The scent of lemon polish filled my modest apartment as I wiped down the kitchen counter, my mind a thousand miles away from the mundane task. Hattie's latest sketches from Paris were pinned to the refrigerator—beautiful charcoal drawings that made my heart swell with pride. My daughter had inherited the Bradley artistic sensibilities despite our modest lifestyle, a thought that brought both comfort and regret.

My phone vibrated against the counter, the screen flashing an unknown number. I almost ignored it, but something compelled me to answer.

"Hello, is this Adele Scott?" The voice was crisp, professional—the kind that belonged to someone accustomed to authority.

"Yes, this is she." I set down my cloth, a flicker of unease dancing through me.

"This is Victoria Hayes, Headmistress of the Metropolitan Arts Academy." She paused, and I could hear papers shuffling in the background. "I'm calling regarding your daughter, Hattie Scott."

My heart stuttered. "Hattie? Is everything alright?"

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Scott. I regret to inform you that Hattie has been expelled from our program effective immediately."

The world tilted sideways. "Expelled? That's impossible. Hattie is in Paris on a scholarship. She's been there for months."

"Mrs. Scott, I have Hattie Scott right here in my office. She's been attending classes here in New York under your family name."

My hand trembled so violently I had to grip the counter for support. "That's not possible. Someone is using her identity."

"Nevertheless," Hayes continued, her voice cooling several degrees, "the expulsion stands. Plagiarism and behavioral misconduct are taken very seriously at our institution. Please come to the academy immediately to discuss this matter further."

The line went dead before I could respond.

I stood frozen in my kitchen, the phone still pressed to my ear. This had to be a mistake—a terrible, bizarre mistake. Hattie had been in Paris since January, studying at the École des Beaux-Arts. I'd spoken to her just yesterday.

Something cold and terrible settled in my stomach as I grabbed my keys.

---

The Metropolitan Arts Academy loomed before me, its limestone facade gleaming in the afternoon sun. Students clustered on the steps, their portfolios tucked under arms, laughing and chatting—normal teenagers living normal lives.

I hurried through the entrance, following signs to the administrative offices. My heart hammered against my ribs as I approached the Headmistress's door.

"Mrs. Scott?" Victoria Hayes looked up from her desk, her expression a mixture of surprise and confusion. "You're not—"

"I'm Adele Scott," I interrupted, my voice steadier than I felt. "Hattie's mother."

Hayes blinked, clearly flustered. "But then who is—"

I followed her gaze through the glass partition into the adjacent office. A young girl sat hunched over a desk, her dark hair falling forward as she scribbled on a form. Something about her struck me as vaguely familiar—the tilt of her head, the way she held her pen.

And then I saw her.

Alexia Mitchell. The woman Jackson had introduced as his "widowed cousin" at last year's pack gathering. The woman whose "struggling family" he'd been "helping support" with money that should have gone to Hattie's education.

She was signing documents with a flourish, her signature flowing across the page: *Alexia Scott*.

The room spun around me as realization crashed down like a physical blow. Jackson's "business trips." The late-night calls. The mysterious withdrawals from our account.

"Oh my God," I whispered, my fingers instinctively reaching for the mate mark on my neck—that sacred bond that now felt like a brand of my own stupidity.

---

"Excuse me," I said, my voice barely audible as I pushed open the door to the inner office.

Alexia looked up, her perfectly manicured hand freezing mid-signature. For a split second, her eyes widened in recognition before narrowing with calculated malice.

"Well, well," she purred, rising from her chair. "If it isn't the discarded wife."

The girl—Nia—looked between us, confusion clouding her features.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, my voice shaking with rage. "Why are you signing documents as Mrs. Scott?"

Alexia's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Because that's who I am now. Jackson's true, lawful Luna."

The door burst open behind me. Jackson strode in, his Alpha aura flaring aggressively, filling the small space with suffocating pressure.

"What is going on here?" he snarled, his eyes locking onto mine with cold fury.

Before I could speak, he turned to Hayes and the small crowd that had gathered outside the glass office.

"I apologize for this disruption," he said smoothly, his voice carrying the unmistakable resonance of an Alpha command. "This woman is a delusional stalker—a former employee who became obsessed with me after I fired her."

His arm wrapped possessively around Alexia's waist as he continued, "This is my wife, Alexia Scott. My true mate and the mother of my daughter."

The floor seemed to drop away beneath me as he looked directly at me and added with venomous precision:

"And you, Adele, need to leave before I call security."

The words hung in the air like poison. Jackson's eyes gleamed with malicious triumph as he stood there, his arm still wrapped around Alexia's waist.

"I need to show you something," I said, my voice trembling as I reached for my purse. "My ID, our marriage certificate—"

Before I could finish, Jackson's hand shot out, gripping my wrist with bruising force. Pain lanced up my arm as he twisted, his fingers digging into my skin.

"You're not showing anyone anything," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "You're leaving. Now."

I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. "Jackson, please—"

"Mother, stop embarrassing yourself," he said loudly enough for everyone to hear, his voice dripping with contempt. "Everyone can see what you're doing."

Then, without warning, he shoved me backward. I stumbled, my heel catching on the carpet, and fell hard onto the marble floor of the lobby. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs, pain shooting through my tailbone as I landed in front of a crowd of horrified students and parents.

"Look at her," Jackson announced, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent space. "This is what happens when you can't accept reality."

I struggled to sit up, my palms stinging from scraping against the floor. Tears blurred my vision as I looked around at the faces watching me—some shocked, others whispering behind their hands.

"I think we need to make this official," Jackson said, his voice taking on the formal cadence that made my blood run cold. He stepped forward, towering over me as I remained sprawled on the floor.

"I, Jackson Scott, Alpha of the Northern Ridge Pack, reject you, Adele Bradley, as my mate." His words cut through me like physical blows. "You are unworthy of my pack, unworthy of my name, unworthy of anything but the pity you so desperately seek."

The rejection wasn't real—we were still bonded—but the public humiliation was excruciating. My wolf howled inside me, the pain of his false rejection burning through our connection.

"Security!" Jackson called, his voice echoing through the lobby. "Remove this woman immediately."

Two men in dark suits appeared, their movements too fluid, too precise. Werewolves. Of course he'd have his own security here.

They reached for me, rough hands grabbing my arms. I cried out as they hauled me toward the exit, my feet barely touching the ground.

"Let me go!" I struggled against their grip, but it was useless. "Jackson, please! We're still mated—you can't do this!"

His laughter followed me as they dragged me through the doors. "Watch me."

---

A screech of tires cut through the chaos. A sleek silver sports car had pulled up to the curb, its engine still rumbling. The driver's door flew open, and a man leapt out, moving with the fluid grace of someone born to power.

"Get your hands off her!" The voice was deep, commanding—and achingly familiar.

Elliot. My brother.

He charged through the doors, his normally perfect appearance disheveled, as if he'd rushed here straight from a business meeting. His eyes, so like our father's, blazed with fury as he took in the scene.

"Elliot," I gasped, hope surging through me. "Help me!"

One of the security guards tightened his grip on my arm. "Stay out of this, buddy. This doesn't concern you."

Elliot didn't hesitate. His fist connected with the guard's jaw in a sickening crack. The man released me, stumbling backward.

"Elliot, don't!" I cried out, knowing what would happen next.

Jackson appeared in the doorway, his Alpha aura flaring dangerously. "Well, well. The family circus has arrived."

He looked Elliot up and down, dismissively. "So this is the 'support' she's been boasting about? A weak human relative?"

Elliot stepped in front of me protectively. "I'm her brother. And you're going to pay for what you've done."

Jackson laughed, the sound cold and cruel. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

He nodded slightly, and more men appeared from inside the building—at least five of them, all with the distinctive movements of werewolves. Elliot might have the element of surprise and righteous anger on his side, but he was outnumbered.

"Elliot, run!" I screamed as they closed in.

He didn't run. Instead, he turned to me, his expression softening for just a moment. "I won't leave you again."

The first blow caught him in the ribs, a sickening thud that made me cry out. He grunted but stayed standing, blocking another punch aimed at my head.

"Stop!" I begged as they surrounded him. "Please, Jackson! This isn't necessary!"

Jackson watched with detached amusement as his men closed in on my brother. "This is exactly what's necessary," he said calmly. "No one threatens what's mine."

Elliot took another heavy blow to the stomach, doubling over but still managing to land a solid punch on one of his attackers. Blood trickled from his split lip as he straightened, breathing heavily.

"You're nothing but a coward," he spat at Jackson. "Hiding behind your goons."

Jackson's smile widened as he watched Elliot struggle. "And you're nothing but a dead man walking."

The sound of sirens cut through the chaos like a blade. Everyone froze, including the guards who were still pummeling Elliot. The wail of approaching vehicles grew louder, and then suddenly, six identical black SUVs screeched to a halt outside the academy entrance, forming an imposing barrier.

"What the hell is this?" Jackson muttered, his confidence faltering for the first time.

The doors opened in perfect synchronization. A dozen men in pristine black suits emerged, moving with military precision. They weren't just bodyguards—they were an army.

And then he appeared.

My father.

Wells Bradley stepped out of the central vehicle, his tall frame radiating the kind of authority that made presidents and prime ministers tremble. His silver hair caught the afternoon light as he surveyed the scene, his eyes—so like mine—taking in every detail with surgical precision.

"Father?" The word escaped my lips before I could stop it.

He turned toward me, and for a moment, his formidable facade cracked, revealing something raw and vulnerable. Then he was moving, cutting through the crowd with the natural grace of a man who owned half of Manhattan.

"Adelaide." He reached me in three long strides, his hands gentle as they helped me to my feet. The touch of his fingers against my bruised wrist made me wince, and his expression darkened. "Who did this to you?"

Before I could answer, he turned slowly, deliberately, toward Jackson. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"You," he said, his voice soft but carrying the weight of a thousand boardroom executions. "You have assaulted the heiress of the Bradley Corporation. My daughter."

Jackson's face drained of color so quickly I thought he might faint. "Your... daughter?"

"Allow me to clarify," my father said, his tone glacial. "This is Adele Bradley, sole heir to the Bradley fortune and chairwoman of the Bradley Foundation. Not whoever you claim she is."

The crowd collectively gasped. Even Headmistress Hayes took a step back, her eyes widening as she reassessed the situation.

"Mr. Bradley," she stammered, "I had no idea—"

"Clearly," he interrupted, not taking his eyes off Jackson. "Which is why my legal team will be speaking with you shortly."

Jackson's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "There's been a misunderstanding," he finally managed, attempting to summon his Alpha charm. "Adele and I are mated—"

"Save it for the deposition," my father cut him off, signaling to one of the suited men who stepped forward with a leather portfolio. "You're being served with a restraining order effective immediately, along with preliminary paperwork for fraud, bigamy, and assault charges totaling eight million dollars."

Jackson's eyes darted frantically around the room, searching for an escape route. "Alexia," he called, "get the car!"

But Alexia was already trying to slip away through a side door, only to find her path blocked by two of my father's security team.

"Going somewhere?" Elliot asked, wiping blood from his split lip as he joined our growing group. "You're not thinking of leaving your daughter behind, are you?"

---

The private suite at Mount Sinai Hospital was larger than my entire apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park and medical equipment that probably cost more than Jackson's annual salary.

A doctor had just finished examining my wrist—sprained, not broken—when the room emptied, leaving just me, my father, and Elliot.

The silence stretched between us, heavy with years of unspoken words.

"I'm sorry," I whispered finally, tears spilling down my cheeks. "I'm so sorry for everything."

My father sat beside me on the edge of the bed, his hand covering mine. For the first time since I was a child, I saw him cry.

"I'm the one who should apologize," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I was so determined to protect you that I drove you away. I should have trusted you to make your own choices, even the wrong ones."

Elliot sat on my other side, his arm around my shoulders. "We're family," he said simply. "Families fight, they make mistakes, but they always come back to each other."

I looked between them—these men who had dropped everything to come to my rescue—and felt something stir deep within me. A warmth I hadn't felt in years spread through my chest, and with it came a subtle shift in my awareness.

My Luna aura. The part of me I'd suppressed for so long was beginning to wake up.

"I can feel it," I whispered, placing a hand over my heart. "It's coming back."

My father smiled, squeezing my hand. "Welcome home, Adelaide."

As I leaned into his embrace, I realized that Jackson had taken everything from me—my dignity, my security, even my identity. But he had failed to take the one thing that mattered most: who I truly was.

A Bradley. And Bradleys don't break.