Chapter 3

The guards shoved me out with such force that I hit the pavement hard, my palms scraping against the rough stone. As I tried to gather myself and stand, a sleek, black luxury car glided to a halt at the gate.

My heart nearly stopped.

The passenger door opened, and my daughter stepped out.

Yelena.

She wore a delicate pink gown that trailed behind her like a whisper of innocence. Her hair was neatly curled, pinned with a glimmering pink crystal moonstone—one I knew cost more than our entire rent for the year. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, and she looked like a little princess.

A pang of confusion and dread twisted inside me. She was supposed to be at the healing center, too weak to even attend a werewolf academy. Yet here she was, walking without assistance, smiling brightly.

She turned to the guard at the gate, who bowed in reverence. “Is Aunt Lily in my dad’s office?” she asked sweetly.

The guard smiled with unearned familiarity. “Yes, Miss Yelena. Miss Lily said she brought you the most fashionable dress in the pack. She’s waiting for you upstairs.”

I stepped forward, grabbing Yelena by the wrist before she could disappear inside.

“Yelena,” I said, my voice tight. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the healing center right now?”

Her expression shifted instantly. Her cheeks paled, and her eyes filled with panic. “Mom?” she whispered, trying to pull away. “Why are you here?”

Before I could answer, she turned to the guards with sudden urgency. “Tell my dad to come down. Now.”

“There’s no need,” I said coldly. “I just came from his office. He’s a little… preoccupied with your Aunt Lily.”

The words were like stones in my throat.

Then, chaos erupted.

A swarm of reporters—originally gathered to cover Lily’s appearance—rushed toward us like a pack of ravenous wild animals, their cameras flashing, microphones shoved forward like weapons.

“Miss Yelena!” one of them called out. “Who is this she-wolf you’re speaking to? Did you call her ‘Mom’? Is she your real mother?”

“Alpha Yeats told the press that his previous Luna had died. Is that false? Is there something being covered up?”

Yelena froze. She was only nine—unprepared for the barrage of voices, the flashes, the chaos.

And I realized too late: I had made a mistake by coming here. I had dragged her into a world she didn’t understand.

The crowd pushed in, forming a circle around us. Cameras captured every angle as the media whipped the story into a frenzy.

“She must be the Luna!” someone shouted. “Look how familiar they are. It’s undeniable!”

“No, no!” another said. “Yeats said his Luna died years ago. This must be a lie!”

I could feel Yelena trembling beneath my hand, her small body shuddering with fear. My wolf in dormancy tried to wake to shield her from this, but I was being shoved and tossed by the chaotic swarm. I tried to pull her closer—then suddenly, she was yanked from my grasp.

A hand reached through the press and took Yelena away.

Reporters shifted their attention, turning away from me and following her—leaving me trampled in their wake. I stumbled to the ground, my knees burning from the scrape, my chest heaving from the adrenaline. Feet stepped on me like I was nothing more than a discarded rag.

“Alpha Yeats!” someone shouted. “Is this she-wolf your Luna?”

“Miss Lily!” another voice cried, “Are you aware that you're just the mistress? Is this intentional? Are you trying to replace the Luna?”

I forced myself to stand, wobbling slightly, and then I saw them—Yeats and Lily—standing in the center of the crowd.

Lily held my daughter in her arms, gently stroking her back as Yelena wept into her chest. It was a scene straight out of a carefully curated fairy tale.

And Yeats?

He stood beside them like a proud king, his eyes locked on me—not with guilt or regret, but with cold detachment. His gaze was distant, frosty… unfamiliar.

“This she-wolf,” he said, motioning toward me with the ease of a practiced liar, “is just a helper. She’s been with us since Yelena’s birth. She cared for her, tended to her needs. They spent time together, which is likely why Yelena has grown… attached.”

I felt the breath leave my lungs.

The crowd gasped.

“She’s a helper?”

“No wonder,” someone sneered. “How could Alpha Yeats have a Luna who looks so… old and worn out?”

“Exactly! Look at her clothes—she can’t be a Luna.”

“She probably tricked the child into calling her ‘mom.’ Shameless she-wolf.”

“Helpers shouldn’t daydream about becoming Lunas. Look at yourself before you claim a title that’s not yours!”

Their words stabbed deeper than knives.

But I barely heard them.

My eyes were locked on Yelena, still nestled in Lily’s arms. I took a shaky step forward.

“Yelena,” I called, my voice raw, “Tell them. Tell them who I am. Tell them I’m your mother.”

She looked up, her face blotchy from tears, and for a moment, our eyes met.

I hoped—prayed—for truth.

But she only clung tighter to Lily’s waist and whispered, “You’re not my mom. My real mom wouldn’t be… a shame to me. I want Aunt Lily to be my mother.”

The cameras clicked rapidly, catching every expression, every tear, every betrayal.

My knees buckled again, but this time I didn’t fall.

I had spent my life protecting them.

I nearly lost my wolf saving Yeats. I nearly lost my life giving birth to Yelena.

And yet here I stood, abandoned by the very souls I had given everything to.

I had thought—foolishly—that revealing the truth would bring justice, or at least remorse.

But all it brought was betrayal without disguise.

The crowd erupted in a fresh wave of gossip, shouting over one another. Reporters pushed microphones into my face, demanding a statement.

I turned away.

I couldn’t take another second.

I ran—through the gates, down the steps, past the blinding flashes of light.

I ran as if I could outrun the pain.

Two blocks away, my breath caught in my chest. My legs gave out.

And everything went black.