Navarro Tim Turtle

I watched my own funeral from the back row, and my husband didn't shed a single tear. But when she walked in—the woman who poisoned me—he wept like a child. "Sienna," Adrian Cross choked out, pulling her into his arms in front of my casket. "I'm so glad you came. Today's been unbearable." I stood three feet away, invisible, dead, and somehow still capable of feeling my heart shatter all over again. Three days ago, I was alive. Three days ago, I drank the tea Sienna handed me with that sweet, trembling smile. "You look exhausted, Nora. Let me take care of you." I trusted her. God help me, I actually thanked her. Now I'm a ghost watching my widower comfort my murderer over my dead body. "She brought this on herself," I heard Adrian whisper into Sienna's hair. "If Nora hadn't been so jealous, so cold, none of this stress would've happened. Her heart just... gave out." My heart gave out. That's the official story. The one the coroner signed off on after Adrian made a single phone call and a very generous donation to the hospital's new wing. I drifted closer, screaming words no one could hear. It wasn't my heart, you fool. It was the digitalis she crushed into my chamomile. Check the cup. CHECK THE CUP. But there was no cup anymore. Sienna had washed it herself, weeping prettily, insisting she needed to "keep busy" to cope with her grief. The grief of the woman who killed me. Adrian guided her to the front pew, his hand pressed against the small of her back the way it used to rest against mine—back when he still pretended to love me. "I don't know how I'll survive this," Sienna murmured, dabbing her dry eyes. "You won't be alone," Adrian promised. "I'll take care of you. I should have protected you from her a long time ago." I let out a hollow laugh that echoed through a room that couldn't hear it. Protected her. From me. The wife who gave up her career, her family, and three years of her life for a man who only ever saw me as a placeholder for the woman he really wanted. I'd married Adrian Cross knowing he didn't love me. I told myself it didn't matter. I told myself I could earn it. I was wrong about so many things. But here's the one thing I was finally, terribly right about: The card tucked inside the white roses on my casket—the roses he sent—wasn't addressed to me. I floated forward and read it. "For Sienna. Stay strong. This will all be over soon. — A." This will all be over soon. The words burned into whatever was left of my soul. He'd written my funeral flowers' card to her. He'd planned for this. For an end. A cold certainty settled over me, sharper than death itself. My husband didn't just fail to save me. My husband knew.

The man I married three years ago was standing at the altar. But he wasn't marrying me. I stood frozen in the cathedral doorway, my hand pressed against my stomach—against the secret growing inside it—and watched my husband, Damien Cross, slide a diamond onto another woman's finger. "You may kiss the bride," the officiant said. And Damien did. Slow. Tender. The way he used to kiss me when he still knew my name. I should explain. Six months ago, Damien's private jet went down over the Atlantic. They found wreckage. No body. The funeral had a closed, empty casket and four hundred people in black, and I cried until my throat bled. Then last week, my phone rang. "Mrs. Cross?" A stranger's voice. "We found your husband. He's alive." Alive. The word cracked the world open. "But there's something you need to know," the voice continued. "He doesn't remember anything. He calls himself Adrian. And he's... getting married. Tomorrow." I didn't believe it. I couldn't. So I flew across the country, walked into this cathedral, and watched the truth strangle me where I stood. It was him. The scar above his eyebrow. The way he tilted his head. The hands I'd memorized in the dark. But his eyes—when they swept the crowd and landed on me—held nothing. No recognition. No love. No us. Just a polite, distant glance at a stranger crashing his wedding. The bride turned. Beautiful. Radiant. And around her slender neck hung a thin platinum chain, and on it— My breath stopped. The ring. My engagement ring. The one Damien designed himself. The one he slid onto my finger by the lake and whispered, "Until my last breath, Lena. You're the only one." It hung around another woman's throat like a trophy. "Are you a guest of the bride or the groom?" An usher touched my elbow. I opened my mouth. I'm his wife, I wanted to scream. I'm carrying his child. That's MY ring. But then Damien laughed—a real, warm, happy laugh—and pulled his new wife close, and I saw it. He was happy. For the first time in years, the man I loved looked whole. And I had a choice to make. "The groom," I heard myself whisper. "I'm... an old friend of the groom." The usher smiled and led me to a pew. I sat down, hands trembling in my lap, and watched my husband begin a brand-new life that had no room in it for me. What I didn't know yet—what would destroy us both—was that I had exactly ninety days left to live. And not a single one of them would belong to me.

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.

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 found out my husband was cheating three hours before his bodyguard pinned me to a wall and told me to stop crying. Not gently. Not kindly. He grabbed my jaw, tilted my face up, and said, "He doesn't deserve your tears. Stop giving them to him." Let me back up. My name is Sienna Cole-Ashford. Twenty-four. Trophy wife to one of Manhattan's most powerful men. The kind of marriage that looks like a fairytale on Instagram and feels like a prison sentence everywhere else. Dominic Ashford married me because my father owed him money—the kind of debt that makes people disappear. I was the payment. Nineteen years old, fresh out of my small town, handed over like currency in a designer dress. Five years later, I have a penthouse I'm not allowed to leave without permission, a closet full of clothes I didn't choose, and a husband who hasn't touched me in eight months but somehow got his assistant pregnant. I found out because she texted his phone while he was in the shower, and I was setting his coffee on the nightstand like the obedient little wife I'd been trained to be. Baby, the doctor confirmed it. 8 weeks. We need to talk about telling her. Her. Me. I'm "her" in my own marriage. I didn't scream. Didn't throw things. I set the phone down, walked to the bathroom, and sat on the cold tile floor until my legs went numb. That's where Kael found me. Kael Voss. Dominic's head of security for the past two years. Six-foot-three of cold, calculating, terrifyingly beautiful man who had never spoken more than ten words to me at a time. He was doing his evening sweep of the penthouse—something he did every night at exactly 10 PM—when he found the bathroom door open and me on the floor with mascara streaking down my face. He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't crouch down to my level or offer me a tissue. He looked at me the way a surgeon looks at a wound—clinical, precise, already calculating the damage. Then he hauled me to my feet by my arm, pressed me against the marble wall, and gripped my jaw. "He doesn't deserve your tears. Stop giving them to him." His voice was low. A growl wrapped in gravel. His thumb pressed into the hinge of my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes—pale gray, almost silver, like winter light cutting through smoke. I should have been afraid. This man carried two guns at all times and had once dragged a paparazzo down three flights of stairs by his collar. But his grip didn't hurt. It held. And for the first time in five years, someone was looking directly at me. Not through me. Not past me. At me. "Let go of me," I whispered. He didn't. "Your mascara is on my shirt," he said, still holding my face. "If your husband sees it, he'll fire me. And if he fires me—" His thumb shifted, almost a caress. Almost. "—no one will be here to stop what's coming." My breath caught. "What's coming?" Something shifted in those silver eyes. A crack in the glacier. "You don't want to know." He released me and walked out without looking back. I stood there, heart hammering, jaw burning where his fingers had been, and realized something that terrified me more than my husband's betrayal. I wanted him to come back.

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 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.