expression was perfectly calm. “You and my son have ten years of history. But Nora, you need to understand something.” She set the cup down. “The Hayes family needs a wife who knows her role. A wife who supports her husband. Who steadies him. Who manages the demands of his position with grace.” She paused. “Not a wife who makes scenes.” “So Vivian Chase manages those demands?” “Vivian is simple. Kind. Her brother gave his life for Lucius—we owe her a debt that can never be repaid. Lucius protecting her is the right thing to do. As his wife, you should support that. Not fight him on it.” I understood then. Perfectly. In their eyes, every ounce of my pain was an inconvenience. A disruption to the smooth machinery of the Hayes family image. I pushed the check back across the table. “Keep your money. I don’t want it. And I don’t want Lucius, either.” I stood up. “They deserve each other.” I walked out without looking back. That evening, I blocked every Hayes family number in my phone. The world fell quiet. Like stepping out of a storm into still air. That night, I slept ten hours straight for the first time in a decade. I didn’t dream of him. I didn’t dream of anything at all.

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Five years ago, I lost my world to fire and blood. Now, I’m a single mother in a forgotten town, guarding a secret that could restart a war. My son has furry ears and sharp teeth. He is the last heir of the Lycan King. I thought we were safe… until He found us. The King’s brother. The ruthless Alpha. And he’ll burn the world to ashes to take what belongs to him. … “Lior, ears in! Now!” I hissed, frantically pulling the woolen beanie down until it nearly covered his eyebrows. One fuzzy, gray triangle was still twitching defiantly against the fabric. Living in Silver Falls meant hiding in plain sight. Local legends spoke of “The Howl” on full-moon nights to keep naughty children in bed, but the town had no idea the real “monster” was currently eating chicken nuggets at my kitchen table. I once stopped my son from biting a mailman. Last week, he accidentally howled at the moon during a spelling test. Today, he grew wolf ears at breakfast. Lior looked up, his molten gold eyes shimmering with ancient power. “What are the rules, Lior?” I asked, crossing my arms. “No teeth, no ears, no glowing eyes, and don’t scare the humans,” he recited, his voice small but steady. I kissed his forehead, sent him to the bus, and headed to the diner. Three years ago, I arrived here with nothing but a secret. Now, I was the town’s favorite cook, blending into the aroma of grilled onions and sea salt. But at 2:00 PM, the school called. “Miss Elara,” the principal wiped sweat from his brow. “He didn’t just push the boy. He… he smashed a solid oak desk with his bare hand.” Lior stood tall, uninjured and defiant, while the other boy sobbed with a small scratch on his arm. “Is this how you raise him?” the mother shrieked. “Look at my baby!” “Sorry-” I apologized profusely, but Lior’s eyes flared. “I’m not sorry! He said my Dad is never coming back. He lied! I have a Dad, he’s just… very busy!”

Five years ago, Ironwood Pack was the crown jewel of the North. Luna Seraphina was my only true friend. She is a regal woman who treated a human servant like her own blood sister. Beside the Alpha King stood his younger brother, Kael, the kingdom’s deadliest wolf. When Hagen’s rebels breached the gates, the air filled with the blood. “Run, Elara!” Seraphina had gasped, thrusting a silver-wrapped bundle into my trembling arms. “Protect him. He is the last Alpha heir. Never let Hagen find him.” I watched from the shadows as she and the Alpha Lord shifted, their massive forms standing ground against a tide of darkness until the pristine snow turned crimson. I ran until my lungs burned like fire, clutching baby Lior to my chest. He lost his memory that night, the trauma locking away his wolf. To him, I wasn’t the servant who saved him. I was simply “Mama.” But now, in the principal’s office, the wolf was scratching at the door. “Lior!” I interrupted, my heart hammering against my ribs. “We had a deal! You cannot hurt your classmates, no matter what they say.” The “busy Dad” he imagined was a shield he’d built for his own heart, but I knew the truth.

“Mommy, I’m still so hungry.” Lior mumbled, his eyes fixed longingly on the raw ribeye I was prepping for the lunch rush. His pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the gold of his irises. “It’s not cooked yet, baby,” I said, reaching for the tongs. Lior didn’t wait. In a blur of speed no human child should possess, he snatched the slab of meat and began tearing into it. I sighed as a sudden flurry of black fur drifted onto the kitchen tile. He was shedding again. His triangular ears popped out, twitching with every frantic bite. I didn’t panic; I just grabbed the vacuum. Whirrr. “How about I sear the next one medium-rare for you?” I asked, navigating the vacuum nozzle around his feet. “Just tell me when you’re hungry, and for heaven’s sake, stop raiding the fridge in the middle of the night!” “One more thing, mom, I accidentally ate the neighbor’s chicken.” “Again?!” I wasn’t in shock. The struggle of raising a Royal Alpha cub? It doesn’t care about your grocery budget. When he loses his temper, every dog within a three-block radius starts a howling riot. But luckily, I’m the only one who can talk him down from the ledge. “The full moon is coming up,” I warned, bopping his nose. “Try to behave better, okay?” He just blinked at me. “Yes, Ma’am!”

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Because I knew my husband, Victor Harlan, would bring his widowed sister-in-law back to live with us, I quietly moved out of base family housing after I was given my second chance at life. Because I knew he would hand over his entire service allowance to Sandra, I raised Tina alone — never asking him for a single dollar. When Tina’s fever spiked and her life hung by a thread, the hospital called Victor because the bill had gone unpaid. He arrived breathless, his face tight with fury. “No money for treatment and you didn’t think to tell me? She nearly died, Ellie!” I watched his jaw work and looked away. “It was nothing. Didn’t want to trouble you.” Because in my first life, trying to stop Victor and Sandra from destroying everything, we spent ten years tearing each other apart. Sandra had racked up crushing gambling debts, and when I told Victor, he called me a liar. He kicked me hard enough to crack two of my ribs. To protect his brother’s fragile, sickly wife, he turned my parents into enemies of the household and drove them to their graves. In despair, I walked into the river. My child was left behind and starved to death. In that life, fighting for his love cost me everyone I had. In this life, I want nothing from him — not his love, not his attention, not even his pity. … Victor’s voice was barely controlled. “Ellie Gould. Our daughter almost died. And you call that nothing?” I kept my mouth shut. He stepped closer, jaw clenched. “Talk to me.” I laughed, low and quiet. “What would you like me to say, Victor? That you’ve been sending your entire allowance to Sandra every month without keeping a cent?” “Or that you used your last leave to spend three days with her instead of coming home for Tina’s birthday?” He took a half-step back. The look on his face was one I had never seen there before — something close to disbelief. Hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor, followed by a familiar cough. “Ellie, please don’t blame Vic. It’s all my fault. I never should have taken that money—” Sandra braced herself against the doorframe, pale-faced and frail. Victor’s throat moved. When he turned toward her, his voice had already softened. “Sandra, what are you doing here? The ward is full of germs — your lungs can’t take it.” Sandra pushed herself to the observation window and pressed her hands to the glass, eyes red. “It’s my fault. The money that should have gone to Tina’s care — it went to my prescriptions.” Victor caught her elbow gently, his voice full of a tenderness I had not heard in years. “Tina’s going to be fine. You need to go back and rest. I’ll handle things here.” I watched them move away together, then turned and held Tina tightly against my chest. “Ma’am.” The nurse stopped me at the desk. “I’m sorry, but without payment—” “Give me a little more time. I’ll have the money.” She looked at me the way people look at someone they feel sorry for. “She can’t wait much longer.” I squeezed the few coins in my pocket and walked out of the hospital. In my first life, I had carried Tina through a winter just like this one — burning with fever — and knelt on the hospital floor in front of Victor, begging him to save our daughter. He had looked down at me with disgust. “Get up. Have you no dignity? Look at yourself.” Sandra had stood behind him, her voice small and careful, driving every word like a nail. “Vic, Ellie’s just scared. It’s my fault really. But my leg has started hurting again—” She beat at her own bad leg, and Victor turned to her without hesitation. I had grabbed his arm. He shook me off and walked out. The cold had gone all the way into my bones, but I did not stop walking. This time, I would not hand my life or Tina’s to a man who could not see what was right in front of him. I went to the pawnshop and left my mother’s silver brooch on the counter. Then I ran back to the hospital and paid the bill. Past midnight, Tina’s fever finally began to break. I folded my arms on the edge of her bed and drifted off. I woke to a familiar presence standing over me. Victor spoke first, his voice rough. “Did you pay?” “Yes.” “Where did you get the money?” “Pawned the brooch.” I kept my voice flat, as if I had given away something worthless rather than the last thing my mother had left me. He was quiet for a long time. “That brooch belonged to your mother, Ellie. How could you just—” “What else was I supposed to do?” I turned and looked him in the eye. “Wait for you to save a little from Sandra’s prescriptions and grocery runs?” His face flushed dark. “Watch your mouth! Sandra is sick! My brother died young and she’s been alone ever since — of course I look after her. Is that a crime?” Again. That sentence. I had heard it so many times in my first life I could recite it in my sleep. “She’s fragile,” I repeated, slowly, and let the irony carry itself. “So Tina and I are supposed to be the durable ones?”

Victor’s face went gray. “Tina is my daughter. You think I don’t care? Ellie, stop keeping score.” I closed my eyes. I was too tired to keep looking at that face — the one I had once loved, obsessed over, and then learned to hate. “Victor. From this day on, I’m done making allowances for you two. I’m also done fighting. And I am done hoping.” “What does that mean?” “It means you can take care of Sandra however you like. But Tina and I — that’s no longer your concern.” “Ellie!” His hand closed around my wrist. “Is this about money? Fine. I’ll draw next month’s allowance tomorrow. Every cent. Just stop talking about separating.” His fingers were warm. The touch turned my stomach. I pulled my arm free and rubbed the red mark on my wrist. “Keep it. Sandra will need it for her next round of prescriptions.” His chest heaved. “Fine. See how long you last on your own. And don’t forget you’re still living in base housing.” I smiled, reached into my coat pocket, and held out a folded sheet of paper. “Actually. This is for you.” It was a handwritten Voluntary Waiver of Base Family Housing, signed and dated in my own hand. “When did you—” His mouth opened and closed. “The day I moved out. I’ve been carrying it since then.” I kept my voice even. “Sign it. Tina and I are done taking up space that belongs to someone else.” Down the hall, Sandra’s voice drifted toward us, soft and trembling. “Vic? You’ve been in there so long. I can’t stop worrying—” She appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, wearing her suffering like something carefully arranged. “Ellie, please don’t do anything rash. I’ll go back home. I’ll leave you both alone—” Her eyes filled. Victor stepped toward her at once. “Sandra. Stop that. I made a promise to my brother. You’re not going anywhere.” He looked at me over his shoulder — and in that look was the same disappointment I had seen a thousand times before, as if I were the one who had done something wrong. “Ellie, look what you’re doing to her.” He signed the form. “But Tina is my daughter. That doesn’t change. When she’s better, I’m coming to get her.” I took the paper, folded it carefully, and tucked it away. “Safe travels.” He guided Sandra out without looking back. At the hospital entrance, under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, he took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. He never once glanced back at the window where Tina lay. In my first life, I had drowned myself in the river over this man. Tina was left alone. Sandra forgot her. By the time anyone thought to look, she was gone. I had heard — much later, in the version of events that haunts me still — that Tina’s last words were whispered into an empty room. “Mommy, I’m so cold. I’m so hungry. Where are you?” The tears came before I could stop them, sliding down in silence. “Tina. Not in this life. No one is going to hurt you again.” I dried my face. My eyes went cold. Victor Harlan. This time, you take nothing from me.

After leaving base housing, I rented a small room on a side street near town. During the day, I picked up alterations and mending work — hemming, patching, whatever people brought to the door. In the evenings, by lamplight, I sewed rag dolls and cloth animals for Tina. Word got around now and then that Victor handed over most of his allowance to Sandra each month — imported vitamins, new clothes, specialist appointments. That information passed through me like wind through a screen door. One evening, I was returning from dropping off a batch of finished alterations when I saw a crowd gathered outside my door. My stomach dropped. I pushed through. Inside, the room was destroyed. My sewing things were scattered everywhere; three garment orders I had taken from base families lay in pieces on the floor. Sandra stood in the middle of it all, composed and faintly pleased. “I saw Ellie hiding subversive pamphlets in her sewing basket. She’s been working against the base community. Against all of us.” She held up a few crumpled slips of paper. Two MPs stood near the door, arms folded. “Ms. Gould. Sandra Harlan has filed a report claiming you concealed prohibited materials on premises. Do you have anything to say?” The neighbors murmured. “Can’t believe it. She was doing alterations for military families. What was she hiding in there?” “No wonder Victor Harlan put her out—” I recognized the play. It was the same one Sandra had run on my parents in my first life — a quiet accusation, a ransacked room, a crowd already half-convinced. This time I would not freeze. “What proof do you have?” Sandra’s satisfaction sharpened. “The room. The papers. What more do you need?” “Victor Harlan is here!” Someone called it from the back of the crowd. Victor pushed through and walked in. His gaze moved across the ruined garments, and then he turned it on me. “Ellie. Do you understand what you’ve done?” Sandra moved quickly to his side, her voice dropping to something wounded. “Vic, I only came to check on her. I never imagined I’d find — this.” He put a hand briefly on her arm. When he looked back at me, there was no warmth in it. “Evidence is right in front of us. What is there to argue?” In my first life, he had looked at me exactly this way. No question. No pause. Sandra had accused my parents and he had believed her instantly, led the search himself, watched my father’s head split on a doorframe and my mother collapse. “You have no case,” I said. “These garments belong to base families. Every order has a receipt with a date, a description, and the customer’s signature. The paper trail is complete.” “As for those slips of paper — I’m requesting a handwriting analysis.” Sandra’s color shifted. “That’s enough!” Victor cut across me. “Ellie, making this official helps no one. Apologize to Sandra, and I’ll make this go away.” He had done this before, too. Used my humiliation as currency to keep Sandra calm. I pulled my arm back and looked at him steadily. “I have done nothing wrong. I will not apologize for something I didn’t do. And I don’t need you to make anything go away.” His patience ran out. He pointed at the MPs. “This is a failure of household conduct and it reflects on my command. Whatever the investigation requires, we’ll cooperate fully.”

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