Evelyn

The hospital room was too bright, too sterile. I lay in bed, exhausted beyond words, staring at the ceiling tiles. Twelve hours of labor. Twelve hours of fighting to bring my daughter safely into this world, two months before she was ready.

The door opened, and I tensed, turning my head with effort.

Damon walked in, still wearing yesterday's clothes. His tie hung loose around his neck, his hair disheveled. And there, on his collar—a smudge of pink lipstick that might as well have been written in blood.

My stomach knotted at the sight. He hadn't even bothered to change. Or to shower. Or to hide the evidence.

He stopped at the foot of my bed, hands in his pockets, keeping his distance like I was contagious.

"I heard you gave birth this morning," he said, his voice flat. "Congratulations."

That single word hung in the air between us. Congratulations. As if I'd just aced an exam or won a small lottery. Not like I'd spent half a day fighting for our baby's life while he was somewhere else. With someone else.

"Where have you been?" I asked. My voice came out as a raspy whisper after hours of screaming through contractions. "I could have died if it weren't for Luis."

He blinked. "Luis?"

"The gardener," I clarified. "He's the one who brought me to the hospital. He's the one who stayed until they took me into delivery."

Damon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, almost looking uncomfortable for a split second. But he didn't answer my question. Didn't explain why he'd ignored my calls all night. Didn't even ask about his own daughter.

"I had a freaking premature birth," I said, each word sharper than the last, "all because I'm marked by a cheating mate..." My voice broke, tears spilling down my cheeks. "And all you can say is congratulations?"

Something flashed in his eyes—anger, maybe, or just annoyance at being inconvenienced by my emotions.

"I have no time to exchange words with you, Evelyn." He straightened his tie, a gesture so normal it felt wrong in the middle of all this.

And just like that, he turned and walked away. As if I were nothing. As if our daughter were nothing.

I closed my eyes, letting the tears fall freely now. I'd known our marriage was in trouble. I'd felt his growing distance, seen the signs. But I never thought he'd abandon us when we needed him most. That wound would never fully heal, I knew. Some betrayals cut too deep.

A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. A nurse stood there, a tiny bundle swaddled in her arms.

"Someone's been missing her mama," she said softly.

As she placed my daughter in my arms, something warm stirred inside my cold, broken heart. She was so small, so fragile, her skin almost see-through. But she was fighting. Her tiny chest rose and fell with determined breaths, her miniature fingers curled into defiant fists.

"Hello, little one," I whispered, tracing the curve of her cheek with my finger. For a moment, the ache in my heart subsided, replaced by something fiercer, more powerful. I would protect her. I would give her the love her father couldn't.

It was a sad thing, to be born into a home with a father like Damon. But she would have me. And somehow, that would have to be enough.

* * *

Evelyn

"It was the gardener who took me to the hospital." The words felt strange coming out of my mouth. I stared at the thin hospital blanket covering my legs, picking at a loose thread. "Luis. The guy who mows our lawn."

Susan sat in the chair beside my bed, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She'd come straight from work, still wearing her scrubs with the little cartoon frogs on them.

"When I couldn't reach Damon..." I trailed off, not sure how to explain the fear of that moment. The panic. The pain.

Susan reached over and squeezed my hand. "Hey, it's okay." Her voice was steady, the same voice she'd used when we'd hide under blankets during thunderstorms as kids, sharing a flashlight and making up stories to drown out the thunder. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

But I did want to. I needed to. The words had been building up inside me since yesterday, threatening to choke me if I didn't let them out.

"He hung up on me, Sus." My voice was quiet. "I told him something was wrong, that the baby was coming, and he hung up. Then he wouldn't answer."

Susan's eyebrows pulled together. "Are you sure he understood what you were saying? Maybe there was bad reception, or—"

"He understood." I swallowed hard. "And then he showed up this morning with lipstick on his collar. Didn't even ask about the baby. Just said 'congratulations' like I'd won a raffle or something."

The bassinet next to us made a small noise as the baby—my daughter—shifted in her sleep. So tiny she barely took up any space in there. Her little chest rising and falling with breaths that seemed too fragile to sustain life.

Susan followed my gaze to the bassinet but quickly looked away. "I'm sorry about the landline," she said, changing the subject. "It's been acting up all week. And I had this awful migraine yesterday, couldn't even look at my phone without feeling sick." She touched my arm. "If I'd known..."

"It's not your fault." I gave her a tired smile. "You're here now."

Susan nodded, looking relieved. She glanced at her watch. "Mom and Dad send their love. They'll come by tomorrow—Dad's got that meeting with his publisher today."

Of course. Our parents were always busy with something. Dad with his books, Mom with her charity work. Susan and I had practically raised each other.

"Does she have a name yet?" Susan gestured vaguely toward the bassinet, still not looking directly at it.

"Ava," I said. "I was thinking Ava Rose."

"Pretty." Susan fiddled with the strap of her purse. "Has Damon seen her?"

"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "He left before the nurse brought her in. Honestly, I don't think he even wants to see her."

Susan's expression was hard to read. "Things have been bad between you two for a while now, haven't they?"

I nodded, memories flashing through my mind: dinner tables with only one place set, nights waiting up for him only to fall asleep alone, the growing distance I couldn't seem to bridge no matter what I tried.

"I think he's cheating on me," I said finally. The words didn't hurt as much as I expected. Maybe because I'd known it for months, felt it in the mate bond that once connected us but now felt stretched thin and frayed. "I can feel it... here." I touched my chest, just over my heart. "But I don't know who it is."

Something flickered in Susan's eyes, there and gone too fast to catch. She shifted in her seat, her hand slipping from mine.

"You want me to find out?" she asked, her voice controlled.

"Would you?" I leaned forward, desperate for any help, any ally in this mess my life had become. "You've always been good at getting people to talk. Maybe you could..."

"I'll handle it," Susan said, cutting me off. She stood abruptly, smoothing down her scrubs. "But Evelyn, you need to prepare yourself. Confronting a cheating mate rarely ends well." She didn't quite meet my eyes. "Let me talk to him first, okay? Maybe I can get through to him."

Relief flooded through me. "Thank you," I said, reaching for her hand again. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Susan squeezed my fingers, but it felt mechanical, like she was going through the motions. "I should go. Early shift tomorrow."

"Already? But you just got here."

"I'll come back tomorrow, I promise." She gathered her things, pausing at the door. "Try to get some rest. You look exhausted."

Before I could respond, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

The room felt emptier, quieter without her. Outside the window, afternoon was sliding into evening, long shadows stretching across the hospital parking lot. I could see people going about their normal lives, getting into cars, heading home to families who were waiting for them.

Ava made a small sound, and I turned to look at her, really look at her for the first time since the nurses had cleaned her up and placed her in my arms. She had my nose, I thought. Maybe Damon's chin. Her skin was still wrinkled and red, her eyes unfocused when they opened briefly.

Would he ever look at her? Would he ever hold her and feel that rush of love I'd felt, even through the haze of pain and exhaustion?

I touched my stomach, still swollen and tender. Everything hurt—my body, my heart, my pride. But looking at Ava, I felt something else too. Something stronger than the pain.

"We'll be okay," I whispered to her, not entirely sure I believed it.

I got used to the 3 AM quiet. The particular stillness of the house when everyone else was asleep and it was just me and Ava in the yellow glow of her nursery lamp. Her tiny fingers would curl around mine while she nursed, and I'd watch shadows play across the ceiling, wondering where Damon was sleeping.

He came home less and less. When he did appear, it was only to shower and grab fresh clothes before disappearing again. One evening, I found him standing in the doorway of the nursery I'd spent months decorating—the clouds I'd painted on the ceiling, the bookshelf filled with stories I remembered from childhood. He looked at it all like he was seeing a stranger's house, then silently moved his remaining things to the guest room down the hall.

I tried to talk to him once, catching him in the kitchen early one morning.

"She has your eyes," I said, watching him pour coffee into a travel mug.

He stared at me for a long moment, then screwed the lid on his mug and walked out without responding.

Susan visited every few days, bringing takeout and watching bad reality TV with me while Ava slept. She never mentioned Damon, and I stopped asking if she'd talked to him. The answer was in the growing distance between us, in the cold silences that filled our home.

I was changing Ava one morning when my phone buzzed with a text.

Need Q3 projections for board meeting. Bring to office ASAP. - Marissa (That was Damon's assistant)

I stared at the message, my pulse quickening. This was the first real connection to Damon in weeks—even if it was through his assistant.

"What do you think, Ava?" I asked, tickling her belly. "Should we go see Daddy at his office?"

She blinked at me, uncomprehending but beautiful.

Twenty minutes later, I'd found the folder in his home office and was heading to the kitchen, an idea forming. The chicken porridge I'd made yesterday was still in the fridge—his favorite. I packed a container carefully, adding a sprig of parsley the way he liked.

"Maybe this is our chance," I told Ava as I strapped her into her carrier. "Maybe seeing you, seeing us... maybe it will remind him of what's important."

The hope was small, fragile, probably foolish. But it was all I had left to hold onto.

* * *

Evelyn

Outside Damon's office building, the late morning sun turned the glass façade into a wall of fire. I stood on the sidewalk, Ava's carrier heavy in one hand, the bag with his documents and food in the other, wondering if I'd made a mistake coming here.

This is ridiculous. I'm his mate and the mother of his child. I shouldn't be afraid to walk into his office.

But my heart hammered against my ribs anyway, a trapped bird beating against its cage.

The security guard at the front desk recognized me, his eyes brightening. "Luna Evelyn! It's been weeks." His gaze dropped to the carrier, and his smile widened. "And this must be the little one."

"Yes, this is Ava," I said, grateful for the warmth in his voice after weeks of Damon's cold silence.

"The Alpha will be pleased to see you both," he said, buzzing me through.

Will he, though? I wondered, stepping into the elevator. I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall—dark circles under my eyes, hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail, wearing the first clean shirt I could find. Not exactly the put-together Luna I used to be.

As the elevator climbed, I rehearsed what I would say. I know things have been difficult between us. I want us to talk. Really talk. For Ava's sake, if nothing else.

Simple. Direct. No accusations, no tears.

The elevator doors slid open on the top floor. The familiar corridor stretched before me, lined with artwork from local pack artists—Damon's way of supporting the community. I'd helped him select most of these pieces, back when he still valued my opinion.

His assistant Marissa wasn't at her desk. Unusual for her to be away, but it made things easier.

I shifted Ava's carrier to my other hand and approached Damon's office door. Through the frosted glass, I could make out shadowy movements. He was there, and he wasn't alone. Probably in a meeting.

I hesitated, then raised my hand to knock. The porridge would be getting cold.

Knock first, I reminded myself. Don't just barge in.

My knuckles rapped against the wood, three quick taps. Without waiting for a response—a habit from years of coming and going freely in his spaces—I pushed the door open.

For one suspended moment, my brain couldn't process what I was seeing. Like looking at a painting that appeared to be one thing from a distance, only to discover it was something else entirely up close.

Damon was there, yes. But he wasn't in a meeting.

He stood with his back against his desk, his shirt half-unbuttoned. And wrapped around him, her legs straddling his thigh, her hands in his hair, was a woman. They broke apart at the sound of the door, two pairs of startled eyes turning toward me.

The flask of porridge slipped from my fingers. It hit the floor with a dull thud, the lid popping off, hot food spilling across the polished hardwood.

But I barely noticed. Because the woman disentangling herself from my mate, smoothing down her skirt with practiced ease, was Susan.

My sister.

The same sister who had held my hand in the hospital. Who had promised to help me. Who had looked me in the eyes and lied.

"Why?" The word escaped me, small and broken.

Susan didn't answer. She didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. Instead, she stepped away from Damon, her chin lifting slightly, her eyes meeting mine with an emotion I couldn't name. Something cold and foreign that had no place in my sister's face.

I turned to Damon, searching. Regret or apology. Anything that would make sense of this nightmare.

"Of all people, it had to be you," I said to Susan, my voice steadier than I expected. "You, Susan. My own Sister."

In front of me, Damon's hands settled on Susan's waist, casual and possessive, as if I weren't even there. As if I hadn't just caught them in the act of betraying me in the most intimate way possible.

Susan's lips curved into something close to a smile.

My heart wasn't breaking. Breaking implied a quick, clean snap. This was a slow, excruciating compression, like being crushed from the inside out.

"How..." I swallowed, my mouth dry. "How long has this been going on?"

Damon shrugged, his eyes cold. "What does it matter? I really just don't love you anymore."

The words hit me so hard, I stumbled back a step.

"But I'm your fated mate," I whispered. "Remember when you marked me?" The night he'd claimed me, promised me forever. The first man I'd ever been with, the only man I'd ever wanted.

Something flickered in his eyes—a shadow of the man I'd fallen in love with, perhaps. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a hardness I'd never seen before.

"You can stop whatever games you're playing now and go to hell with that bastard of yours!" he spat, his voice rising. "We both know that child isn't mine."

I stared at him, uncomprehending. The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet. "What bastard?" Heat rushed to my face as understanding dawned. I glanced at Ava, sleeping peacefully in her carrier, oblivious to the ugliness around her. "You can treat me however you want, but I won't forgive you for calling my precious baby a bastard!"

Before I could think, I was moving toward him, my palm connecting with his cheek in a sharp crack that echoed through the room. The sting in my hand was strangely satisfying.

I turned to leave, my fingers closing around the door handle, desperate to escape this room, this betrayal, these people I no longer recognized.

"Wait." Damon's voice stopped me. Not gentle, not apologetic. Just cold. "Evelyn, just you wait, so I can prove to you that your bastard daughter doesn't belong to me."

I turned slowly, confusion cutting through my anger. What was he talking about?

Before I could ask, he tossed something onto the floor between us. Photographs, dozens of them, spreading across the hardwood like fallen leaves.

I didn't need to bend down to see what they showed. The images were clear enough from where I stood.

Me, or someone who looked exactly like me, in a hotel room. In bed with a stranger, his hands on my body in ways that left nothing to the imagination.

"This is not me!" I gasped, bile rising in my throat. "I can't... recall being that way with a man, I—"

Damon laughed. "Are you that dull?" he sneered. "You can't recall, huh?"

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Take another look at those pictures and think back. Deep. Where were you, seven months ago, on a Friday night of the second week?"

The question hit me like I had suddenly been poured a bucket of Ice water. Seven months ago. The timing of my pregnancy. And that specific date...

I looked to Susan instinctively, the way I'd always looked to her when I needed help. We were supposed to be in this together because I was with her that same night.

That night when we'd gone out for drinks. When I'd woken up the next morning in a hotel room with no memory of how I'd gotten there. Susan had been there too, had assured me nothing happened, that we'd just had too much to drink and decided to get a room instead of driving home.

"Susan..." I began, reaching for the one person who could corroborate my story, who knew I would never cheat on Damon.

But Susan stepped away, her eyes cold. "Don't expect me to cover your dirt for so long. My conscience is beginning to judge me."

She brushed past me, heading for the door. As she passed, she leaned close, her lips nearly touching my ear.

"That look of your blood boiling over just makes me happy," she whispered, her breath warm against my skin. "Now let's see who becomes Luna between us."

My blood ran cold. This wasn't just an affair. It was a calculated takedown. By my own sister.

I turned to face Damon, the man I'd once believed would love me forever. The stranger who now looked at me with contempt.

"I want a divorce," I said, the words clear and final.

In that moment, with the weight of their betrayal pressing down on me, it was the only truth I had left.

* * *