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The day the doctor confirmed I was carrying twins, I drove to Marcus's office to surprise him. Through the glass wall of the conference room, I saw my husband of three years feeding a strawberry to a woman sitting on his lap. She was pregnant. Much further along than me. His mother, Helen, sat across from them, smiling warmly—the same woman who'd told me for three years that I was "the only daughter-in-law she'd ever want." Helen raised her champagne glass. "Once Rosalie's twins are born and the DNA matches, we'll take the babies. The surrogacy contract is airtight. She signed the prenup. She gets nothing." My blood turned to ice. Surrogacy contract? Marcus kissed the woman's forehead—tender, adoring, everything he'd been with me. "Lena, I'm sorry you had to wait. Mother needed Rosalie's eggs because your bloodline wasn't 'pure' enough for the family trust. But our baby will inherit too. I'll make sure of it." Lena pouted. "Three years, Marcus. Three years I've shared you with that clueless little orphan." "It's almost over, love." Helen pulled out a document. "After delivery, we'll declare her mentally unfit. Emergency custody. She won't even get a hearing." My hands went to my stomach, shaking so hard I could barely stand. Three years. Three years of love, of him cradling me at night, whispering that I was his world. Three years of his mother teaching me family recipes and calling me "dear." They were farming me. Like livestock. I stumbled back from the glass. My heel caught the carpet and I grabbed the wall, biting through my lip to keep from screaming. Marcus's voice carried through the crack in the door. "Has Dr. Voss adjusted her prenatal vitamins? I need these twins born healthy. The trust requires genetic verification within 48 hours of birth." "All handled," Helen said. "She takes whatever we give her. She trusts us completely." She trusts us completely. The words hit like a blade to the chest. Because I did. God help me, I did. When I was nineteen, alone, grieving my grandmother, working double shifts at the hospital—Marcus Aldric showed up like sunlight. He didn't throw money at me like the others. He sat with me in the hospital cafeteria at 2 AM, eating cold pasta, listening to me talk about my grandmother's Parkinson's. He drove four hours to find a specialist for her. When she died in my arms, he held me for six hours straight without speaking. And I married him believing I was the luckiest woman alive. Now I understood. Every kindness had been calculated. Every touch had been a transaction. I was never his wife. I was an incubator with a heartbeat. My phone buzzed. A text from Marcus: "Working late tonight, baby. Don't wait up. Love you. ❤️" I stared at the red heart emoji until my vision blurred. Then I did something I'd never done before. I didn't cry. I screenshot the prenup on my phone and sent it to the only lawyer I knew—my grandmother's old neighbor, now a senior partner at a top firm. Then I walked to my car, sat down, and placed both hands on my stomach. "I will get us out of this," I whispered. "Whatever it takes." I started the engine. In the rearview mirror, the Aldric Corp building glittered like a glass cathedral. I was going to burn it to the ground. But first, I needed to find out exactly what they'd put in my vitamins.

I signed the rejection papers while my mate kissed another woman on our bed. The pen didn't even shake in my hand. Three years of marriage—and this was how it ended. Not with a fight. Not with tears. Just the quiet scratch of ink on paper while she moaned his name in the next room. I placed the signed documents on the kitchen counter, right next to the breakfast I'd made him—his favorite, eggs Benedict with smoked salmon. The plate was still warm. Then I picked up my bag and walked toward the door. I didn't slam it. I closed it gently, the way I'd done everything in this marriage—quietly, carefully, making sure I never disturbed anyone. The morning air hit my face. Cold. Sharp. January in New York. My wolf stirred inside me, weak but restless. *"We need to tell him,"* she whispered. I pressed my hand against my stomach—still flat, but not for long. Six weeks pregnant. With the child of an Alpha who just rejected me for his childhood sweetheart. No. He didn't need to know. He'd made his choice. And I'd made mine. I pulled out my phone and dialed the only number I had left. "Aunt Harper? It's Elara." "Elara? Oh my God, sweetheart—what's wrong? It's six in the morning." "I need a place to stay. Can I come to you?" A pause. Then, softly: "What did he do?" My throat tightened. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to sound unbothered. But when someone asks you *what happened* with genuine care in their voice—after three years of no one asking at all—something inside you just... breaks. "He chose her," I whispered. "He's been choosing her for months. I just... I didn't want to see it." "I'm booking your train ticket right now. Don't argue." "Okay." "And Elara?" "Yeah?" "You're never going back to that man. Do you hear me?" I ended the call and stood on the sidewalk, watching the city wake up around me. Somewhere behind me, in the penthouse I'd called home for three years, my husband—no, my *ex*-husband—was tangled in sheets with Megan Cross, the woman he told me was "just a colleague." Funny thing was, I'd believed him. Every single time. When she called at midnight, I believed him. When her perfume clung to his collar, I believed him. When she showed up at our anniversary dinner "by coincidence," I smiled and offered her a seat. Because that's what Luna Elara did. She trusted. She forgave. She stayed. But Luna Elara was gone now. My phone buzzed. Aunt Harper had sent the ticket. The train left in two hours. I didn't look back—not once. But my wolf did. And the last thing she felt through the bond, before I shut it down completely, was this: He was laughing. He was laughing with her in our bed—and he hadn't even noticed I was gone.

My husband had another wife. I found out on our fifth wedding anniversary. I was curling my hair in the bathroom when his phone buzzed on the nightstand. I wouldn't have looked — I trusted him completely — but it buzzed eleven times in a row. The screen showed a contact saved as "Office Manager." "Daddy, when are you coming home? Mommy made your favorite dinner. We miss you." Attached was a photo of two children — a boy and a girl — sitting at a dining table decorated with balloons. Behind them stood a woman in an apron, smiling at the camera. She was wearing a wedding ring. My curling iron burned my neck. I didn't feel it. I scrolled up. Hundreds of messages. Years of them. "Happy anniversary, my love. Eight years and counting." Eight years. We'd been married for five. I wasn't his wife. I was his side piece. My hands trembled so violently that I dropped his phone. I picked it up, placed it exactly where it had been, and stared at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back looked like a ghost. I heard the front door open. Ethan's voice drifted up the stairs, warm and familiar. "Babe? You ready? Our reservation's at eight." I gripped the bathroom counter until my knuckles turned white. Then I straightened my dress, fixed my lipstick, and walked downstairs with a smile. "You look beautiful," Ethan said, pulling me close. He kissed my forehead. His cologne smelled expensive — I'd bought it for his birthday. "Happy anniversary," I whispered. He had no idea that I knew. And I planned to keep it that way — until I'd taken everything. At dinner, I watched him across the candlelight. Ethan was devastatingly handsome. Sharp jaw, warm brown eyes, the kind of smile that made you feel like the only person in the world. He'd used that smile to build two lives. "What are you thinking about?" he asked, reaching for my hand. "Just how lucky I am." He squeezed my fingers. "I'm the lucky one, Sophia." I wanted to flip the table. Instead, I squeezed back. "Ethan, do you ever keep secrets from me?" His fork paused for half a second. If I hadn't been watching, I would have missed it. "Never," he said smoothly. "You know everything about me." I smiled. "Good." My phone buzzed in my purse. I glanced at it under the table. It was a message from my best friend, Hannah. "Happy anniversary, babe! You two are literally the perfect couple. So jealous!" Hannah. Sweet, loyal Hannah who introduced us six years ago. Who was my maid of honor. Who called me every Sunday. I now had a new question burning in my chest — one that terrified me more than the photo of that other woman. Did Hannah know? I looked across the table at my smiling husband and felt absolutely nothing. No. That's not true. I felt something. I felt dangerous.

I heard the wedding invitation before I saw it. The nurse left it on my hospital tray between the pudding cup and the discharge papers, like it was nothing. Like a woman who had given birth fourteen hours ago — alone, by cesarean, in a hospital wing paid for by a man who hadn't answered her calls in three months — would want to know that the father of her child was getting married on Saturday. To someone else. I picked it up. Heavy cardstock. Gold foil. Dominic Ashford & Victoria Langley request the honor of your presence. The honor. I looked at my son sleeping in the plastic bassinet beside my bed. He was six pounds, four ounces. He had Dominic's jaw. I had noticed that immediately and hated myself for noticing. The surrogacy contract was in my bag. I had carried it with me for nine months the way some women carry ultrasound photos — not for sentiment, but for proof. Proof that I existed in this story. Proof that I was owed something. Section twelve, paragraph four: Upon live delivery of a viable heir, the surrogate shall receive full payment of two million dollars within seventy-two hours, regardless of the status of any personal relationship between the parties. Personal relationship. That was what the lawyers had called it. What Dominic and I had — the nights he came to my apartment to "check on the pregnancy" and stayed until morning, the things he said with his mouth against my neck that no contract covered, the way he looked at me like I was the only real thing in his life — that was a personal relationship. Separate from the agreement. Unenforceable. I had been so stupid. My phone buzzed. A text from his lawyer — not even from Dominic himself. Ms. Chen, please confirm your availability for the infant transfer on Thursday. Infant transfer. My son was fourteen hours old and they were scheduling a pickup. I looked at the invitation again. Saturday. He was getting married on Saturday and taking my baby on Thursday and I was supposed to — what? Sign the discharge papers and disappear? Collect my money and be grateful? I put the invitation down. I picked up my phone. I did not call Dominic. I called the only person who had ever told me the truth about him. "Elena," said the voice on the other end. Dominic's mother. The woman who had personally written the surrogacy clause that guaranteed my payment. The woman who had told me, eight months ago in the kitchen of the Ashford estate, He will break your heart. Make sure he can't break your bank account. "It's Lily," I said. "I need a lawyer. Not his. Mine." A pause. Then: "It's about time." I hung up. I looked at my son. He had my eyes. I hadn't noticed that before. I'd been so busy seeing Dominic in him that I'd missed myself entirely. I wasn't going to make that mistake again. What I didn't know yet — what I wouldn't learn for another forty-eight hours — was that the wedding invitation wasn't Dominic's cruelest move. It was his safest one. The cruel one was already in motion.

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