Unmatched Wife: Not His To Claim Anymore

Chapter 1

BIANCA

My husband and my son were celebrating my birthday without me, but with another woman...

A massive banner stretched across the far wall of the pack house, and my gaze froze on the words: "Happy Birthday Mia."

Not me. Not Bianca. Just Mia.

The great hall was packed with pack members, all dressed in their finest. Music and laughter spilling out into the night.

I stood there, invisible in the doorway, as the crowd parted to reveal a laughing Mia in the center of the room, radiant in a white dress that seemed to glow under the chandeliers. Matthew was beside her, his hand resting on the small of her back, that warm smile I rarely saw directed at me now beaming down at her.

Theo bounced at their feet, clutching a balloon. "Mummy! Mummy, look!" he called, reaching up for Mia.

Great. The first birthday gift I received was hearing my own son call my husband’s mistress Mom.

She scooped him up effortlessly, spinning him around as the pack members applauded. Matthew's hand remained on her waist, steadying them both, the three of them forming a perfect family portrait while I stood frozen in the shadows by the door.

No one had noticed me arrive. No one was looking for me.

They were all busy celebrating Mia’s birthday—on my birthday. At the Pack House where I had foolishly, desperately imagined they might finally celebrate me.

Because Matthew had sent me a message earlier that afternoon—cryptic but promising: "Come to the Pack House at 7. We have something special planned."

I thought he remembered… but apparently, he didn’t. My heart felt like a bubble, bursting all at once.

Then I saw it. Near the refreshment table, partially hidden behind an ice sculpture, was another banner rolled up and tossed aside. Curiosity—or maybe masochism—drew me closer. I unrolled it with trembling hands.

"Happy Birthday Bianca" it read, with my name crossed out in thick black marker and "Mia" written above it in glittering letters.

They'd recycled my decorations. Crossed out my name. Given my birthday to her.

I fought back my tears, gripping the banner tightly, and looked at Matthew once more. This time, my eyes locked with his across the crowded room. His expression shifted—surprise, then something that might have been shame.

He walked toward me. I lifted my head, trying to swallow my tears before they could fall. When he stopped in front of me, I stared up at him, my voice cold. “Explain it.”

Matthew scratched the back of his head like some awkward teenager, then muttered, “Today is Mia’s birthday. She wanted to celebrate in the pack house, so…”

“So you gave her my birthday party,” I said with a bitter laugh, my eyes drifting to Mia, who was standing with Theo. She had clearly noticed the tension.

Matthew’s expression tightened at my tone. He straightened, said irritatingly. “You know what Mia’s been through. Try to be understanding, Bianca.”

Again. Ever since the day Mia came back, I’ve been told to be patient and understanding every single day.

I remembered the day he'd told me about her return. We'd been in the kitchen. I'd been preparing dinner—his favorite, chicken marsala, the recipe that had earned me that rare "tastes like home" smile. Matthew had stood in the doorway, his posture rigid, his jaw set in that way that meant he'd already made a decision and was simply informing me of it.

"Mia's dying," he'd said, without preamble. "She's back in town. She has a bucket list—things she wants to do before... before it's too late."

The knife had stilled in my hand. My stomach had sunk, but I'd kept my voice steady. "I'm sorry to hear that. That must be difficult for you."

"She wants to do these things with me. Couple activities. One hundred of them." His eyes hadn't quite met mine. "I told her I'm married, that I have responsibilities. But she said these would be her last memories. Her dying wishes."

"And what did you say?" I'd asked, though I'd already known the answer. I'd always known the answer when it came to Mia.

"I said I needed to discuss it with you first. To make sure you understood. You will, right?" He'd finally looked at me then, and there had been something almost like guilt in his eyes. "You're a healer, Bianca. You save lives. This is a life too. If you could work faster, find a cure for her condition, then this would all be temporary. She'd get better, and things could go back to normal."

But how could I refuse? A woman was dying. My husband's first love was dying. And I was a healer—refusing to help would make me a monster.

Besides, Matthew had never given me reason to doubt him. He'd been faithful, reliable, present. He'd held my hair when I'd had morning sickness, assembled Theo's crib at three in the morning, defended my identity as a healer—a rogue healer—to his pack even when it cost him politically.

He'd done everything a husband should do—except love me. And I still believed I could earn his whole heart.

"Of course," I'd said that day in the kitchen, my voice steady even as something inside me cracked. "I'll do everything I can to help her. How long do the doctors think she has?"

"Six months to a year. Maybe less."

That had been thirteen months ago.

The memory dissolved as Mia walked toward us. Theo wasn’t beside her. He was off playing with the other pups.

Matthew immediately stepped toward her, as if she were some fragile flower that might wilt without him.

“Matthew, the cake-cutting is starting. I need you,” Mia said softly, then turned to me with a sweet smile. “Bianca, you should come too. This is the cake Theo and Matthew made for me.”

Something inside me cracked.

She put on an overly admiring look and continued, “You really do have such a wonderful husband and son.”

Now that you’ve taken them both from me. I wanted to scream it in her face, but I couldn’t.

Matthew was already hovering beside her like a devoted knight.

He laughed and walked away with Mia. I reached out, wanting to grab him, but he shifted out of my reach and said, almost impatiently, “It’s just the cake-cutting, Bianca. Don’t make a scene.”

Then he walked straight toward the cake in the center of the room, without even looking back at me.

Soon, Theo spotted them and squealed, "Daddy! Mummy!" He broke away from the other children and ran toward them on unsteady toddler legs.

They gathered around an elaborate cake decorated with pink roses. The crowd cheered, voices rising together as they sang the birthday song.

And I stood there. Alone.

“Happy 30th birthday, Bianca,” I whispered to myself as the tears slipped free.

As they blew out the candles together, I felt my four-year marriage vanish with the smoke.