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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.

The nurse ripped my daughter from my arms while I was still bleeding. "No!" I screamed, clawing at the hospital sheets, my body broken from twelve hours of labor. "Give her back to me! Give me my baby!" But the nurse didn't even look at me. She walked straight to the door, where Alpha Dominic stood with his arm around another woman—Vanessa, his mistress, the woman who had been sleeping in my bed while I was confined to the pack's medical wing for a high-risk pregnancy. Vanessa smiled. That perfect, poison-sweet smile she always wore when she was destroying my life. She reached out and took my newborn daughter—my Lily—and cradled her against her chest like she had any right to touch her. "She's beautiful, Dom," Vanessa cooed, stroking my baby's cheek with her manicured finger. "She looks just like you." I tried to get up. My body screamed in protest—the C-section stitches pulling, blood soaking through the bandages—but I didn't care. I would crawl across broken glass to get to my daughter if I had to. "Dominic, please," I begged, hating the weakness in my voice. "She needs me. She needs her mother. Please—" He finally looked at me. My mate. My fated mate. The man whose mark still burned on my neck like a brand. His dark eyes swept over me with the same expression he'd give a stain on his shirt. "The pack doctor will take care of her," he said flatly. "And from now on, Vanessa will be her mother. It's already been decided." The world tilted. "Decided? She's MY daughter! I carried her for nine months! You can't—" "I can." His voice hardened into the Alpha command that made every wolf in the Blackstone Pack submit. Every wolf except me. Not anymore. "You're not qualified, Serena. You've been unstable throughout the pregnancy. The elders agree—Lily is better off with Vanessa." Unstable. That's what he called it when I cried after finding Vanessa's lingerie in our bedroom. Unstable, when I begged him to attend even one ultrasound appointment. Unstable, when I had a panic attack after his mother told me I was "replaceable." "This is what you want!" I whispered, the truth crystallizing like ice in my veins. "You kept me isolated. You told the pack doctor to put me on bedrest so I couldn't leave. You planned this from the beginning." Something flickered in his eyes. Guilt? No. Dominic didn't feel guilt. He felt inconvenience. "You should rest," he said, already turning away. "The rejection ceremony will be in three days. After that, you're free to leave pack territory." Rejection ceremony. The words hit me like a physical blow. He wasn't just taking my baby. He was severing our mate bond—publicly, ceremonially, in front of the entire pack. The ultimate humiliation for a Luna. Vanessa paused at the door, my daughter still in her arms. She looked back at me with those cold green eyes and whispered, just low enough that only I could hear: "I told you I'd take everything." The door closed. I sat in that hospital bed, bleeding, broken, and alone, and I felt something inside me snap. Not break—snap. Like a bone resetting itself. Like a wolf baring its teeth for the first time. They thought I was weak. They thought months of isolation and emotional abuse had hollowed me out, turned me into the fragile, submissive Luna and they could do whatever they wanted to me. They were wrong. I pressed my hand against the mark on my neck—the mark that still connected me to Dominic, that still let me feel the echo of his heartbeat—and I made a vow. I would get my daughter back. I would burn their world to the ground. And Dominic would learn what it meant to take something from a mother who had nothing left to lose. But first, I had to survive the next seventy-two hours. Because what I didn't know yet—what no one in the Blackstone Pack knew—was that my blood carried a secret. A secret that would change everything. And it had already begun to wake up.

My fiancé, Matteo Lombardi, held ninety-nine weddings for me. Every single one was ruined. On the day of the ninety-ninth, his childhood sweetheart, Sofia Ricci, called again. This time, she claimed she'd been kidnapped. The ransom: thirty million dollars. In the video, Sofia looked flawless—like a porcelain doll, not a hair out of place. But Matteo—the future Don of the Lombardi family—lost his composure yet again. I held back tears and grabbed his arm before he could storm out of the cathedral. “Do you have to go now? Matteo, this is the ninety-ninth time! Every family’s watching us!” He shook off my hand violently and left me standing alone at the altar, under the cold stares of every mafia clan in Providence’s underworld. Once again, I became the laughingstock of the criminal world. A week later, it was me who got kidnapped. The ransom? Just one dollar. Yet my fiancé's voice on the phone was laced with annoyance. “Elena, stop messing around. The guests are waiting.” My last bit of strength crumbled. My voice was hoarse, unfamiliar. “I’ve really been kidnapped. They’re asking for only a dollar... Matteo, please... save me...” But his tone stayed cold. “I’ll give you thirty minutes. If you don’t show up, I’ll get a new bride.” Matteo Lombardi did replace me. And because of that one-dollar ransom, I had my finger chopped off—live on a dark web stream. That same day, two headlines exploded across Providence’s underground: —Lombardi Heir’s Wedding of the Century Ends with Surprise Bride Swap; —Victim Tortured in Live Dark Web Broadcast; Identity Possibly Lombardi’s Missing Fiancée. --- I was kidnapped on my wedding day. While Matteo, my groom, sat in the church’s lounge room comforting his sobbing childhood love. I called him forty-nine times. He never answered. “So this is the Lombardi family you said would pay? Bullshit! He won’t even answer your damn phone calls!” The kidnapper yanked my hair so hard my scalp felt like it was tearing. My face twisted in agony. Then came the fists and kicks, a brutal storm of pain. My ribs cracked. Every breath felt like swallowing broken glass. The world spun around me. But the physical pain was nothing—nothing—compared to what I felt inside. Just a week ago, Sofia was "kidnapped" and Matteo handed over thirty million dollars without blinking. For her, he abandoned me at the altar for the ninety-ninth time. I had clung to him, desperate, and he shoved me away like garbage. He always said they grew up together, that he couldn’t just turn his back on her. It was his responsibility. So, again and again, he halted our wedding—the one meant to unite the Moretti and Lombardi families—for Sofia. And now, I—his rightful bride, daughter of the Moretti family—was really kidnapped. But I couldn’t even get him to pick up my call. How ironic… Suddenly, my phone lit up. It was a video message from Sofia. “Matteo’s helping me with my blistered heel, Elena. He’s a little too busy to answer your calls.” “It’s your wedding today, but you’re not here. Matteo said I could try on your dress to see how it fits.” In the video, Matteo knelt before her, gently slipping a glass heel onto her foot. Sofia wore the gown my mother had sewn with her own hands—my only inheritance from her. A sharp pain stabbed through my chest. My vision burned crimson. That dress was my mother’s. How dare he let another woman wear it? I lunged forward, desperate to grab the phone and scream at Matteo. But the kidnapper was faster. He kicked my wrist hard, sending the phone flying. The pain shot through my body, curling me into myself in agony.

I had just finished a fourteen-hour surgery when I found my husband in bed with my sister. In my house. In my bed. On the sheets I had washed that morning. I stood in the doorway, still wearing my surgical gown, my hands still trembling from the precision work of saving a child's life. The metallic smell of the operating room clung to my skin. My sister Vanessa saw me first. She didn't scream. She didn't scramble to cover herself. She just looked at me with a slow, pitiful smile and said, "Aurelia, you're home early." My husband, Grant Ashford, sat up and didn't even bother pulling the sheet over himself. "Close the door," he said. "You're letting the cold in." Five years. Five years of marriage. Five years of me working double shifts so he could build his startup. Five years of me turning down a fellowship at the Geneva Institute because he said long distance would kill us. And this was what I came home to. "How long?" My voice was steady. Surgeons don't panic. We're trained to stay calm when someone is bleeding out on the table. Grant sighed like I was being dramatic. "Does it matter?" "How. Long." Vanessa stretched lazily and rested her chin on his shoulder. "Since before the wedding, actually. But who's counting?" The room tilted. I grabbed the doorframe. Before the wedding. That meant every vow he made was a lie. Every kiss, every promise, every time he told me I was the only one—all of it was performance. "You should sit down," Grant said, almost bored. "And while you're at it, we need to talk about the house." "The house?" "Vanessa's moving in. I think it's best if you find somewhere else to stay. Temporarily." I stared at him. "This is my house. I paid for it." "Our house," he corrected. "And Vanessa's pregnant. She needs stability. Surely, as a doctor, you understand that." The word hit me like a defibrillator shock. Pregnant. I had spent two years trying to conceive. Two years of hormone injections, failed IVF cycles, and crying alone in hospital bathrooms. Grant had told me it was my fault. Too much stress. Too many hours at work. He said my body was rejecting motherhood because I loved my career more than I loved him. And the whole time, he was with her. Vanessa placed her hand on her stomach with a satisfied smile. "I'm sorry, Aurelia. I really am. But you were never home. What did you expect?" I looked at my sister—the girl I had raised after our mother died, the girl I had put through college, the girl I had trusted with my life. "I expected you to be human," I said. Grant stood up and pulled on his pants. "Let's not make this ugly. I'll have my lawyer draft the divorce papers. You can keep your little doctor salary. I'm not greedy." Little doctor salary. He had no idea. Nobody did. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at the screen. It was a message from my grandmother: "Aurelia, the board voted unanimously. Nexus Medical Group is yours. Come home. It's time." Nexus Medical Group—the largest private healthcare empire in North America. Forty-seven hospitals. Twelve research institutes. A valuation of ninety billion dollars. And it had just been placed in my hands. I slipped the phone back into my pocket and looked at Grant one last time. "You'll be hearing from my lawyer too," I said quietly. I turned and walked out. Behind me, I heard Vanessa laugh. "She's always so dramatic." She satisfying — no. She had no idea what was coming. Neither of them did. But they would.

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