Bailey Michael Sarah

##Chapter 1 The funeral had barely ended when my celebrity husband brought his pregnant sister-in-law home. "My brother is gone, and she's pregnant and needs care. As a public figure, I have to be responsible." Axel Franklin—America's hottest A-list star—spoke these words like he was delivering a press statement, calm and indisputable. He carried Ella's luggage and gave her our master bedroom. And I could only watch coldly from the sidelines. The first week, she was relatively quiet. The second week, she began to infiltrate. She brought warm milk to the study, her voice soft and fragile: "Filming is so exhausting, you need proper rest." At dinner, she coughed lightly, hand pressed to her chest: "Axel, I feel a bit stuffy. Could you tell me about some interesting experiences from your shoots?" In the middle of the night, she pretended to have breathing difficulties, calling Axel into her room to sing her to sleep. I wasn't an outsider to this world—I was an investor's daughter, intimately familiar with the entertainment industry. I'd grown up surrounded by schemes and manipulation. I could see her performance was flawless, every move calculated with precision. But when I looked at Axel, his eyes held patience, even tenderness. "You'll be more comfortable if you lie on your side when you rest." As he said this, his fingers gently touched her face. My heart clenched painfully. How I wanted to remind him—I'm your wife, not her. But the words stuck in my throat, leaving only the violent pounding of my heart. Five years ago, I gave up the chance to join the board of directors for this marriage. I abandoned my edge in the financial world just to be a quiet star's wife. Now I understood—in his eyes, a pregnant sister-in-law was more worthy of his protection than I was. I walked into the study, my fingers ice-cold as I dialed the phone. "Dad." My voice trembled but held unprecedented determination. "I want a divorce." ...... On the other end of the line, Frederick James asked in a low voice: "Grace, what happened?" I told him everything that had occurred during this time. From being forced to give up our bedroom, to the milk deliveries, to Axel going into her room at midnight to comfort her... These seemingly trivial details pressed down on me like a mountain, suffocating. For five years of marriage, I'd done everything to be Axel's perfect wife. I gave up my career, accompanied him to red carpets, learned the understated style he preferred. I tried so hard to please him, only to be ignored in return. He gave all his patience and tenderness to another woman. After hearing everything, my father's tone turned cold: "Grace, I support your decision. Don't worry—the investment in Franklin Entertainment was always backed by me. I can pull out anytime. Just make whatever decision makes you happy." After hanging up, I felt an unprecedented calm. Perhaps because this disappointment had long prepared me for this moment. I looked at the haggard woman in the mirror. Over these years, I'd sacrificed everything for marriage, almost forgetting who I used to be. But starting now, I would change. That night, I slept in the study. The next morning, I walked into the kitchen. Ella was already there. She was wearing Axel's shirt. That floral shirt—I remembered it clearly. I'd personally chosen it for him, and he wore it to every awards ceremony. But now it hung loose on her frame, unable to hide her protruding belly. She hummed while making coffee, and when she saw me, she smiled slightly, as if nothing had happened. "Good morning, Grace. Didn't sleep well? I heard you slept in the study." I stared at that shirt. A dull pain shot through my chest. My voice was cold, without inflection: "Take it off." Her smile froze. "What... what?" "I said—take off the shirt." My tone was like negotiating in an investment meeting—calm, without a trace of warmth.

My aunt called me while I was stationed with the special forces, asking me to come home. She had arranged a blind date for me. The man she described sounded perfect—handsome, and the youngest CEO of a publicly listed company in the city. Before I set off, my captain took the extra step of contacting air traffic control to ensure my information would remain encrypted throughout the trip. I arrived at the airport on time as planned. However, just as I was about to check in through the exclusive channel, someone abruptly yanked me backward from behind. A bundle of cash was then flung directly at my face. "I've bought your spot in the exclusive channel. Take the money and go line up in the regular queue," a woman said, her tone dripping with arrogance. Suppressing the anger rising in my chest, I calmly asked her, "You're neither a soldier nor in an emergency. Why do you think you're entitled to use my lane?" She let out a derisive laugh at my words. "Why? Because I'm Mr. Tanke's personal secretary." She sneered, adding, "Forget the exclusive channel. If the Tanke family wants the entire runway, they'll get it." For a moment, I was stunned. Then I dialed the number my aunt had given me for my fiancé. "Your secretary claims the Tanke family is so powerful that they can bend the world to their will. Is that true?" … The call connected, but before I could finish my sentence, an automated voice interrupted, "Sorry, the number you've dialed has been disconnected…" I hadn't expected this. "Oh, pretending to make a call?" the woman taunted when she heard the busy tone from the other end. She snatched my phone out of my hand. When she saw the voicemail message on the screen, she burst out laughing mockingly. "I thought you might actually be someone important. Turns out you were bluffing with a voicemail!" "You can't even reach Mr. Tanke's private line. Who do you think you are, trying to stop me?" She tossed the phone back at me with a smirk, then turned to slap her boarding pass onto the counter in front of a visibly trembling flight attendant. "Hurry up and check me in! If Mr. Tanke's tasks are delayed because of you, your entire ground crew will be out of a job by tomorrow!" The flight attendant hesitated, clutching the boarding pass with trembling hands. She looked at me, then back at the woman, her voice breaking with distress. "Miss Wadsley, this passenger's access to the exclusive channel is indeed on record. Please don't put us in a very difficult position…" "Difficult?" The woman's expression hardened as she slammed her palm against the counter. "Do you have any idea how much the Tanke Group invests in this airport every year?" "If you can't handle this trivial matter, I'll call your general manager right now!" Watching her bully the staff simply for her own convenience made my blood boil. I stepped forward, firmly grabbing her hand just as she was about to jab a finger into the flight attendant's face. "Do you have any idea what kind of people are allowed to use this channel?" I asked coldly. "You're the first to try and take my spot." "Oh, please!" she exclaimed, clutching her stomach and doubling over with exaggerated laughter. "Wearing camouflage doesn't make you important! Did you eat too many cheap boxed meals and lose your mind?" "Do you even know who I am? I'm the personal secretary to the president of the Tanke Group. You can't afford to piss me off!" I almost laughed out loud. All this commotion, and she turned out to be nothing more than a secretary? By now, the crowd had gathered to watch the scene unfold. Snippets of conversation about the secretary reached my ears. "Is this woman out of her mind? Aubrie is one of Leo's closest confidantes…" "Last month, an airport security officer tried to check her luggage, and the next day, he was reassigned to janitorial duty." It seemed she had a reputation for abusing her position to throw her weight around. Back in the unit, even my commander would greet me with respect. And yet here I was, being disrespected by someone who lived off the scraps of her employer. I let out a cold chuckle and shot back, "If the Tanke family is as powerful as you claim, how did they raise a dog without basic manners?" Her face turned a deep shade of red. "Who are you calling a dog?! You… I'll teach you a lesson today!" She swung her Chanel bag at my head, but I easily sidestepped her and twisted her wrist in one swift motion. A sharp crack echoed as her bones shifted out of place, followed by her screams. The once-arrogant Miss Wadsley was now hopping in pain. "Let go! Ah, it hurts!" she cried out. "Now you're scared?" I leaned in close to her contorted face. "Weren't you just making a lot of noise?" Despite her grimacing in pain, I had actually eased up entirely. If I had truly intended to harm her, she wouldn't have had the chance to scream. The crowd around us grew larger, and before long, several uniformed airport staff hurried over to restore order. Seizing the opportunity, Aubrie pulled away, clutching her wrist and panting heavily. "Once I tell Mr. Tanke about this, let's see how he deals with you!" I crossed my arms and smirked. "Well, I'll be waiting."

The pregnancy test was still warm in my hand when I heard her voice coming from his office. "She's nobody, Damian. A contract wife. You married her for the merger—everyone knows that." I stopped breathing. Through the crack in the door, I could see Vivienne Laurent—his ex-fiancée, the woman whose family owned half of Manhattan—sitting on the edge of my husband's desk. Her fingers were tracing lazy circles on his jaw. And Damian wasn't stopping her. "The divorce papers are already drafted," he said quietly. "Once the Zheng acquisition closes next month, Claire's purpose is served." My knees buckled. I caught myself against the wall, the pregnancy test clattering to the marble floor. Both heads turned. Damian's face went white. "Claire—" "My purpose." The words tasted like blood. "Is that what I am? A purpose?" I looked down at the test in my hand. Two pink lines. Our baby. The one I'd been planning to surprise him with over dinner tonight—candles, his favorite wine, the tiny onesie I'd hidden in a gift box. Vivienne's eyes dropped to the test. Something flickered across her face—not guilt. Calculation. "How touching," she murmured. Damian moved toward me. "Claire, let me explain—" "Explain what?" My voice came out steady, which surprised me. Inside, everything was collapsing. "That you've been planning to throw me away? That our marriage—our life—was a transaction with an expiration date?" "It's complicated—" "It's not." I pressed my palm flat against my stomach. "It's really, really not." I turned and walked away. My heels clicked on the marble—steady, measured, each step a small act of war against the scream building in my chest. "Claire!" His footsteps behind me. Fast. "Claire, stop. You don't understand the full picture—" I spun around. "I'm pregnant, Damian." He stopped mid-stride. The color drained from his face completely. "I came to tell you we're having a baby." My voice cracked on the last word. I hated that it cracked. "And instead I find out I'm a line item on your exit strategy." Silence. Three seconds. Five. Then Vivienne appeared behind him in the doorway, her hand resting on his shoulder with practiced ownership. "Damian," she said softly. "She's emotional. Let her calm down." He didn't shake her hand off. That was the moment I knew. Not suspected. Knew. I pulled off my wedding ring. The diamond caught the hallway light—three carats, princess cut, chosen with such care that I'd cried when he put it on my finger. I set it on the hall table beside the vase of peonies I'd arranged that morning. "Claire, don't—" "The merger closes in four weeks," I said. "I'll stay until then. For the contract. Because unlike you, I keep my word." I walked to the guest bedroom, closed the door, and locked it. Then I sank to the floor, pressed both hands against my stomach, and made a promise to the life growing inside me. I will never let anyone make you feel like a transaction. I will never let anyone throw you away. And your father will spend the rest of his life understanding exactly what he lost tonight. Through the door, I heard Damian's footsteps. He stood outside for eleven minutes. I counted. He didn't knock. He never knocked. That was the problem.

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.

The first time Dominic Ashford ever looked at me—really looked at me—was when his son was dying and I was the only bone marrow match on earth. He stood in my doorway at 2 AM, soaking wet, holding a medical report like a man holding a grenade. "You need to come to the hospital. Now." No "please." No "I'm sorry I threw you out like garbage six months ago." No mention of the fact that the last words he'd said to me were: "You were never his mother. You were the help." I looked at the man I'd loved for four years. The man whose son I'd raised since he was ten days old. The man who'd fired me from my own life because his real wife came back. "Luca's dying?" I asked. His jaw tightened. "It's leukemia. Acute. You're the only match." I felt the ground tilt beneath me. Luca. My baby. The child I'd rocked through fevers and nightmares, whose first word was "Mama" and he'd been looking at me when he said it. The child Dominic's ex-wife Serena had abandoned at birth, then waltzed back to claim when Dominic's net worth hit the Forbes list. The child I was legally banned from seeing because Serena got a restraining order calling me "the obsessed nanny." I wanted to scream yes. I wanted to run to that hospital barefoot. But I looked down at my own hands. The IV bruise was still fresh on my left wrist. The discharge papers from my own oncologist were still on the kitchen counter. Dominic didn't know. Nobody knew. Because six months ago, when I'd been thrown out with nothing—no severance, no reference, no right to even say goodbye to Luca—I'd collapsed in a subway station. The diagnosis came three weeks later. Stage 2 lymphoma. The danger of donating bone marrow with active lymphoma wasn't just risky. It could kill me. And it would definitely end my own treatment window. I looked at Dominic's desperate face and felt something I never thought I'd feel toward him. Nothing. "Your wife told me I was never Luca's mother," I said quietly. "She told me I was 'the help.' You agreed." "Clara—" "My name is Iris." He flinched. Like he'd genuinely forgotten. Like the woman who'd raised his son for three and a half years was so interchangeable he couldn't keep the names straight. "Iris. Please. He's asking for you. He won't stop crying." My heart cracked down the center. But I didn't move. "Where's Serena? She's his biological mother. Test her." "She's not a match." His voice broke. "No one in my family is. No one on any registry. Just you." "The danger is—" "I'll give you anything. Money. The penthouse. Whatever you want." There it was. The Ashford solution to everything. Throw money at the problem. Buy the woman. Discard her when finished. I reached behind me and picked up the oncology report from my counter. I held it out to him. "Read this." He took it. His eyes scanned the page. I watched the color drain from his face in real time. "You have cancer?" "Yes." "Since when?" "Since about two weeks after you threw me out." He looked up at me. For the first time in four years, Dominic Ashford looked like he might fall apart. "If I donate to Luca," I said, "I lose my treatment window. My survival rate drops from 80% to under 30%." I let that settle. "So you're not here to ask me for a favor, Dominic." "You're here to ask me to die for you." The rain hammered the windows. He said nothing. And in that silence, I realized he hadn't come to deny it. He'd come hoping I'd volunteer. Because that's what I'd always done, wasn't it? Sacrifice everything. Ask for nothing. Disappear when convenient. What Dominic didn't know was that I'd already made my decision before he knocked. I'd made it the moment I heard Luca's name. I just wasn't going to make it easy for him. Not this time.

The first time Dominic Ashford ever looked at me—really looked at me—was when his son was dying and I was the only bone marrow match on earth. He stood in my doorway at 2 AM, soaking wet, holding a medical report like a man holding a grenade. "You need to come to the hospital. Now." No "please." No "I'm sorry I threw you out like garbage six months ago." No mention of the fact that the last words he'd said to me were: "You were never his mother. You were the help." I looked at the man I'd loved for four years. The man whose son I'd raised since he was ten days old. The man who'd fired me from my own life because his real wife came back. "Luca's dying?" I asked. His jaw tightened. "It's leukemia. Acute. You're the only match." I felt the ground tilt beneath me. Luca. My baby. The child I'd rocked through fevers and nightmares, whose first word was "Mama" and he'd been looking at me when he said it. The child Dominic's ex-wife Serena had abandoned at birth, then waltzed back to claim when Dominic's net worth hit the Forbes list. The child I was legally banned from seeing because Serena got a restraining order calling me "the obsessed nanny." I wanted to scream yes. I wanted to run to that hospital barefoot. But I looked down at my own hands. The IV bruise was still fresh on my left wrist. The discharge papers from my own oncologist were still on the kitchen counter. Dominic didn't know. Nobody knew. Because six months ago, when I'd been thrown out with nothing—no severance, no reference, no right to even say goodbye to Luca—I'd collapsed in a subway station. The diagnosis came three weeks later. Stage 2 lymphoma. The danger of donating bone marrow with active lymphoma wasn't just risky. It could kill me. And it would definitely end my own treatment window. I looked at Dominic's desperate face and felt something I never thought I'd feel toward him. Nothing. "Your wife told me I was never Luca's mother," I said quietly. "She told me I was 'the help.' You agreed." "Clara—" "My name is Iris." He flinched. Like he'd genuinely forgotten. Like the woman who'd raised his son for three and a half years was so interchangeable he couldn't keep the names straight. "Iris. Please. He's asking for you. He won't stop crying." My heart cracked down the center. But I didn't move. "Where's Serena? She's his biological mother. Test her." "She's not a match." His voice broke. "No one in my family is. No one on any registry. Just you." "The danger is—" "I'll give you anything. Money. The penthouse. Whatever you want." There it was. The Ashford solution to everything. Throw money at the problem. Buy the woman. Discard her when finished. I reached behind me and picked up the oncology report from my counter. I held it out to him. "Read this." He took it. His eyes scanned the page. I watched the color drain from his face in real time. "You have cancer?" "Yes." "Since when?" "Since about two weeks after you threw me out." He looked up at me. For the first time in four years, Dominic Ashford looked like he might fall apart. "If I donate to Luca," I said, "I lose my treatment window. My survival rate drops from 80% to under 30%." I let that settle. "So you're not here to ask me for a favor, Dominic." "You're here to ask me to die for you." The rain hammered the windows. He said nothing. And in that silence, I realized he hadn't come to deny it. He'd come hoping I'd volunteer. Because that's what I'd always done, wasn't it? Sacrifice everything. Ask for nothing. Disappear when convenient. What Dominic didn't know was that I'd already made my decision before he knocked. I'd made it the moment I heard Luca's name. I just wasn't going to make it easy for him. Not this time.

I signed the divorce papers at my own anniversary party—while my husband slow-danced with his ex-girlfriend under chandeliers I'd chosen myself. The pen was steady. My mascara was not. Three years of marriage—and I discovered I was invisible in a room of three hundred people who called me Mrs. Moretti. I'd excused myself to the bathroom at ten. On my way back, I passed Luca's private office—door cracked open, his lawyer inside, murmuring into a phone. "...yes, papers are drafted. He wants it finalized after tonight. Clean break. Valentina's been briefed." I stood frozen in the hallway, champagne going flat in my hand. Divorce papers. Drawn up before our anniversary party even started. I walked into that office after the lawyer left. Found the documents on the desk. Two copies. Yellow tabs marking every line where I was supposed to sign. So I signed. Every page. Every tab. Every clause that read Sienna Moretti née Calloway agrees to dissolve... Then I set down the pen, returned to the ballroom, and watched my husband pull Valentina Ricci closer on the dance floor—his lips at her temple, his hand on her waist—while three hundred guests pretended not to see. No one looked at me. Not one person. I picked up my clutch and slipped out the service entrance. January air hit my face. Cold. Merciless. New York at midnight. I pressed my hand against my stomach—still flat. Not for long. Six weeks pregnant. With the child of a man who'd already drafted my exit. I hailed a cab. "Grand Central," I told the driver. He glanced in the rearview mirror—a woman in a twelve-thousand-dollar gown, mascara streaked, standing coatless on the curb outside a building full of Manhattan's most dangerous men. "You okay, lady?" "Never better." I pulled out my phone and dialed the only number I had left. "Aunt Celeste? It's Sienna." "Baby, it's midnight—what's wrong?" "I need somewhere to go. Can I come to you?" A pause. Then, softly: "What did he do?" And that was the question that broke me—because when someone asks what happened with genuine love in their voice, after three years of no one asking at all, something inside you just... shatters. "He was never mine," I whispered. "I think I always knew. I just didn't want to see it." "I'm looking up trains right now. Don't argue." "Okay." "And Sienna?" "Yeah?" "You are never going back to that family. You hear me?" I ended the call and watched the city shimmer through my tears. Somewhere behind me, in a ballroom full of killers and silk, my husband was waltzing with the woman he'd loved since before I existed. And the worst part? He hadn't noticed I'd left. He wouldn't notice until morning—when he reached for the coffee I always made him and found only silence.

The pregnancy test showed two lines. I stared at it for a long time, sitting on the cold bathroom floor of the hotel suite my husband had booked for my thirtieth birthday. Two lines. A baby. I wanted to cry from happiness. Alexander and I had been trying for three years. Three years of hormone injections, failed IVF cycles, and quiet grief that we never spoke about in daylight. I pressed the test against my chest and whispered, "Finally." I couldn't wait to tell him. The birthday dinner downstairs could wait. This was the only gift that mattered. I fixed my makeup, tucked the test into my clutch, and took the elevator down to the hotel's rooftop garden, where two hundred guests were waiting to celebrate my birthday. Alexander had planned everything himself. That's what his assistant told me. Every flower, every song on the playlist, every name on the guest list — he had personally approved. The elevator opened. The rooftop was stunning. Fairy lights hung like stars. A string quartet played Debussy. Roses everywhere — white ones, my favorite. But I didn't see Alexander. I scanned the crowd. His business partners, our mutual friends, my college roommates — everyone was here. Everyone except my husband. And my sister. I texted him: Where are you? I have something amazing to tell you. No reply. I found his assistant, Luke, by the bar. He was sweating even though the night air was cool. "Where's Alexander?" Luke wouldn't meet my eyes. "He — he stepped away for a moment. Business call." "On my birthday?" "You know how he is, Mrs. Sinclair. He'll be back before the toast." Something cold settled in my stomach. Not suspicion — not yet. Just the instinct that comes from loving someone for twelve years and knowing when the air around them changes. I smiled at Luke. "Which room is he in? I'll surprise him." Luke's face went white. "I — I don't think—" "Luke." He swallowed. "Suite 1207." I walked toward the elevator, clutching the pregnancy test in my purse like a grenade. Suite 1207 was on the floor directly below the rooftop. I could still hear the music above me as I walked down the corridor. The door was ajar. Not open. Not closed. Just slightly ajar, as if someone had been in too much of a hurry to shut it properly. I pushed it open. The first thing I saw was the dress. It was red. Valentino. I recognized it because I had bought it. I had bought it for my younger sister, Clara, for her twenty-fifth birthday last month. It was on the floor. The second thing I saw was Alexander's watch on the nightstand. The Patek Philippe I had given him on our tenth anniversary, engraved on the back: A & Vivienne, until every star burns out. The third thing I saw was them. My husband and my sister, tangled together on the white hotel sheets, so consumed by each other that they didn't even hear me open the door. Clara's head was thrown back. Alexander's mouth was on her throat. Her fingers were in his hair — the same hair I had stroked this morning when I kissed him goodbye. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I stood there and felt something inside me simply — switch off. Like a light in a room no one was using anymore. Clara saw me first. Her eyes went wide. She shoved Alexander's shoulder and whispered, "Alex — Alex, stop—" He looked up. For exactly one second, my husband looked at me with the expression of a man who had been caught, and in that second, I searched his face for guilt, for horror, for the devastation I was feeling. What I saw instead was annoyance. He was annoyed that I had interrupted them. I closed the door quietly, the way you close a door when someone is sleeping and you don't want to wake them. Then I walked back to my own birthday party, sat down at the head table, and placed the pregnancy test face-down beside my wine glass. Two hundred guests were waiting for the toast. So I raised my glass and smiled. "Thank you all for coming tonight. This has been the most unforgettable birthday of my life." And I meant every word.