The internet is a cruel place, but Freya Wilson made it a weapon. Two days after I lost my son, I sat in the dim light of the penthouse living room, watching the hashtag #GoldDiggerMarilyn climb the trending list. Her PR team had been busy. They had edited the clinic footage, splicing the video so it looked like I had lunged at her first. In their version, I was the aggressor, and she was the victim defending her engagement.

"Don't look at it," River said, gently pulling the tablet from my hands. He placed a cup of herbal tea on the table, his movements precise and calm. Too calm.

"They think I attacked her," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "They think I deserved it."

"Not for long," River replied. He tapped a key on his laptop. "My tech team finished scrubbing the audio and enhancing the security feed ten minutes ago. We’re releasing the raw footage. All of it."

Within the hour, the narrative didn't just shift; it capsized. River didn't stop at the video. He released a simple, devastating press statement attached to a copy of our marriage license and the paternity results confirming the baby was a Hudson heir. The internet exploded. The comments under Freya’s posts turned from support to vitriol instantly. The truth was out: I wasn't a mistress. I was a grieving mother and the wife of a Lycan Prince.

But the war wasn't over.

A few days later, I stepped out of Dr. Elena Martinez’s office, feeling raw but lighter. Therapy was helping me untangle the years of manipulation Trenton had woven into my psyche. The autumn air was crisp, but a shadow detached itself from the alleyway, blocking my path to the waiting car.

Trenton.

He looked awful. His suit was rumpled, his eyes bloodshot. The news of the investigation had spooked his investors; his startup was bleeding money by the second.

"Marilyn," he barked, stepping into my personal space. "We need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you," I said, clutching my purse. My heart hammered, but it wasn't the paralyzing fear of before. It was anger.

"You need to drop this lawsuit," Trenton growled, his voice dropping into the Alpha tone he used to control me with. "I did this for us! For our love! Just drop it, Marilyn. Submit!"

The command hit me, a wave of pressure designed to force my knees to the pavement. In the past, I would have cowered. I would have begged. But today, I felt the phantom weight of River’s mark on my neck and the ghost of the son Trenton had stolen from me.

I didn't kneel. Instead, I straightened my spine. A silver-white aura—my Luna aura—flared around me, pushing back against his muddy, weak dominance.

"I am not yours to command," I said, my voice steady and cold as ice. "And there is no 'us.' You poisoned me, Trenton. You killed our children. You are pathetic."

Trenton recoiled as if I’d slapped him. Before he could recover, a low, terrifying rumble vibrated through the alley. River stepped out from behind the black SUV, his eyes flashing gold.

"Run," River said softly. "Before I forget I promised Marilyn I’d let the courts handle you."

Trenton didn't hesitate. The 'Alpha' turned and fled like a frightened pup.

The victory felt good, but the Grand Jury deposition the following week was a different kind of battle. The room was sterile, smelling of floor wax and stale coffee. For three hours, I had to relive every moment of the attack. The prosecutors asked invasive questions, dissecting my trauma.

"Mrs. Hudson, did you say anything to provoke Miss Wilson?"

Panic clawed at my throat. The walls felt like they were closing in. I couldn't breathe. Then, I felt it—a warm, golden pulse through the mate bond. River wasn't allowed in the room, but he was right outside the heavy oak doors. *I am here,* his presence seemed to say. *You are strong.*

I took a deep breath, looking the prosecutor in the eye. "I was pregnant," I stated, my voice ringing with quiet dignity. "I was happy. And they took that from me because they were jealous and cruel. That is the only provocation that matters."

When I walked out, Marcus, River’s lawyer, gave me a rare, grim smile. "They're going to indict."

But the final blow didn't come from us. It came from within their own house.

That evening, River and I were silent in the library when Marcus sent a link to a breaking news story. "Turn on the sound," River said.

Freya Wilson had spiraled. Facing jail time and public humiliation, she had gone to Trenton’s apartment to demand he fix it. When he refused, she burned the whole world down.

The audio recording was grainy, but Trenton’s voice was unmistakable.

*"You think I ever loved you?"* Trenton’s recorded voice sneered, dripping with malice. *"You’re a paranoid, clingy cow. I just needed your father’s money to fix the mess Marilyn left me in. I never wanted you, Freya. I just wanted the check."*

I stared at the screen, stunned. Freya had leaked the recording herself. She had exposed Trenton for the fraud he was, even though it meant admitting she was a fool. They were destroying each other, tearing their own throats out in a panic.

River reached over and took my hand, his thumb brushing my knuckles. "The Wilson name is ruined. Trenton is finished. It’s over, Marilyn."

I leaned my head on his shoulder, watching the news cycle churn. For the first time in forever, the silence in my head wasn't empty. it was peaceful.

The glow of the television screen painted the darkened living room in harsh, flickering blues. I sat on the edge of the sofa, a cashmere blanket wrapped tight around my shoulders, watching the fall of the untouchables.

"Breaking News," the anchor announced, her voice grave. "Freya Wilson, daughter of real estate mogul Victoria Wilson, has been taken into custody."

The footage was shaky, shot from a helicopter. It showed the sprawling Wilson estate, usually a fortress of privacy, now swarming with police cruisers. Freya was being led out in silk pajamas, her hair a chaotic mess, hands cuffed behind her back. She was screaming at the officers, her face twisted in a mask of entitled rage, but for the first time, no one was listening.

The scene cut to a grainy clip from inside a dive bar in Queens. Trenton was there, slumped over a sticky table, surrounded by empty shot glasses. When the officers grabbed him, he didn't fight. He looked small. Pathetic. The arrogant Alpha who had tormented me for years was just a drunk man in a cheap suit.

"They have them," River said softly from behind me. He placed a warm hand on my shoulder, his touch grounding me.

"I know," I whispered. I felt a grim, cold satisfaction settle in my chest, but it was hollow. Seeing them in handcuffs didn't fill the empty space in my womb. It didn't bring my son back.

That hollowness followed me into sleep. That night, the nightmare was more vivid than ever. I was back in the clinic, the smell of antiseptic choking me. I felt the shove, the hard impact of the floor, the tearing pain. I heard Freya laughing, the sound distorting into a demonic shriek.

I woke up screaming, thrashing against the sheets.

"Marilyn! I've got you. You're safe!" River was there instantly, pulling me into his chest.

I shoved him away, panic still coursing through my veins. "No! Don't look at me!" I gasped, curling into a ball. "I'm broken, River. I'm just... I'm damaged goods. You shouldn't be here. You deserve a real Luna, not this... this mess."

The air in the room shifted. The pressure dropped. River didn't argue. He didn't offer empty platitudes. Instead, there was the sound of tearing fabric and the crack of bone rearranging.

A massive, midnight-black wolf took his place on the bed. His eyes were molten gold, glowing in the darkness. He was terrifying to the world, a lethal Lycan Prince, but to me, he was home.

The wolf lowered his massive head and rested it gently on my shaking knees. He let out a low chuff, a sound that vibrated through my bones, chasing away the phantom pain. He didn't need words. His weight, his heat, his silent presence was a promise: *I am not going anywhere.*

I buried my hands in his thick fur, sobbing until the tears ran dry, anchored by the beast who loved me.

A week later, the battle moved from the bedroom to the courtroom. I wasn't strong enough to attend the pre-trial hearing, so I waited by the phone while Marcus Stone went to war.

The defense team, hired by Freya’s father, tried to bury us. They filed a motion to dismiss the medical tampering evidence, claiming the poisoned vitamins were circumstantial, that there was no proof Trenton had been the one to dose them.

But Marcus was brilliant. He didn't just bring arguments; he brought a ghost. He subpoenaed the pharmacist from my old pack—a man Trenton had bribed years ago to compound the wolfsbane into my prenatal supplements. Under oath, the man cracked.

When Marcus called that afternoon, his voice was triumphant. "The judge ruled it admissible, Marilyn. All of it. The tampering, the bribery, the history of abuse. This isn't just an assault case anymore. It's attempted murder."

We had won a major victory, but my body didn't feel like a winner. For days, a persistent nausea had been clinging to me. I blamed the stress, the trauma, the sleepless nights. But when the smell of River’s morning coffee sent me running to the bathroom to retch, a terrified thought took root.

"Dr. Chen is on her way," River said, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his face pale with worry. "Marilyn, you're burning up."

"It's just the flu," I lied, trying to convince myself. "It has to be."

It wasn't.

An hour later, Dr. Chen sat on the edge of our bed, holding a portable ultrasound device. The silence in the room was deafening. I held my breath, preparing for bad news, preparing to hear that my body had finally failed completely.

"Marilyn," Dr. Chen said softly, turning the screen toward us. "Look."

There, in the center of the grainy black and white image, was a tiny, flickering pulse.

"You're pregnant," she confirmed. "About six weeks."

The world tilted. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the joy. "No," I whispered, my hands flying to my stomach. "I can't. I can't lose another one. It's too soon. The trial... the stress..."

River dropped to his knees beside the bed. His eyes were wide, shimmering with tears and a fierce, golden light. He looked at the screen, then at me, his expression hardening into something unbreakable.

"You won't lose this one," River vowed, his voice a low growl that rumbled with the power of his Lycan blood. "Cancel everything, Marcus. Clear my schedule. I don't care about the board, I don't care about the stock price."

He took my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles, his gaze intense. "No one knows. Not the press, not the family, no one. This penthouse becomes a fortress. I will burn the world down before I let anything touch you or this pup."

I looked at the tiny flicker on the screen—a second chance, fragile and terrifying. We were going to war in the courtroom, but the most important battle was happening right here, inside me.