Fred’s brow pulled into a thunderous scowl, but I was already stepping into the elevator, the doors sliding shut on his guilt.For the next week, I became a ghost, pouring every ounce of my energy into the legal severance. I ignored Fred’s frantic calls and his staged, worried texts. Meanwhile, Cynthia’s social feed was a masterclass in psychological warfare. Sunset silhouettes. Interlocked fingers. A man—his build unmistakable—carrying her through the surf. She was practically shoving the camera into Fred’s face, daring me to look.Seven days later, I went to the Pack clinic for a routine follow-up. I rounded a corner and stopped dead.Fred was there. His mother, the former Luna, stood beside him. And between them, looking like a cherished prize, was Cynthia."My proudest girl," the former Luna crooned, her face etched with smug satisfaction. "You’re already carrying the Alpha bloodline this family deserves."I pressed my back against the cold tile of the wall, watching as Fred lifted
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