Chapter 1

Ruby’s POV

I looked at the ceiling, staring at a water stain that shaped itself like a broken heart. It was funny, really. Or maybe it was just pathetic. 

My hands were resting on my stomach, pressing down hard as if I could somehow force the emptiness inside.

The doctor had just left. His words were still loudly bouncing around in my head. He told me he was sorry. He told me the accident had caused too much trauma. He told me I had lost the baby.

I didn’t even know there was a baby to lose.

I closed my eyes, and all I could see was the bright flash of headlights, the horrifying sound of metal crunching, and then the heat. 

But it wasn’t until I was sitting in the driver’s seat, trying to breathe through the shock, that I felt the wetness. I looked down, saw the dark red stain spreading across the gray fabric of the car seat, and that was the moment panic choked me. I knew something was wrong. I just didn’t know it was already too late.

A tear slipped out of the corner of my eye, burning hot against my cold cheek. I wiped it away quickly, but another one took its place. I felt so incredibly weak. My whole body ached, a deep, hollow kind of pain that felt less like a physical injury and more like my soul was being scraped out of me.

Ethan is going to hate me. 

Ethan Sinclair. My husband. The Alpha of our pack. He was a man who commanded respect, a man who got everything he ever wanted. And the one thing he wanted more than anything else in this world was an heir. A child. He talked about it all the time, this unspoken pressure hanging over our marriage. He wanted a little boy or girl to run around the pack house, someone to carry on his legacy. And I failed. I didn’t even know I was protecting a life inside me, and because of that, I let it slip away. He was going to be completely heartbroken, and it was all my fault.

The heavy wooden door to my room clicked open, drawing my eyes away from the ceiling. I expected a nurse, but instead, a man in a crisp uniform walked in. A traffic officer. He had a notepad in his hand and a look on his face that was way too serious for my current mental state.

"Are you feeling up to answering a few questions, Mrs. Sinclair?" he asked, stopping at the foot of my bed.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and nodded weakly. "Yes. Did you find out who hit me?"

He flipped open his notepad, tapping his pen against the paper. "We did. The driver actually stayed on the scene for a bit before leaving their vehicle, but we tracked the registration. It was a woman driving a silver sedan."

"A woman?" I repeated, my brow furrowing.

"Yes," the officer said, glancing down at his notes. "The license plate is registered under a private name. It reads Delta Six Seven Nine Two."

My heart did a violent stutter in my chest. Breath caught in my throat, freezing the air inside my lungs. Six Seven Nine Two. I knew that number. I had seen it parked in the driveway of my childhood home a thousand times.

"Are you sure about that plate number?" I asked, my voice trembling so much it barely sounded like mine.

The officer looked up, surprised by my reaction. "Yes, ma'am. We verified it with the traffic cameras at the intersection. Do you recognize the vehicle?"

I stared at him, my mind spinning into a dark, chaotic spiral. It was Vivian’s car. My stepsister. The girl who had spent her entire life trying to take everything that belonged to me. Did she hit me on purpose? Was she really the one behind the wheel when my life shattered into pieces?

Before I could voice any of my terror, the doctor walked back into the room, holding a medical chart. The officer took that as his cue to leave, tipping his hat to me before slipping out into the hallway.

The doctor sighed, looking at me with a mix of pity and professional concern. "Mrs. Sinclair, we ran your bloodwork again. Your hormone levels are dropping, which is expected after a miscarriage, but you are still extremely weak. You lost a significant amount of blood."

"I just want to go home," I whispered.

"Not yet," he replied firmly. "We need to run additional examinations to confirm your condition and ensure there is no internal bleeding we missed. Plus, because of the medication we need to administer, a family member must sign some liability paperwork. Is your husband available?"

I bit my lip. He should be. "I will call him."

The doctor nodded, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. I reached for my phone on the bedside table, my fingers shaking as I unlocked it. My screen was completely blank. No texts from Ethan. No missed calls. Nothing.

I dialed his number and pressed the phone to my ear.

Ring. Ring. Ring. It went straight to voicemail.

I hung up, swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth, and tried again. He was the Alpha. He was always busy with pack business, but surely, if his wife was in a car accident, someone would have told him.

Voicemail again.

I tried a third time, praying to whatever deity was listening that he would just pick up. "Ethan, please," I muttered under my breath.

Nothing. Just his cold, automated voice telling me to leave a message.

A wave of frustration and loneliness washed over me. I couldn’t just sit here waiting for a man who clearly didn’t care enough to look at his phone. The doctor said someone needed to sign the paperwork and pay the initial medical fees, and if Ethan wasn’t coming, I would have to do it myself.

Ignoring the sharp ache in my abdomen, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The cold hospital floor sent a shiver straight up my spine. I gripped the IV pole for support, waiting for the dizziness to pass before I slowly began to walk toward the door. Every step felt like walking through wet cement. My body was screaming at me to lie back down, but my mind was too restless to cooperate.

I pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the quiet hallway. The corridor was mostly empty, just a few nurses moving around a station further down. I started walking toward the reception desk, my hand clutching my hospital gown tightly around me.

But I didn't make it to the desk.

About three doors down from my own room, a tall, broad-shared man walked past the intersecting hallway and turned into a private suite. My breath hitched. Even from behind, even just seeing the sharp line of his jaw and the expensive dark coat he wore, I knew exactly who it was.

Ethan.

My heart hammered against my ribs. He was here. He was actually at the hospital. A sudden rush of relief flooded through me, so intense that I almost fell over. He did care. He found out about the accident and he came to find me. He must have just gotten the room number wrong.

"Ethan!" I tried to call out, but my voice came out as a pathetic, raspy whisper that didn't even travel five feet.

I hurried my pace, dragging the squeaking IV pole behind me as fast as my weak legs could carry me. I needed him. I needed him to hold me, to tell me that we would get through the loss of our baby together. I needed my husband.

I reached the door he had just entered. It wasn't fully closed. It was cracked open just a few inches, leaving a gap wide enough for me to see inside.

I paused, raising my hand to push it open, but the words forming in my throat died instantly.

The room was a luxury private suite. Standing in the center of it was Ethan, looking exactly as handsome and imposing as always. But he wasn't alone.

Vivian was there, wrapped in a hospital blanket, sitting on the edge of the bed. The moment Ethan walked in, she didn't hesitate. She stood up, let out a soft, dramatic sob, and threw her arms entirely around his neck. She buried her face in his chest, her shoulders shaking as if she were completely devastated.

And Ethan didn't push her away. He caught her, his large hands coming down to rest on her back, pulling her closer against him.