The private room was a monument to privilege—marble floors, silk curtains, and equipment that gleamed like jewelry under the soft lighting. Ashley lay propped against Egyptian cotton pillows, her golden hair fanned around her like a halo. She wasn't screaming. She wasn't even sweating.

She was smiling.

"The contractions stopped completely," Dr. Harrison announced, his voice warm with relief. "False alarm, as I suspected. Baby's heartbeat is strong and steady."

Brandon's shoulders sagged as if the weight of the world had been lifted from them. He pressed Ashley's hand to his lips, his eyes closed in what looked like prayer. "Thank the Moon Goddess. I couldn't bear to lose either of you."

Either of you. The words hit me like physical blows, each syllable a fresh wound. I floated there, invisible and voiceless, watching my mate lavish the kind of tenderness on another woman that he'd never shown me—not even when I'd miscarried our first pregnancy two years ago.

"You're being so dramatic," Ashley laughed, but her voice held a note of satisfaction. "It was just a little spotting. But I'm so glad you were here with me."

Three healers bustled around her bed, checking monitors, adjusting pillows, bringing her ice chips and warm blankets. The same healers who should have been fighting to save my child. The same resources that had been diverted from the Luna of this pack to coddle a Delta's phantom emergency.

A nurse entered, her expression grave. "Alpha Vanderbilt? Dr. Martinez needs to speak with you. It's about your wife."

The room fell silent. Ashley's grip on Brandon's hand tightened, her knuckles white against his skin. For a moment, something flickered across Brandon's face—guilt, perhaps, or fear. But it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

"I'll be right back," he murmured to Ashley, pressing another kiss to her forehead. "Don't worry about anything. Just rest."

I followed him into the hallway, where Dr. Martinez waited with the kind of expression that delivered life-altering news. The older man's face was drawn, his usually steady hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"Brandon, I'm sorry. We did everything we could, but—"

"No." The word exploded from Brandon's lips. "No, that's not possible. She was fine this morning. We talked about baby names over breakfast."

Liar. We hadn't had breakfast together in weeks. He'd left before dawn, claiming pack business, and hadn't returned until after I'd gone to bed.

"The ambulance crash caused severe internal trauma," Dr. Martinez continued gently. "The impact ruptured several organs. By the time they got her here, she'd lost too much blood. We couldn't save either of them."

Brandon staggered backward, his face draining of color. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him. The shock in his eyes looked genuine, the way his hands trembled as he ran them through his hair. But then Ashley's voice drifted from the room behind him.

"Brandon? Is everything alright out there?"

The sound of her calling his name was like a switch being flipped. The devastation on Brandon's face shifted, replaced by something that made my ethereal form recoil in disgust. Relief. Unmistakable, shameful relief.

"I—I need a moment," he told Dr. Martinez, but his feet were already carrying him back toward Ashley's room.

I watched him go, understanding flooding through me like poison. My death wasn't a tragedy to him—it was a solution. The inconvenient wife who'd been in the way of his true desires was gone. The child that would have tied him to responsibilities he didn't want had been eliminated. He was free.

"Brandon, you look pale," Ashley said as he returned to her bedside. "What did the doctor want?"

"Nothing important," he lied smoothly, taking her hand again. "Just some administrative stuff about the room charges."

She smiled and settled back against her pillows. "Good. I was worried it might be pack business. You work too hard, you know. When the baby comes, I want you to promise me you'll take some time off. Just for us."

"Of course," Brandon murmured, and I could see the future he was already painting in his mind. A future where Ashley's child would inherit everything that should have belonged to mine. Where she would take my place as Luna, wearing my jewelry, sleeping in my bed, ruling over the pack I'd helped him build.

The hours that followed blurred together in a haze of bitter observation. Ashley's labor progressed smoothly—too smoothly for someone who'd supposedly been in distress earlier. The healers fussed over her like she was made of spun glass, while somewhere in the basement morgue, my body grew cold on a metal table.

When Ashley's son finally arrived—healthy, pink, and screaming with indignant life—Brandon cried. Actual tears streamed down his face as he held the child, his expression soft with wonder.

"He's perfect," Brandon whispered, his voice thick with emotion I'd never heard when he spoke about our lost babies. "Absolutely perfect."

"Just like his father," Ashley said, exhausted but radiant. "What should we name him?"

"James," Brandon said without hesitation. "After my grandfather. James Vanderbilt."

Vanderbilt. He was already claiming the child, already rewriting history to make this bastard his heir. The name that should have belonged to my son—the name we'd chosen together during those brief, happy months when I'd still believed in his love.

The days that followed were a masterclass in public deception. Brandon played the grieving widower with Oscar-worthy performance. He arranged a lavish funeral, spoke movingly about our "deep love" and "tragic loss," accepted condolences with appropriately broken dignity.

But I saw the truth. I saw him slip away from my wake to take Ashley flowers in the hospital. I saw him stand at my graveside with tears in his eyes while texting her sweet messages. I watched him field concerned calls from pack members while his fingers traced patterns on Ashley's naked back.

"I can't believe she's gone," Ashley murmured one evening as they lay tangled in the sheets of a downtown hotel room. "It feels so sudden."

"These things happen," Brandon replied, his voice carefully neutral. "Car accidents. They're unpredictable."

"Still, the timing... right when I was having my scare. It's almost like fate, isn't it?"

Brandon's hand stilled on her shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing, really. Just that maybe the Moon Goddess knew we were meant to be together. Maybe she cleared the path for us."

The casual cruelty of it—the way she spoke about my death like it was a cosmic favor—sent rage coursing through my spectral form. But Brandon didn't correct her. He didn't defend my memory or honor the years we'd spent together. He simply pulled her closer and changed the subject.

Weeks turned to months, and I remained trapped, watching my life be systematically erased. Brandon moved Ashley into a penthouse apartment across town, furnished it with pieces from our home—including the antique rocking chair I'd bought for our nursery. My nursery, which he'd had gutted and converted into a home office within a month of my funeral.

The expensive organic crib, the hand-carved dresser, the mobile I'd spent hours assembling—all of it went to Ashley's son. My child's inheritance, gifted to another woman's baby while I watched helplessly from the shadows.

But the worst revelation came when I discovered the truth about Ashley's marriage. Marcus Morrison wasn't just controlling—he was broke. His construction business had failed, leaving them drowning in debt. Ashley hadn't reconnected with Brandon out of love or even lust.

She'd hunted him like prey, using their shared history and his guilty conscience to transform him into her personal ATM. And Brandon, flattered by her attention and desperate to maintain his image as the devoted Alpha, had fallen for every manipulation.

My family's money—the inheritance my grandmother had left me, the trust fund my parents had established—all of it was flowing into Ashley's accounts. Designer clothes, spa treatments, private school tuition for a child that wasn't even Brandon's.

Because James Morrison—despite his new surname—belonged to Marcus. I'd seen the medical records Ashley kept hidden in her jewelry box. The conception dates didn't lie, no matter how much she'd convinced Brandon otherwise.

The final insult came on what would have been our fifth wedding anniversary. Brandon posted a tribute on social media—a photo of us from our honeymoon, accompanied by a caption about eternal love and never forgetting. The comments poured in: condolences, heart emojis, promises of prayers.

But while his followers mourned our lost love, Brandon was in Ashley's bed, whispering promises about their future together. About the family they'd build. About the pack they'd rule side by side.

I'd thought death was the worst thing that could happen to me. I'd been wrong. This was worse—being forced to watch my life stolen piece by piece, my memory desecrated, my child's future handed to a stranger while the man I'd loved celebrated his freedom.

But as I floated there in the darkness, something began to change. The grief that had anchored me to this existence was transforming into something else. Something harder. Something that burned like ice and cut like silver.

Revenge. The word whispered through my consciousness like a prayer, and for the first time since my death, I felt something other than pain.

I felt purpose.

The months blurred together in a haze of bitter observation, each day revealing new layers of betrayal that cut deeper than the last. I watched Brandon transform from grieving widower to devoted lover with sickening ease, his public mourning nothing more than theater while his private life bloomed with stolen happiness.

But it was on a rain-soaked evening in late autumn that I discovered the most horrifying truth of all.

I had followed them to Ashley's penthouse, drawn by the same invisible thread that kept me tethered to their lies. They sat curled together on the Italian leather sofa I'd helped Brandon choose for our anniversary, sharing a bottle of wine that cost more than most pack members made in a month.

"I still can't believe how perfectly everything worked out," Ashley murmured, her fingers tracing lazy circles on Brandon's chest. "It's like the universe conspired to bring us together."

Brandon's hand stilled in her hair. "What do you mean?"

"That night at the hospital," she said, her voice soft with memory. "When I called you about the spotting. I was so scared, but having you there made everything better."

"Of course I came," Brandon replied, but there was something careful in his tone. "You needed me."

Ashley lifted her head to look at him, her blue eyes shimmering in the lamplight. "I know this sounds terrible, but... do you remember when we saw that ambulance on the way there? The one that was racing down the mountain?"

My spectral form went rigid. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, though neither of them noticed.

"Vaguely," Brandon said, but his voice had gone flat.

"I saw it coming up behind us in the mirror," Ashley continued, her tone almost dreamy. "All those flashing lights, that awful siren. And I just... I couldn't bear the thought of you being distracted by someone else's emergency when I needed you so desperately."

The wine glass in Brandon's hand trembled slightly. "Ashley—"

"So I asked you not to let it pass," she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. "I told you I was scared, that I needed you to focus only on me. And you did. You chose me over whatever stranger was in that ambulance."

The admission hung in the air like poison. Brandon set down his wine with deliberate care, his movements too controlled, too precise.

"You knew," he said quietly. "You knew it was an ambulance, and you asked me to block it anyway."

Ashley's laugh was light, musical. "I was terrified, Brandon. Pregnant women aren't exactly rational. And it worked out fine, didn't it? We got to the hospital safely, the baby was okay, and we had that beautiful night together."

"Someone could have died," Brandon said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"But they didn't," Ashley replied, though we both knew she was wrong. "Or if they did, it wasn't our fault. We had our own emergency to deal with."

Brandon was quiet for a long moment, and I watched the war play out across his features. Guilt battled with desire, responsibility with selfishness. When Ashley's tears began to fall—those perfectly timed, crystalline drops that had manipulated him from the beginning—the battle was over.

"You're right," he murmured, pulling her close. "We couldn't have known. And you needed me."

"I still need you," she whispered against his neck. "More than ever."

I wanted to scream, to tear the room apart with the force of my rage. They knew. They both knew they had condemned me and my child to death, and they were choosing to live with it. Choosing to build their happiness on the foundation of my grave.

But my fury was nothing compared to what came next.

The months that followed brought a cascade of consequences that even I, in my ghostly omnipresence, hadn't foreseen. Brandon's devotion to Ashley had made him careless with pack finances. Late nights spent in her bed meant early morning meetings missed. Important decisions deferred while he played house with his mistress and her bastard child.

The pack elders began to notice. Whispers followed Brandon through the halls of Vanderbilt Industries. Questions were asked about missing funds, about the Luna's inheritance being funneled into mysterious accounts, about the Alpha's priorities.

It all came crashing down on a Wednesday in December.

I was hovering in Brandon's office when the door burst open without ceremony. Richard Vanderbilt, Brandon's grandfather and the pack's most feared elder, strode in with the bearing of a man who'd built an empire through blood and cunning.

"Explain this," Richard snarled, throwing a manila folder onto Brandon's desk. Financial records spilled across the mahogany surface—bank statements, wire transfers, receipts that painted a picture of systematic embezzlement.

"Grandfather, I can explain—"

"Two million dollars," Richard continued, his voice deadly quiet. "Two million dollars of pack money, funneled through your dead wife's accounts into God knows where. Money meant for pack development, for the hospital expansion, for the scholarship fund Cynthia established."

Brandon's face went white. "It was temporary. I was going to pay it back—"

"With what?" Richard's laugh was sharp as broken glass. "Your salary? Your trust fund that you've already blown through? Or were you planning to steal more?"

"I wasn't stealing," Brandon protested, but his voice cracked like a teenager's. "Ashley needed help. Her medical bills, the baby's expenses—"

"Ashley Morrison," Richard said the name like a curse. "The Delta whore who's been bleeding you dry while you dishonor your mate's memory."

Brandon shot to his feet, his Alpha dominance flaring. "Don't you dare—"

"Sit down," Richard commanded, and the sheer force of his authority sent Brandon crashing back into his chair. "You pathetic excuse for an Alpha. You think I don't know about your little love nest? About the bastard child you're claiming as your heir?"

The folder hit Brandon in the chest, scattering more papers. DNA test results. Paternity reports. Medical records that proved what I'd known all along—James Morrison belonged to Marcus, not Brandon.

"She played you for a fool," Richard continued mercilessly. "And you let her. You betrayed your pack, your family, your dead wife's memory, all for a woman who's been laughing at you behind your back."

Brandon's hands shook as he stared at the evidence of his stupidity. "No. No, she loves me. She chose me—"

"She chose your bank account," Richard corrected. "And now that it's empty, how long do you think her love will last?"

As if summoned by the words, Brandon's phone buzzed. A text from Ashley: "Marcus found out about the apartment. He's coming for me. I need money to disappear. Wire $500K to the account I gave you. Please, Brandon. If you love me, you'll save me."

The phone slipped from Brandon's nerveless fingers. Richard picked it up, read the message, and smiled with cold satisfaction.

"She's already running," he said. "Probably cleaned out whatever accounts you gave her access to. Tell me, grandson, how does it feel to be discarded like garbage?"

Brandon crumpled forward, his head in his hands. The great Alpha, the man who'd killed his mate and child for a fantasy, reduced to a sobbing mess in his grandfather's office.

"You're finished," Richard declared. "The pack council will meet tonight to strip you of your title. The Vanderbilt name will survive, but you won't be part of it."

That night, as Brandon stumbled through the rain-soaked streets—cast out, broken, with nowhere to go—I felt something shift in the fabric of reality itself. My rage, my pain, my desperate need for justice had been building like a storm, and now it crackled through the air around me.

That's when I saw him.

The figure materialized from the shadows like smoke given form—an old man in tattered robes, his eyes ancient and knowing. Power radiated from him in waves, the kind of primal magic that predated packs and territories.

"Cynthia Vanderbilt," he said, and his voice carried the weight of centuries. "Your pain calls to me across the veil."

"Who are you?" I whispered, though I somehow already knew.

"A wanderer. A keeper of old bargains. A granter of impossible wishes." He smiled, revealing teeth like yellowed ivory. "You have suffered a great injustice, child. Your death was not natural, not fated. It was murder, dressed up as accident."

"I know," I said, my voice breaking. "I've watched them celebrate while my child lies cold in the ground."

"And now the one who wronged you suffers as you suffered," the witch doctor continued. "Cast out, betrayed, left to crawl through the gutter like the worm he is. The scales are beginning to balance."

I looked down at Brandon, who was pulling himself along the alley on his hands and knees, his legs too damaged from Marcus's beating to carry him. He looked like a broken animal, pathetic and small.

"It's not enough," I said fiercely. "Him suffering in this timeline doesn't undo what he did to me. Doesn't bring back my child."

The witch doctor nodded slowly. "No. But there is another way. A chance to return, to reclaim what was stolen from you. To ensure justice is served by your own hand."

My spectral heart pounded with sudden hope. "What do you mean?"

"I can send you back," he said simply. "To the moment before the crash. Give you the chance to survive, to live, to make different choices. But the price is steep."

"Name it."

"You will remember everything. Every betrayal, every moment of pain, every truth you've learned in death. You will carry that knowledge like a blade in your heart, and you will use it to cut away the lies that bound you. The mate bond that once seemed sacred—you must sever it yourself. No mercy, no second chances."

I thought of my child, of the life that had been stolen from us both. Of the years I'd wasted loving a man who'd never deserved it. Of the justice that could only come from my own hands.

"I accept," I said without hesitation.

The witch doctor smiled, and the air around us began to shimmer with otherworldly light. "Then go, Cynthia Vanderbilt. Return to the land of the living. Take back what is yours, and show them the true meaning of a Luna's wrath."

The light engulfed me, brilliant and searing, and I felt myself being pulled backward through time and space.

Deep inside, I swore to myself, this time, things would be different.

This time, I would make those who made me suffer pay.