The Alpha King's Unclaimed Queen

Vivienne POV 

"There has to be another explanation," I said. My fingers tightened around the edge of the chair.

The doctor held my gaze for a moment before she looked back at the test results on her desk. "I understand why you're hoping that's true, Ivy, but your egg count is very low."

"Your window to become a mother naturally is closing much faster than we would normally expect."

The words dropped into the room and stayed there. For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood her.

"I'm only twenty-nine."

"I know." She said it kindly, but that only made the words harder to hear.

My eyes drifted to the dark image on the monitor beside her. A few numbers and medical terms were highlighted on the screen, but they meant nothing to me.

I had come to this appointment expecting reassurance. Instead, I was being told that the one thing I had always taken for granted might not be waiting for me when I was finally ready.

"How serious is it?" I asked.

The doctor folded her hands on top of the desk. "I don't want to scare you, Ivy, but I also don't want to mislead you. If having biological children is important to you, I wouldn't advise waiting too many more years."

"How many years are we talking about?"

"It's different for everyone. For you, I'd say think in months, not years, if you want to try naturally. I know that's not what you came in hoping to hear."

I lowered my gaze to my lap and pressed my thumb into the edge of the brochure she'd already handed me, hard enough to leave a crease. I had spent years assuming there would always be more time. I hadn't once stopped to think my body might be keeping its own schedule.

"There are still options available," the doctor continued. "Egg freezing, fertility treatments, donor programs. This doesn't mean you can't become a mother." She slid the brochure across the desk.

I picked it up, but the smiling couple on the cover barely registered. The doctor glanced back at my chart, and I felt my stomach tighten before she even spoke again.

"One other thing."

"What is it?"

"Your bloodwork showed a marker that I don't see very often."

I frowned. "Should I be worried?"

"No. At least, not based on what we know. It doesn't affect fertility, and there are no signs that anything is wrong. It may even be a lab error. I just thought I should mention it."

The answer left me with more questions than before, but she was already moving on. A few minutes later, the appointment was over.

I thanked the doctor, gathered my things, and walked out of the clinic, holding the brochure so tightly that the edges dug into my palm.

By the time I reached my car, I had no memory of crossing the parking lot. I climbed into the driver's seat, closed the door, and sat there without starting the engine, the doctor's words looping in my mind.

I opened my phone and pulled up Draven's name, my thumb hovering over the message box. Can we talk tonight? Something happened at the doctor's. I typed it, read it twice, and deleted it. This wasn't news that belonged in a text message.

Every version of the future I'd imagined included Draven. We'd spent three years talking about the life we wanted together.

Last winter, we'd walked through a department store shopping for Christmas gifts and ended up, somehow, in the baby section. Draven picked up a tiny pair of socks. "They're so small," he'd said, laughing.

"That's usually how babies work," I'd said.

"I'm serious. It's hard to imagine a person fitting into something this size."

He'd pointed at cribs and stuffed animals after that, pretending to plan our future out loud. "This one," he'd said, tapping a crib with tiny stars painted on the headboard. "Non-negotiable." We'd argued over nursery colors that same night. He'd always been standing beside me in it.

I finally started the car and pulled onto the road. At every red light, I found myself reaching for my phone. I wanted to hear his voice, wanted him to tell me we'd figure it out together. Each time, I stopped myself. This wasn't news I wanted to give him over the phone.

By the time I turned onto our street, some of the panic had faded. The diagnosis still scared me, but I wasn't carrying it alone. At least, that was what I believed.

I pulled into the driveway and noticed Draven's car parked outside. My eyebrows rose. He wasn't supposed to be home for another three hours.

Maybe work had ended early. Maybe he wasn't feeling well. Maybe he wanted to surprise me. The thought brought the first small smile to my face all day.

I grabbed my purse and the brochure and climbed out of the car. The house looked the way it always did. I walked up the front steps and unlocked the door.

The moment I stepped inside, a chill ran down my arms. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Draven usually left the television running when he was home. Today there was nothing.

I closed the door behind me and stood still for a second. Then I noticed a scent lingering in the air.

Perfume. Soft and floral. It wasn't mine.

A small knot formed in my stomach. I told myself there was probably a simple explanation.

Then I heard a laugh. A woman's laugh, drifting down the hallway from the direction of our bedroom. Every muscle in my body went rigid.

A second laugh followed. This one belonged to Draven. My hands went cold around the brochure still pressed to my chest.

I stood frozen in the entryway while my mind searched for an explanation that made sense. None came.

Without fully deciding to, I started walking toward the bedroom. Each step landed harder than the last, like my legs had made a decision my mind hadn't caught up to yet. 

My free hand trailed along the hallway wall, steadying myself against something solid while everything else stopped making sense.

I stopped outside the bedroom door and reached for the doorknob. My hand was shaking so badly that I almost missed it the first time.

For one last second, I held on to the hope that I had misunderstood everything.

Then I turned the handle and pushed the door open.

The brochure slipped from my fingers and landed softly on the floor.

I stood frozen in the doorway.