The taxi pulled up to the familiar wrought-iron gates of my parents' Bellevue estate, and I felt my chest tighten—though whether from the accelerant coursing through my veins or the sight of home, I couldn't tell. The sprawling Tudor mansion looked exactly as it had when I was a child, all manicured hedges and pristine stonework, but now it felt like a mausoleum of everything I'd lost.

I paid the driver and walked up the cobblestone path, my heels clicking against the stones in a rhythm that matched my steadying heartbeat. Through the massive bay windows, I could see the living room's warm golden glow, and the scene inside made my steps falter.

Mira was sprawled across the cream leather sofa like a Renaissance painting, her honey-blonde hair cascading over the armrest as she watched something on the enormous flat screen. My mother, Victoria, sat perched on the sofa's edge, her perfectly manicured fingers working gentle circles into Mira's shoulders. And there was my father, Robert, sitting in his favorite wingback chair, methodically peeling grapes and placing them in a crystal bowl beside Mira's elbow.

It was such a picture of domestic bliss, so tender and familial, that for a moment I forgot I was looking at my own family. When had they ever gathered around me like that? When had my mother ever massaged away my stress, or my father ever peeled fruit for me with such careful attention?

I pushed open the front door—they never locked it during the day, a luxury of living in one of Seattle's most exclusive neighborhoods. The sound of my entrance cut through their comfortable chatter like a blade through silk.

Three heads turned toward me in perfect synchronization, and I watched their expressions shift like a time-lapse of a flower wilting. Mira's dreamy smile vanished first, replaced by something wary and calculating. My mother's hands stilled on Mira's shoulders, her face hardening into the familiar mask of disappointment I'd grown so accustomed to seeing. My father's gentle expression closed off entirely, his jaw setting in that way that meant he was bracing for conflict.

"What are you doing here?" Victoria's voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp as winter wind. She didn't bother standing, didn't offer the basic courtesy of a greeting. "I hope you've come to apologize to Mira for what happened last time."

The accusation hung in the air between us. Last time. When I'd found Mira in my home office, my carefully organized design sketches scattered across the floor, some of them cut into ribbons with my fabric scissors. She'd claimed it was an accident, that she'd been "trying to help organize" and had "accidentally" knocked over my portfolio. But I'd seen the precision of those cuts, the deliberate destruction of months of work.

When I'd confronted her, she'd burst into tears, running to my parents with stories of how cruel and accusatory I'd been. How I'd "screamed" at her and made her feel "unwelcome and unloved." By the time my parents finished lecturing me about family loyalty and giving Mira the benefit of the doubt, I'd almost started believing I was the villain in the story.

But I hadn't come here to relitigate old wounds. I'd come to end this, once and for all.

"I'm not here to argue," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I came to make an announcement."

I reached into my purse and pulled out the leather portfolio I'd prepared that morning. Legal documents, all properly notarized and witnessed, transferring complete ownership of Wynter Rose to Mira Blackwood. Every share, every asset, every trademark I'd built from nothing.

Mira's eyes widened slightly, though she tried to hide her interest behind a mask of confusion. "Scarlett, what—"

"I'm giving you the company," I said simply, setting the portfolio on the coffee table between us. "All of it. Wynter Rose is yours now."

The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway, counting down the seconds until my family processed what I'd just said. Victoria's mouth fell open slightly, her perfectly applied lipstick suddenly looking garish against her pale skin. Robert leaned forward in his chair, his forgotten grape rolling off his palm onto the Persian rug.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Victoria asked, but her voice lacked its usual bite. There was something almost hungry in her expression now, the way she looked between me and the documents.

Robert cleared his throat, his businessman instincts kicking in. "Scarlett, sweetheart, what's the catch? What do you want in return?"

I almost laughed at the question. What did I want? I wanted my family to love me without conditions. I wanted my mate to choose me over my stepsister. I wanted my son to run to me with scraped knees instead of to Aunt Mira. I wanted to live past next week.

But none of those things were for sale.

"No catch," I said, pulling out a pen. "No conditions. It's a gift."

Mira sat up straighter on the sofa, her performance of confusion slipping slightly. I caught the flash of triumph in her eyes before she quickly lowered her lashes. "Scarlett, I don't understand. Why would you—"

"Because you're better suited for it," I said, signing my name with careful precision on the transfer documents. "You studied fashion management. You have fresh ideas. And most importantly, you have everyone's support."

The words tasted like poison, but they weren't untrue. For months, I'd listened to my family praise Mira's "vision" for the company, her "innovative" suggestions that were often just rehashed versions of trends I'd dismissed years ago. I'd watched them nod along as she criticized my "outdated" business model and "rigid" creative process.

Victoria's entire demeanor shifted as I signed the final document. The coldness melted from her face, replaced by something that might have been maternal warmth if I squinted hard enough. She stood up from the sofa and moved toward me, her movements suddenly graceful and welcoming.

"Oh, Scarlett," she breathed, reaching out to take my hands in hers. The touch was foreign—when was the last time my mother had voluntarily touched me? "You've finally come to your senses. This is what's best for everyone."

Her hands were warm and soft, and for a moment, I let myself imagine this was real affection instead of relief at getting what she'd wanted all along. "Mira has such a gift for understanding people," Victoria continued, her voice gentle in a way I hadn't heard since childhood. "She'll make the company more accessible, more relatable. You were always too... intense for the fashion world."

Too intense. There it was again, that familiar refrain. My passion was intensity. My dedication was obsession. My success was somehow evidence of my failure as a woman.

"You're right," I said, and meant it in ways she'd never understand. "Mira will be perfect."

Robert had moved to examine the documents, his reading glasses perched on his nose as he scanned the legal language. "This is... comprehensive," he said, sounding almost impressed. "You've thought of everything."

Of course I had. I'd spent the morning with my lawyers, ensuring every detail was airtight. No loopholes, no way to contest the transfer later. By the time anyone realized what had really happened, it would be far too late to undo.

Mira finally stood up from the sofa, moving with that fluid grace that had always made me feel clumsy by comparison. She approached the coffee table slowly, as if the documents might bite her, but I could see the excitement thrumming beneath her careful composure.

"I don't know what to say," she whispered, but her hands were already reaching for the pen I'd set down. "This is so generous of you, Scarlett. So... unexpected."

She signed her name with a flourish, her handwriting all loops and curves where mine was sharp and efficient. Even our signatures told the story of who we were—or who everyone believed we were.

As she finished the last document, Victoria clapped her hands together like a delighted child. "We should celebrate! Robert, open that bottle of champagne we've been saving. This calls for a toast."

A toast. To my own corporate funeral, apparently.

"That's very kind," I said, standing up and smoothing down my skirt, "but I should get going. Killian is expecting me home."

It wasn't entirely true—Killian was expecting me to help Mira alter my dress, but he wasn't expecting me specifically. He probably wouldn't even notice if I sent a seamstress in my place.

I gathered my purse and moved toward the door, feeling lighter with each step. Behind me, I could hear my family's excited chatter, their voices bright with possibility and relief. They were already planning Mira's future, discussing marketing strategies and brand repositioning as if I'd never existed.

At the front door, I paused and looked back one last time. Mira was bent over the documents, adding her signature to the final page, her face glowing with satisfaction. But as I watched, she looked up and caught my eye across the room.

For just a moment, her mask slipped completely. The gratitude, the surprise, the humble confusion—all of it fell away, leaving behind something cold and victorious. She mouthed two words at me, her lips moving in exaggerated slowness so there could be no mistake:

*Thank you, loser.*

I didn't react, didn't give her the satisfaction of knowing her words had landed. Instead, I simply turned and walked out, closing the door gently behind me.

The moment the latch clicked into place, a searing pain exploded through my chest like lightning. I gasped and stumbled, my hand flying to my heart as I doubled over on the front steps. The accelerant was working faster than Dr. Chen had predicted, or maybe the emotional toll was speeding up the process.

I pressed my back against the door, breathing hard as the pain slowly subsided to a manageable ache. Through the thick wood, I could hear champagne corks popping and laughter echoing through the halls of my childhood home.

Seventy-one hours left.

I pulled out my phone and called another taxi, my fingers surprisingly steady as I dialed. As I waited for the car to arrive, I looked up at the house one last time, memorizing the way the late afternoon light caught the diamond-paned windows.

I'd given them everything they'd ever wanted from me. Now I just had to survive long enough to give the rest of it away.

The taxi dropped me off at the familiar gates of our Bellevue home, and I stood there for a moment, gathering what little strength I had left. The accelerant had dulled the worst of the pain, but I could feel it lurking beneath the surface like a predator waiting to strike.

As I approached the front door, the sound of laughter drifted through the evening air—warm, genuine laughter that I hadn't heard in our home for months. I paused with my key halfway to the lock, listening to the melody of piano notes dancing through the walls.

When I pushed open the door, the scene before me felt like stepping into someone else's life.

Killian sat at our black grand piano, his strong fingers moving gracefully across the keys while Aiden perched beside him on the bench, his small hands trying to mimic his father's movements. The coffee table was adorned with delicate pastries arranged on our finest china—tiny éclairs, perfectly piped cream puffs, and miniature tarts that looked like they belonged in a French patisserie window.

"No, buddy, like this," Killian said softly, guiding Aiden's fingers to the correct keys. "Feel the music, don't just play the notes."

I stood frozen in the doorway, my purse slipping from my numb fingers to land on the marble floor with a soft thud. In seven years of marriage, I had never—not once—seen Killian touch that piano. When we'd bought this house, he'd dismissed it as "pretentious furniture" and suggested we get rid of it. I'd kept it because it had belonged to my grandmother, but it had sat silent and untouched, gathering dust like so many other pieces of my past.

And the pastries. My God, the pastries. They were exquisite, professional-quality creations that spoke of hours of careful preparation. When had my husband learned to bake? When had he developed the patience for such delicate work? In all our years together, the most elaborate thing I'd ever seen him make was scrambled eggs.

"Daddy, you're so good at this!" Aiden giggled, his face bright with adoration. "Can you teach me the song about the princess next?"

"Of course, little man. We'll make you a piano master."

The tenderness in Killian's voice was like a knife twisting in my chest. When was the last time he'd spoken to me with such gentle affection? When was the last time he'd looked at me the way he was looking at our son—like he was the most precious thing in the world?

They noticed me then, their heads turning in perfect synchronization. Aiden's smile faltered slightly, and Killian's expression shuttered closed like blinds slamming shut against sunlight.

"Oh." Killian cleared his throat, his hands stilling on the keys. "You're home."

The warmth that had filled the room moments before evaporated like morning mist, leaving behind the familiar chill that had become our normal. I watched my husband's face transform from the loving father I'd just witnessed into the distant stranger he'd become over these past months.

"Hi, Mommy," Aiden said, but he didn't jump up to hug me like he used to. He stayed pressed against his father's side, suddenly shy in a way that broke my heart.

"Hello, sweetheart," I managed, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. "That sounded beautiful. I didn't know Daddy played piano."

Killian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me anymore, Scarlett."

The accusation hung in the air between us, sharp and cutting. As if my ignorance of his hidden talents was somehow my fault. As if I hadn't spent years trying to connect with him, only to be met with walls and deflection.

"We need to talk," he said, standing up from the piano bench and straightening his shoulders in that way that meant he was preparing for battle. "About Mira."

Of course. It always came back to Mira.

Aiden looked between us with those wide, innocent eyes that missed nothing. At six years old, he was already learning to read the tension that crackled through our house like electricity before a storm.

"Mira's condition is getting worse," Killian continued, his voice taking on that clinical tone he used when he wanted to sound reasonable and responsible. "The pack elders have consulted with specialists, and they believe her weakness syndrome requires... additional support."

I said nothing, just waited for him to get to the point. The accelerant was making my heart race, or maybe it was the familiar dread of another conversation about how we all needed to sacrifice more for poor, fragile Mira.

"They've recommended that I establish a temporary mental bond with her," Killian said, the words coming out in a rush like he was ripping off a bandage. "My Alpha strength could help stabilize her condition, give her the support she needs to recover."

A temporary mental bond. The euphemistic language almost made me laugh. He was talking about the most intimate connection two wolves could share, a merging of minds and souls that was traditionally reserved for mates or the deepest family bonds. And he was presenting it like a medical prescription.

"It's just for treatment purposes," he added quickly, as if that somehow made it better. "Purely therapeutic. The elders assured me it wouldn't affect our mate bond."

Lies. All of it, lies wrapped in the language of duty and medical necessity. But I found I didn't have the energy to fight anymore. The old Scarlett would have raged, would have demanded to know why his sister-in-law's health was more important than his wife's feelings. But that Scarlett had died somewhere between the diagnosis and the accelerant.

"Mommy!" Aiden suddenly piped up, scrambling off the piano bench to stand beside his father. "Mira Auntie is so sad and sick! She cried yesterday when she thought no one was looking. You should let Daddy help her!"

I stared down at my son, this beautiful boy I'd carried for nine months and raised with every ounce of love in my body. Just a week ago, he'd whispered to me that "Mira Auntie ate your special chocolates from the blue box when you weren't home." He'd been my little ally then, my confidant who noticed when things went missing or when Mira's stories didn't quite add up.

Now he was looking at me with something that felt dangerously close to accusation, as if I was the villain for not immediately agreeing to let his father bond with another woman.

"Please, Mommy?" Aiden's voice was small and pleading. "She's so pretty when she's not crying."

Pretty when she's not crying. Even my six-year-old had learned to measure women's worth by their decorative value and emotional availability.

I looked at Killian, who was watching me with barely concealed anticipation. He wanted this. He wanted the excuse, the permission, the moral high ground that would let him do what he'd probably already decided to do anyway.

The old me would have screamed. Would have thrown things and demanded explanations and fought tooth and nail for what was mine. But what was the point? I had seventy hours left to live, give or take. Why spend them in a war I'd already lost?

"Okay," I said simply.

Killian blinked, clearly caught off guard by my easy agreement. "Okay?"

"Yes. Help Mira however you think is best."

The relief that flooded his face was so obvious it was almost insulting. This was what he'd wanted all along—my blessing to betray our marriage vows in the name of family duty.

"And Killian?" I added, my voice steady and calm. "I want to dissolve our mate bond."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Aiden seemed to sense the gravity of what I'd just said, his small face scrunching in confusion.

"Scarlett," Killian said slowly, "that's... that's permanent. Once a mate bond is severed, it can never be restored."

"I know."

"Are you sure you want to—"

"I'm sure."

He studied my face for a long moment, searching for something I wasn't sure he'd ever find. Finally, he nodded. "If that's what you want."

What I wanted. As if any of this was about what I wanted.

That night, I moved my things to the guest room down the hall. The bed was smaller, the mattress firmer, but it felt like the first honest space I'd occupied in months. No more pretending to sleep beside a man who dreamed of someone else. No more lying awake listening to him murmur another woman's name in his sleep.

I was drifting in and out of restless sleep when laughter pulled me back to consciousness. The digital clock glowed 3:17 AM, and the sound was coming from down the hall. From our bedroom. From what used to be our bedroom.

Mira's laughter. Light and musical and satisfied in a way that made my skin crawl.

I slipped out of bed and crept to my door, opening it just a crack to peer down the darkened hallway. The master bedroom door was slightly ajar, spilling a thin line of golden light across the hardwood floor.

As I watched, the door opened wider, and Mira emerged wearing my silk pajama set—the ivory one with the delicate lace trim that I'd bought for my anniversary last year but never got to wear because Killian had forgotten the date entirely.

She moved with languid satisfaction, her hair tousled and her lips curved in a smile that spoke of secrets and victories. When she noticed me standing in my doorway, her smile widened into something predatory.

"Oh, Scarlett," she said, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry down the hall but soft enough to sound innocent if anyone else heard. "Can't sleep?"

She paused in front of my door, close enough that I could smell Killian's cologne clinging to the silk that should have been mine.

"Maybe I should ask Killian to make you some warm milk," she continued, her tone dripping with false concern. "Oh wait—he only does that for me now."

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our dining room as I gathered my family around the mahogany table one last time. The accelerant had given me a restless night, my heart racing at irregular intervals, but I'd woken with crystal clarity about what needed to be done.

Killian sat at the head of the table, his hair still damp from the shower, while Mira curled into the chair beside him like a contented cat. She wore one of my cashmere sweaters—the cream one I'd been looking for all week—and had the audacity to compliment me on my "generous closet" when I walked in.

Victoria and Robert had arrived twenty minutes early, their faces bright with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for Christmas morning. They knew something was coming, could sense the shift in the family dynamic like wolves scenting blood on the wind.

"Thank you all for coming," I began, my voice steady despite the irregular flutter in my chest. "I have some additional arrangements I'd like to make."

I placed a thick manila folder on the table, the legal documents inside representing the dismantling of everything I'd built over the past decade. Bank statements, investment portfolios, property deeds—all of it meticulously organized and ready for transfer.

"Yesterday, I gave Mira the company," I continued, watching their faces carefully. "Today, I want to give her everything else."

The silence that followed was different from yesterday's shocked quiet. This was the kind of stunned silence that preceded explosions.

Killian leaned forward, his Alpha instincts clearly on high alert. "Scarlett, what are you talking about?"

"My personal assets," I said, opening the folder and spreading the documents across the polished surface. "Bank accounts, investment funds, the vacation home in Aspen, the apartment in Manhattan, my grandmother's jewelry collection. I want it all transferred to Mira for... management purposes."

Robert's businessman facade cracked completely. He grabbed the nearest document—a bank statement showing my personal account balance—and his face went pale. "Scarlett, this is... this is millions of dollars. You can't just give away your entire net worth."

"Why not?" I asked, genuinely curious about his sudden concern for my financial welfare. "Yesterday you were thrilled when I gave away my company."

"That's different," he sputtered, his reading glasses sliding down his nose as he frantically shuffled through the papers. "This is your personal security, your retirement, your—"

"My choice," I finished firmly.

Killian stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor. "Something's wrong. This isn't like you, Scarlett. Are you being blackmailed? Threatened? Did someone get to you?"

The concern in his voice might have touched me once. Now it just felt like too little, too late. He was worried about external threats when the real danger had been sitting at our dinner table for months, wearing my clothes and sleeping in my bed.

"I'm fine," I lied smoothly. "I've simply realized that family should come first. Isn't that what you've all been telling me?"

Victoria, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke up. Her voice was warm with approval, the kind of maternal pride I'd craved my entire life. "Oh, Scarlett. You've finally developed a proper sense of family responsibility. I'm so proud of you."

She reached across the table to squeeze my hand, her touch gentle and affectionate. "Mira has such a good head for finances. She'll take excellent care of everything, won't you, dear?"

Mira had been suspiciously silent through the entire exchange, but now she stirred, putting on her performance of reluctant acceptance. "I... I don't know what to say. This is so generous, but I'm not sure I should—"

"Of course you should," Victoria interrupted, her eyes practically glowing with satisfaction. "Scarlett clearly trusts your judgment. And with your condition requiring so much medical care, having access to proper resources will be essential."

The way my mother said "your condition" made it sound like Mira was battling cancer instead of whatever mysterious weakness syndrome she claimed to have. But I noticed how quickly Mira's protests died away once Victoria gave her blessing.

"Well," Mira said, her voice taking on that breathy quality she used when she wanted to sound overwhelmed, "if you really think it's best... I suppose I could help manage things. Temporarily, of course."

Temporarily. Just like Killian's "temporary" mental bond.

I called in the lawyers I'd arranged to have on standby. As they began preparing the transfer documents, I watched Mira carefully. Her performance of reluctance was flawless—the occasional protest, the worried glances at Killian, the way she kept insisting this was "too much responsibility."

But I caught the tells. The way her fingers drummed impatiently against the table when the lawyers took too long to prepare a document. The sharp look she shot the lead attorney when he began explaining the reversibility clauses. The subtle way she kept checking her phone, as if she was expecting an important message.

"Could we perhaps expedite this process?" Mira asked, her voice carefully casual. "I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon, and I'd hate to keep them waiting."

A doctor's appointment. Right. I thought about the bank records I'd discovered, the monthly transfers to Jason Cole that had been steadily increasing over the past six months. The most recent payment had been for fifty thousand dollars, made just three days ago.

Who was Jason Cole, and why was my dying sister-in-law funneling money to him with such urgency?

"Of course," the lawyer said, speeding up his explanations and skipping over several clauses that would have protected my interests. "We can have everything finalized within the hour."

As Mira signed her name to document after document, I noticed the slight tremor in her hands. Not the weakness she claimed plagued her, but excitement. Anticipation. The same kind of nervous energy a gambler felt when the dice were in the air.

When the last signature was complete, the lawyers packed up their briefcases and left us alone with the aftermath of what I'd just done. The family sat in stunned silence, processing the magnitude of the transfer.

"Well," I said, standing up and smoothing down my skirt, "I think I'll get some air."

I walked out to the balcony that overlooked our manicured gardens, leaving the door slightly ajar behind me. The morning air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of the roses I'd planted when we first moved into this house. Everything looked exactly the same as it had yesterday, but somehow felt completely different.

Behind me, I could hear my family's voices rising in animated conversation. Mira was already discussing her "vision" for restructuring my investment portfolio, her voice bright with newfound confidence. Victoria was praising her financial acumen, while Robert peppered her with questions about her plans.

Killian's voice was quieter, more thoughtful, but I caught fragments of his responses. Agreement. Encouragement. Support for his sister-in-law's sudden windfall.

Not once did anyone ask how I was feeling. Not once did anyone wonder if I might need emotional support after giving away everything I'd worked for. I had just made myself financially destitute, and my family was celebrating.

My phone buzzed against my hip, and I pulled it out to check the message. Unknown number, but the words on the screen made my heart stop:

*Scarlett, I just got back from overseas and heard your company changed hands? Are you okay? What happened?*

I stared at the screen, my fingers trembling as I recognized the writing style. Layla. My college roommate, my former best friend, the only person who had ever warned me that something was "off" about Killian during our engagement.

Layla, who had moved to London for work five years ago and had slowly drifted out of my life as Killian made it increasingly difficult for me to maintain friendships outside the pack.

Layla, who had been the only person to ever look at my perfect life and ask, "But are you happy?"

I took a shaky breath and dialed her number, my heart pounding as it rang once, twice—

"Scarlett?" Her voice was exactly as I remembered it—warm, concerned, genuine. "Oh my God, I've been so worried. I heard through the grapevine that Wynter Rose was sold, and I couldn't believe it. What's going on?"

I closed my eyes, feeling tears threaten for the first time in days. "Layla... can you come see me? I need... this might be the last time we can talk."