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The pregnancy test was still warm in my hand when I heard them through the bedroom door. "She's just a surrogate, Marlee." My husband's voice—low, tender, the way he used to speak to me before our wedding became a transaction. "Once she delivers the heir, I'll file the annulment. You and I can finally stop pretending." "But she's so clingy, Dominic." A woman's laugh, soft and poisonous. "She actually thinks you love her." My fingers closed around the plastic stick so hard it cracked. Two pink lines. Positive. I'd been trying to tell him for three days. The door was slightly ajar. Through the gap, I could see them on our bed—our bed—Dominic's hand tangled in Marlee Ashford's copper hair, his lips brushing her temple with a gentleness that made my stomach heave. Not because of the morning sickness. Because he'd never once touched me like that. My wolf stirred inside me—weak, suppressed, barely a whisper. She'd been fading since the day I married Dominic Cross, Alpha of the Ironveil Pack, in a contract ceremony that smelled like old paper and obligation. No mating mark. No bond. Just a signature and a promise that I'd carry his bloodline heir in exchange for my dying mother's medical treatment. The treatment had been paid for. My mother had died anyway, three months ago. And now I was pregnant with his child, standing outside his bedroom, listening to him plan my disposal. I should have walked away. Should have gone downstairs, packed my bag, disappeared into the night like the nobody he'd always treated me as. That's what the old Ivy would have done—the orphan, the packless wolf, the girl who'd learned to survive by making herself small. Instead, I pushed the door open. Dominic's head snapped toward me. For one fraction of a second, something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or just annoyance at being caught. Then his expression hardened into the cold, aristocratic mask I knew so well. "Ivy." He didn't move away from Marlee. Didn't even have the decency to pretend. "How long have you been standing there?" "Long enough." My voice came out steadier than I expected. I held up the pregnancy test. "I came to tell you something." His eyes dropped to the test. I watched his pupils dilate—wolf instinct, recognizing his offspring before his human brain could process the information. "Is that—" "Positive." I set it on the dresser with a click. "Congratulations, Alpha Cross. Your contract is fulfilled." Marlee sat up in the bed, the sheet pooling around her waist, and I noticed she wasn't even trying to cover herself. She looked at me with an expression of such calculated pity that my wolf—dormant, dying, barely there—growled for the first time in months. "Oh, Ivy," Marlee sighed. "This must be so hard for you." "Get out," Dominic said to me. Not to her. To me. "We'll discuss this in the morning." "No." The word surprised all three of us. "We'll discuss it now. Specifically, we'll discuss paragraph fourteen of our contract—the clause that guarantees me full custody rights and a settlement upon confirmed pregnancy." Dominic's jaw tightened. "You're not in a position to make demands." "I'm in exactly that position." I pressed two fingers to my wrist—an old habit, counting my own pulse to stay grounded. "I'm carrying your heir. And according to Lycan contract law, that makes me the most powerful person in this room." The silence that followed was delicious. Then Marlee whispered something in Dominic's ear, and the look on his face changed to something that made my blood run cold. "Actually," he said slowly, "there's been an amendment to the contract." "What amendment?" He reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out a document I'd never seen before. "The one," he said, "that removes your custody rights entirely."

The pregnancy test showed two lines. I was sitting on the bathroom floor of my husband's office, shaking, crying, laughing—all at once. After two years of trying, two rounds of IVF, and one miscarriage that nearly broke me, I was finally pregnant again. I had to tell Nathan. Right now. I wiped my tears, tucked the test into my pocket, and rushed down the hallway toward his corner office. His assistant's desk was empty—it was almost 7 PM, and most people had gone home. But Nathan always worked late. That was what he told me, anyway. The door was slightly open. I heard sounds before I saw anything. A moan. Low, breathy. Then a giggle. My hand froze on the door handle. "Nathan... someone might come in..." "No one's here. Relax." I recognized his voice. That low, commanding tone he used to use with me—back when he still touched me. I pushed the door open. My husband had his secretary bent over his desk. Her skirt was hiked up. His belt was undone. His hands were on her hips. They both froze. For three seconds, nobody moved. The world went completely silent except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above. Then Nathan looked at me. Not with guilt. Not with shame. With annoyance. "Sophia, what are you doing here?" What am I doing here? WHAT AM I DOING HERE? "I came to tell you I'm pregnant." The silence that followed was worse than the moaning. His secretary—Jenna, twenty-four, hired three months ago—scrambled to pull her skirt down. Nathan zipped up his pants with the casualness of someone who'd been interrupted during a phone call. "We'll talk about this at home," he said. "We'll talk about this NOW." "Lower your voice." He stepped toward me, and for the first time, I noticed how cold his eyes were. When did they become so cold? "You're making a scene." "I'm making a scene? You were just—" "Enough." His voice was ice. "Go home, Sophia. You're embarrassing yourself." I looked at Jenna, who was pressing herself against the wall like a trapped animal. Then I looked at my husband—the man I'd given up my career for, the man I'd followed to this city, leaving behind my family, my friends, everything. I pulled the pregnancy test from my pocket and placed it on his desk, right where he'd just had another woman. "Congratulations, Daddy." Then I walked out. I made it to the parking garage before I collapsed. My knees hit the concrete, and I screamed—a raw, ugly sound that echoed off the walls. Six years of marriage. Six years of shrinking myself to fit into his life, his world, his rules. He made me quit my job at the architecture firm because he said it "looked bad" for a VP's wife to work. He made me move away from my mother, who was battling cancer alone. He controlled the bank accounts, the credit cards, the car. And I let him. Because I loved him. Because I thought he loved me. My phone buzzed. A text from Nathan: "Don't do anything stupid. Remember, everything is in my name." I stared at that message for a long time. Then I did something I hadn't done in three years. I called the one person Nathan had specifically forbidden me from contacting. It rang twice. "Sophia?" The voice on the other end was deep, surprised, and cautious. "Is everything okay?" "No," I whispered. "Nothing is okay. I need help." A pause. Then: "Tell me where you are. I'm coming." The man on the phone was Alexander Reed—Nathan's boss. The CEO of the entire company. And the man who told me, on my wedding day, that I was marrying the wrong person.

I spent five years as Dominic Russo's most trusted enforcer, and five more warming his bed in a penthouse no one knew I had the key to. On our anniversary, his ex sent me a photo — her nails raking down the same back I'd kissed that morning. Captioned: "Some things never change 😏" That's when I understood. Every filthy thing he did to me in the dark, she taught him first. So I photographed the contract I'd been hiding for three months — the one that signed over the entire West Coast pipeline to me — and sent it back. "Enjoy him. I just took half his empire." Then I packed one bag and drove to the airport. Seattle was already mine on paper. Now I'd make it mine in blood. …… "You've been his shadow long enough, Sera." Enzo Moretti leaned back in his chair, cigar smoke curling between us. Behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Manhattan skyline — a kingdom the Moretti family had bled for across three generations. He slid a folder across the mahogany desk. I didn't touch it. "The West Coast operation needs someone with teeth," he continued. "The Salazar cartel's been pushing into Portland. The Triads want a new pipeline through the port. I need a boss out there, not a diplomat." He tapped the folder. "I need you." "You're asking me to leave New York." "I'm asking you to stop wasting yourself." His eyes — still sharp at sixty-seven — pinned me to the chair. "Three years ago you should've had your own crew. You turned it down. Twice. Both times because of him." He didn't say Dominic's name. He didn't have to. My jaw tightened. "I'll think about it." "Think fast. I'm making this offer once." I took the folder and left. Ten p.m. The penthouse on the Upper East Side was silent except for the hum of the climate system and the faint sirens thirty floors below. I kicked off my heels and stood barefoot on cold marble, staring at the photo on the entryway console. Dominic and me at the family's annual gala. Him in a black three-piece, jaw like it was carved for a mugshot. Me in red silk, his arm low on my waist — the only public touch he ever allowed, and only because everyone was too drunk to notice. Five years. The whole organization believed we were nothing more than a lethal partnership. His strategy, my execution. Together we'd consolidated three boroughs, buried two rival families, and turned the Russo arm of the Moretti empire into the most profitable operation on the East Coast. Nobody knew I went home to his bed every night. He'd pursued me like a man waging war. In the beginning, Dominic Russo did not do anything quietly. For my birthday he shut down an entire restaurant in Tribeca — bought every reservation, filled the terrace with white peonies, and sat across from me like I was the only thing in his world worth looking at. When I caught a stray round during the Castellano job, he canceled three meetings, fired the surgeon Enzo sent, and hired his own. Sat beside my bed for nine days. Changed my bandages with hands that had strangled men, and never once flinched at the wound. That kind of devotion is a weapon. I didn't stand a chance. But Dominic had rules. The family's internal code prohibited relationships between ranks — a boss couldn't be sleeping with his underboss. It compromised the chain of command. Made you a target. "Just until things settle," he'd said. "Then I'll tell Enzo myself." So I agreed. We kept it buried. By day, we ran the operation side by side. Meetings with distributors. Negotiations that ended in handshakes or broken fingers. The occasional body to deal with. By night, he'd lock the penthouse door and become someone else entirely. Tender where he was ruthless. Patient where he was brutal. He learned every inch of me the way he learned a rival's weakness — methodically, obsessively, until there was nowhere left to hide. I thought we were a secret worth keeping. Looking back, I was the only one keeping it. I was still standing in front of that photograph when the lock clicked and Dominic walked in. Overcoat still on, the sharp lines of his face half in shadow. "You're up late." Perfume. Not mine. Something floral and expensive clinging to his collar. "Couldn't sleep," I said. He didn't notice the edge in my voice. Just reached into his coat and set a velvet box on the counter. "Picked this up." I opened it. A Cartier diamond bracelet — the one I'd pointed out in a magazine three months ago, just a passing comment on a flight to Chicago. He'd remembered. I should have melted. Except two days ago, I'd seen the exact same bracelet on Valentina Cruz's Instagram. Mirror selfie. Red lips. The diamonds catching light against her olive skin. "Dominic always did have taste 💎" A comment from someone in her circle: "Wait — are you two back together?" Her reply: "Don't jump to conclusions 😏" Now here it was. The same bracelet. In a box meant for me. Something cold settled behind my sternum. Five years, and I'd only recently learned that Valentina was his ex. The woman he'd been with before the family reshuffled and she was sent to oversee the Miami operation. No wonder he always took her calls. No wonder she always got a seat at his table during family dinners. While I took cabs home alone through streets where people disappeared for less. "What's wrong?" Dominic studied my face. "I thought you wanted it." I closed the box. "Changed my mind." His brow creased. "I'll get you something else." He turned and walked toward the bathroom without pressing further. That was Dominic — generous with gifts, stingy with attention. I watched his back disappear through the door, then looked down. The velvet box sat on top of Enzo's folder, crushing the corner. I'd left it there deliberately. Right in the center of the counter where he set his keys every night. He hadn't even glanced at it. I picked up my phone and dialed. Two rings. Enzo answered like he'd been waiting. "I'm in," I said. "Seattle." A low exhale on the other end. "Good. I'll have the papers finalized by morning. Finish whatever you need to finish here and be in Seattle by the thirty-first." "One condition." I kept my voice steady. "He doesn't find out until I'm gone." A pause. Then, quietly: "That bad?" I didn't answer. "Alright," Enzo said. "Your name stays out of every briefing until you're wheels-down in Washington. You have my word." I hung up, uncapped a pen, and signed the transfer of authority. Serafina Moretti. Every stroke carving a border he would never cross.

"Don't touch me." I yanked my arm away from the stranger's grip. He was tall, broad, jaw carved from granite, and looking at me like I was a problem he'd been hired to solve. Because he was. "Miss Castillo, I need you to stay close." His voice was low, controlled. Military-grade calm. "I don't need a babysitter." I kept walking through the hotel lobby, my heels clicking against marble. Every step felt like defiance. Every step felt necessary. "Your father disagrees." I stopped. Turned. Looked up at him with every ounce of hatred I could muster for a man I'd met exactly four minutes ago. "My father lost the right to make decisions for me when he got my mother killed." His jaw twitched. Just barely. A crack in the armor. Good. "I'm not here to discuss your family history." He stepped closer. Too close. I could smell cedar and gunpowder. "I'm here to keep you alive. Whether you like it or not." My name is Elena Castillo. My father is Victor Castillo — one of the most powerful men in Miami. Real estate mogul on paper. Something far darker underneath. Three weeks ago, someone put a bullet through our living room window. It missed me by six inches. Two weeks ago, a black SUV followed me from campus to my apartment for three consecutive days. One week ago, my father — the man I hadn't spoken to in two years — called and told me a bodyguard was being assigned to me. Non-negotiable. I told him to go to hell. He sent one anyway. Dominic Voss. Ex-military. Ex-something classified he wouldn't talk about. Built like he was designed in a lab to intimidate. Dark hair, darker eyes, a scar cutting through his left eyebrow that made him look like he'd already survived the apocalypse. He was cold. Professional. Looked at me like I was a package to deliver, not a person. I hated him immediately. "Here's how this works," he said, matching my stride as I headed toward the elevator. "I go where you go. I stand where I stand. You don't leave my sight." "Here's how this actually works," I shot back, jabbing the elevator button. "I have a life. Classes. Friends. A job. I'm not rearranging any of it for you." The elevator doors opened. I stepped in. He followed. The doors closed and suddenly the space felt very, very small. He stood beside me, facing forward. Not looking at me. "You have a threat on your life, Miss Castillo. This isn't a negotiation." "Everything is a negotiation." I stared at the climbing numbers above the door. "And stop calling me Miss Castillo. It makes me feel like I'm being arrested." "What would you prefer?" "Elena. Or nothing. Preferably nothing, since I'd prefer you didn't speak to me at all." A pause. Then — was that a smile? No. Just a shift in his jaw. Gone before I could confirm it. The elevator opened on the fourteenth floor. The penthouse suite my father had rented for me because apparently, my studio apartment near campus wasn't "secure enough." I hadn't agreed to any of this. I walked into the suite and turned to face him, blocking the doorway with my body. "You're not sleeping in here." "Adjoining room." He nodded toward the door to the left. "I'll be ten feet away at all times." "That's creepy." "That's the job." We stared at each other. A silent war. His eyes dropped to my lips for half a second. Then snapped back up. My stomach flipped. I crushed the feeling immediately. "Goodnight, Mr. Voss." "Lock the door, Elena." He said my name like it cost him something. I shut the door, leaned against it, and exhaled. Then I heard his voice through the wall, low and quiet, talking to someone on the phone. "Yeah, I'm in position. There's a problem though." A pause. "She looks exactly like her mother." My blood went cold. How did he know what my mother looked like?

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