Chapter 5: The First Crack

The penthouse elevator doors hiss shut, sealing out the world and the lingering scent of Arthur’s blood. The silence in the foyer is heavy, a thick blanket that stifles my breath. I walk three steps into the living area before the strength leaves my knees.

I hit the floor.

My palms slap against the cold marble, the impact vibrating up my arms. The designer suit—the armor I wore to crush Arthur’s soul—now feels like a lead shroud.

A sob rips out of my throat. It’s a jagged, ugly sound.

I’m not crying for Arthur. I’m not crying for the pack house or the years I spent scrubbing their floors. I’m crying for the boy who believed that if he just worked hard enough, if he just loved deeply enough, he would be enough. I’m crying for the three years of my life that were nothing but a lie built on a foundation of "placeholder" promises.

"Get up."

Lucian’s voice is a low vibration against my back. He doesn't touch me. He stands there, a pillar of dark shadow, watching me crumble.

"I can't," I choke out. I grab the edge of the sofa, my knuckles turning white. "It’s gone. All of it. I’m just... a ghost."

I wait for the rejection. I wait for him to tell me an Omega of the Mafia Kingpin shouldn't be groveling on the floor.

Instead, I hear the rustle of fabric. Lucian drops to one knee behind me. He doesn't wrap me in a hug. He reaches out and grips my shoulder, his fingers digging into the muscle with a blunt, grounding force.

"You aren't a ghost, Phineas," he growls, his breath hot against the back of my neck. "Ghosts don't make Alphas bleed. Ghosts don't command the room like you did tonight."

I turn, my face wet with tears, my vision blurred. Lucian is looking at me with an expression that isn't quite pity and isn't quite warmth. It’s an obsessive intensity. He reaches out and wipes a tear away with his thumb, his touch uncharacteristically gentle for a man who just snapped a wrist like a dry twig.

"I don't know how to do this," Lucian mutters. His jaw is tight, his eyes darting to my face then back to my stomach. "The crying. The... emotions. It’s a liability."

He stands up abruptly, pacing the length of the rug. He pulls his phone from his pocket, his thumb flying across the screen.

"What are you doing?" I ask, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

"Fixing it," he snaps. "You're stressed. Stress is bad for the asset. I just called my attorney. I’m buying St. Jude’s Private Wing. All of it. Every doctor, every nurse, every piece of equipment. It’s yours. No one else sets foot on that floor. You’ll give birth in a fortress."

I stare at him, a hysterical laugh bubbling in my chest. "You bought a hospital wing because I’m crying?"

"I’m securing my investment," he says, though the flush on his cheekbones says otherwise. "And I’m ordering a chef from the coast. You need iron. You look like you’re made of paper."

The "Red Flag" behavior should terrify me. He’s controlling the air I breathe and the doctors I see. But for the first time in my life, someone is building walls for me, not against me.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. A frantic, rhythmic buzzing.

I pull it out. A video message from Clement.

The thumbnail is dark, shaky. I press play.

Clement’s face fills the screen, his skin sallow and covered in a film of sweat. Behind him, the pack house—my home—looks like a war zone. The windows are boarded up with plywood. In the background, I see a group of wolves hunched over a table, their eyes glassy, needles and glass pipes scattered among the pack’s ledgers.

"Phineas! Phin, please!" Clement’s voice is a panicked shriek. "Leopold... he’s brought the 'Grey Dust' in. He’s selling the pack’s land to the rogue cartels to pay for his habit. Arthur is out of his mind, he’s just sitting in the study drinking while they strip the copper from the walls. The rogues are coming for the pups tonight, Phin. They’re hunting us! You have to help me! Send Lucian’s men! Please!"

A crash echoes in the video. Clement looks over his shoulder, his eyes wide with terror, before the recording cuts to black.

I stare at the blank screen.

My brother. The boy who took a bag of gold to watch me be discarded. The boy who stood by while Arthur broke our bond.

A few months ago, I would have been halfway to the car already, heart bleeding for the family that betrayed me. I would have begged Lucian to save them.

I look at my reflection in the darkened window. My stomach is a noticeable curve now, a soft swell that holds my entire future.

I delete the message.

The prompt asks: Delete all data from this sender? I press Yes.

The heavy weight of the "placeholder" is gone. The servant is dead. The Omega who begged for scraps of affection has been buried in the mud of the borderlands.

I turn to Lucian. He’s watching me, his eyes narrowed, sensing the shift in the air. The "True Luna" glow isn't soft anymore; it’s a white-hot flare of power.

"Lucian," I say. My voice is steady. It’s a command.

"Speak," he says, stepping closer, his presence expanding to meet mine.

"The Blackwood debt. You said you own it."

"Every cent."

"I want the territory," I say. I walk toward him, my hand resting on my stomach, my eyes locked on his. "I want you to buy the pack. Not to save them. Not to fix the roof or feed the wolves."

Lucian tilts his head, a dark, intrigued smile spreading across his lips. "Then why?"

"I want to own the dirt they walk on," I whisper, the words tasting like sweet wine. "I want to be the one who signs the eviction notices. I want to buy my old pack just so I can watch the bulldozers level the house with them still inside. I want to burn it all, Lucian. Every single memory."

Lucian laughs—a short, sharp bark of pure approval. He reaches out, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back so I have to look up at him.

"That," Lucian purrs, his eyes glowing with a possessive, predatory heat, "is the first sensible thing you’ve said all night."

He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. "Consider it done. We start the foreclosure at dawn."